Appalled. I’m way too appalled
And bewildered.
By the monotony of life,
The mundane strife,
And the constant agitation
Of the world inside my head.
My perpetual descent
Is incessantly progressing
To the days, unending.
Weeks, unrelenting.
And months, unyielding.
Yet.
I’m bewildered, yet unbothered.
Bewildered, only, inside my head,
Unbothered and unwavered
For I embraced
It all.
For I’m enveloped in the past,
Yet, surrounded by the present,
O! I dither and fret
Being a conformist
And becoming obsolete
In a world I never aged
And withered in.
For I live in the cemetery of my souvenirs,
Do not bother
To bring me flowers.
Or more souvenirs.
For I rest and float
On the layers of mementoes
Of so many yesterdays
And whilom moments.
For I’m confined by fading memories,
Lost days and uncertain presents,
Do not haze and fade
Only to be bound
Beneath the beyond.
If every ugly scar we hid
Every vice we buried
Resurfaces unprecedented,
Would we be able to stay unbothered?
Heads straightened?
Would life go on, unchanged?
Uninterrupted?
If all the internal perceptions we contemplated,
(Revised, edited, and confirmed),
Were to break out
To sneak a peek
Through the pores of our skin
Every chance they get,
Could we have survived,
Remained composed,
In the wavering tides?
Or
Is life filled with tales
Of resurfaced tokens
We simply cruise through?
Why don’t I care?
Why don’t I fervour
A tomorrow, better?
A future, brighter?
Because,
The world of words
Couldn’t bear the heaviness
Of all the days
I’m forced to endure.
For I died many times, now,
I live on the add on
Of the residue days.
Or so it feels.
As if my existence
Is a mere indolence
Of the unwrapped folds.
It glows.
From the ashes of the crumbles
Of what once my life used to be,
The edifice of perfection
Which is now a rubble of exhaustion –
The blurred fire,
The crackling ember,
The finesse of flare,
Glows and glares!
The unfailing fervor
Blazes in the fading colors
Of the ordinary madness.
The undying zest
Crackles in the demised
Version of myself.
The crackling ember
Beneath the ruins of plunder
Blazes and flares
Even brighter.
Don’t fade away
Into the mist of misery
For it is ephemeral
To feel the acute prickle
Of existence once in a while.
But it’s the numbness
And the mundane subsistence,
We persistently live for¡
Quetitude.
Absolute serenade of the inside.
While the riots of
The outside blaze out
Like the sun of the summer –
I lie.
I lie down on the floor
In a quest of tranquility
Freed from the diatribe
And the hustle of everything
Above the ground.
I cry.
I rinse my eyes
Of the sadness they harbor.
And
I brew a relief from
The lines of my words
I trace on paper.
Would my words, only, grasp
The memoir of the past
While evading the present
Devoid-ing the future?
Would my words hold
These moments of departure
Into the realm of now and then?
Would my words portray
The wander in my head
The roars of my heart
The emptiness of my soul
The stretch of my nights
And the void of my long days?
Would my words capture
All that my eyes devour?
The endless and the unbound,
Also the limited and the confound,
The unrestrained interim?
Would my words exist
In between of the two;
The beyond and the vanished
Without lodging in the present?
Is there a way to escape
The here and now,
Yet, venture in today?
Would my words flow
In the reign of tomorrow
Yet, howl the rain of the bygone?
Would my words bleed
The anguish of my wander
To hide from the heed
Of the uncontrolled further?
Would my words allow
The tales of my interim
Within the raid of the flow
In the tides of the morrow?
Aren’t we weary and
Tired of life itself?
Aren’t we all bored of
The entries into our memoir?
Aren’t we ashamed of
The obituaries
To be read?
Aren’t all our eyes
In need of a respite?
A blink, perhaps?
A 4000 little respites
For every hour
We stay alive.
Maybe a little more
Than that of resort.
A refreshment, indeed.
A break from the windows
Of vision and the doors
Of unending tales.
As time flies,
The tides of changes
Grows stronger
And stranger.
Forcing one’s focus
To depart, before it ever comes.
The too many hustles
We endure;
The multiple facades
We create;
Sometimes help with the
Heaviness of the days we carry.
But,
But the busyness never helps
With the exhaustion we bear.
The weariness we suffer.
We seek, then.
A 4000 little respite of few blinks
To keep the staggering fire
Flaming afresh.
Inspired by:
Blinking, we call it. It’s like a small black shutter that clicks down and makes a break. Everything goes black; one’s eyes are moistened. You can’t imagine how restful, refreshing, it is. Four thousand little rests per hour. Four thousand little respites—just think!
No Exit, Jean-Paul Sartre
Deem to conceive a thought.
Dare to paint a picture,
Beyond the furnished depiction.
Do not give in.
Nor render the combat.
Conform not.
Instead dissent,
Into a mind of your own.
Awaken your imagination.
Fight for the original.
Reckon to excel.
Do not besought to conform.
Cultivate your conscience.
And concoct an opinion,
A notion of your own.
And by God,
Forfeit assimilation,
To its own accord.
The letters began to convene,
Though the words are fading-
Trailing off onto the line.
The chronicles of my life
I started to scribble in forms
Of letters, once,
Are now filled with
Blank pages.
The books are deserted
Of the assembly of words
Only to become
A bound collection
Of emptiness,
A hollow box of papers.
How do letters hang
On the strings
Of lines
To form real words?
How do words conquer
The empty pages
To bind a book?
Is there a word with no letter,
Or a way to utter
A thought
With no word,
Only with letters?
Between the cracks of the walls,
Lodged are the thoughts,
Dreams and nightmares,
Daydreaming and conversations
Of ours.
Between the cracks
We are buried
Not too deep,
Nor far beyond
The surface of reality
Between the edges of the years,
Months, days, and seasons,
We are deeply carved
And engraved
To be rewarded
Of the more.
Between the cracks and creases,
We lie in peace, unperturbed.
In quietude amidst the crowd.
And in the reign of the disturbed.
Between the splits of life,
The seconds and minutes,
There, we lie awake
To the world of beyond,
Unraveled,
And un-comprehended.
Only to peek
Through the cracks
Of this world.
I welcomed imperfect guests
To my perfect universe
A realm of my own
Which I crafted
From a scratch.
I gave my approval
Of good, no, perfection
Earlier than it ought
Have been given.
And for that,
I welcomed-invited,
Imperfect company in
Accredited form of enthusiasm.
And now-
My perfect universe is bent.
My smile, crooked.
My solemn, disrupted.
My trust, defiled.
My angst, mocked.
And my remorse, failing.
For I cannot blame anyone
Absolutely no one!
For breaking and entering
The universe of mine.
None has entered
With force.
Nor was found
Without invitation.
It was I, only I,
Who inspected the list
Of the guests I wished
To have by my side.
Haven’t grown a fondness
Of any guest
I have embraced, so far.
Yet, and yet!
I haven’t thought of
A way to bid them adieu
Nor to embrace
Their quirks I so much
Detest and loath.
I wish not to bestow
The fault
On any of them, anyhow.
I, entirely, blame and
Censure, my hastened,
Uncalculated and rushed judgment
For the calibration
Of my perfect, now
Crooked universe.
Because I invited and
Welcomed imperfect guests
In my own hands.
And for that very reason,
I shall abandon,
The universe I once enjoyed,
The universe I created,
Polished and perfected,
For a whole different new one!
Coward is the soul of mine.
Afraid is the heart in my chest.
Serious is my demeanor.
Solemn is my look.
While dismayed is my through and through.
Have I ever cared for adventure,
Or a path, wilder-
Have I ever lived for the surges
And ecstasy,
I would’ve exploded
Into shrouded pieces.
My fear would’ve devoured
The sole world in my head.
The details, blundered.
The order, converted
Into unsupervised chaos.
The story of my life, that is.
Rearrange, reorder, and revert,
The small and big chunks of
The part and the parcel.
To govern the puzzle.
To make it, sound.
Not fabricated,
Or faked.
For my life is indeed
A double edged.
The sharp trenchant,
My assumption of it, that is.
And the dull flat-
The true color of it.
Unabridged Manuscripts 