Aging

Aging gives an edge,
To be haunted,
By kaleidoscope of events,
A recollection called memories.
Either to be devoured by the void,
Or to be fulfilled and accomplished.
(whatever that means).

Aging gives an edge,
To be numbed,
For every possible pain,
That either imprinted a scar,
Or left with no mark.
To spare a continuous prospect,
A constant survival drive.
Or- All age gives is an edge,
To be paralyzed.
To absorb it all,
And propel with the waves.
(whatever the waves are)

Aging gives an edge,
To be sucked into the observed realm,
The view from the window,
Of the stories, the movies, and the overheard talks,
To be imbibed into the world you see,
When your world is not seen,
Nor heard.
But aging gives an edge,
To find- miraculously- find,
Your own self.
While being one’s true self,
Only means mirroring others.
(Whatever you heard and saw from the windows)

Aging gives an edge,
Either to be haunted and preyed,
Or to become a master of it all!

0

If (when), given a choice to be-
Offensively honest or hypocritically nice,
And if these two were the only options,
Which one would weigh the balance more?
The potentially stinging pain brought by the brutal truth,
Or-
The nice, tension-free, but insincere moment?
The unkind gesture which could either build or halts your relationship,
Or-
The uncandid revolt of keeping things in rhythm?
Would you rather rip the band-aid at instant,
Or-
Keep the pain coming to your scarred skin?
Candid or Pleasant?
Your move!

0

Gnawed by the guilt of existence,

Tortured by ungiving conscience,

Caught up in a stage of grief,

(Between shock and denial),

Filled with too many unsaid words,

Packed with suppressed emotions,

Stuck between numbness and outbursts,

Poised with indifference,

While sulking into madness,

Feeling the thorns beneath my skin,

Amidst the rush and the apathy,

I fight for rationality.

Mere reasonableness.

An objective, solid ground-

For the unsettled and deranged,

To pattern the chaos.

To reign the unruly.

What a folly?!

0

The Strange Spinster

“Where are you headed, young lady?” It was like an awakening call of my alarm. It was louder than the tunes that were flooding through my ears, I turned my face at once. From the looks of it, it was rather an old spinster who stood right behind me. I don’t know why I was sure she was a spinster, but she seemed like one. “I am sorry. Are you lost, ma’am?” I asked while removing one of my earphones from my ear. “Is that question intended for yourself or me?” She was heading in my direction. I was entirely confused by her demeanor which was quite rude but also too confident. “I..don’t..I..”. “Oh please, do not stutter! I asked if you were lost and something tells me you really are, are you not?” She elevated her brows beyond her glasses. I am studying her face now. And she seemed very familiar. I tried to recall where I might have seen her before. Normally, I wouldn’t stop for any passengers. But there was something I couldn’t articulate about this woman. 

“Let me save you from your troubles, young lady. No, we haven’t met yet. No, you do not know me. Nor you have seen me before. And no, I am not a neighbor whose face you do not recall. And yes, those are exactly your thoughts.” She grinned widely and started walking in the direction I was headed. I felt coldness down to my spine and I looked around. It was too early for the path to be packed by many. “Are you coming or what?” She inquired. I gathered myself as soon as I can to follow the stranger. A gifted stranger?! No, no. I put my hands in my pocket and paced faster to catch up with the woman. “Normally, people would start to wonder if they have gone crazy when someone, a stranger no less, tells them their thoughts. But, you! You are thinking of a name for me, I guarantee that is quite special. Don’t you think? Oh, would you stop with that already? No one would walk this early! Specially now the rain seems to be habitual at this hour. Walk with me, would you?” “I…I am out of sorts, I believe ma’am. You caught me off guard I must say.” I tried not to show my cowardice. The lady seemed to be in her late 50s. Yet, she is taking the longest strides than me. For the moment, I concentrated on keeping up with her while my mind raced to ask zillions of questions. 

“I must assume you know where I was heading, then.” I finally managed to ask. “Of course I did. I just wanted an opening line to converse. I didn’t want to be a stalker. Oh good heavens, no. I could have walked with you till you notice that our paces were synced. But, I was rather worried you might not catch up with me or notice me for that matter.” She corrected her glasses once again and cleared her throat. “So, young lady.” Her own derisive laugh cut her off. She cleared her throat once again and said “I always loved that phrase. When I was your age, people seldom called me that. But I liked it anyway. Oh, don’t wrinkle those skins yet. Time would do that for you.” I half grinned while touching my forehead lightly. 

“So, wherever you’re from, can I assume you want to talk to me?” I half-heartedly asked the lady of wonders. “I would prefer lady of candor or beauty, if I may.” She chuckled at her own statement. “Ah! In any case, your assumptions are right. But, no. I am not going to talk about pain or suffering with you. ‘I can sympathize with everything except suffering. I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the color, the beauty, and the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores, the better.’ Do you know who said that?” “I remember that I have read it somewhere.” “Oh don’t give me that look! I was giving you a chance to make this two-way conversation. Or should I say it all for both of us? Knowing what is in your head isn’t making this fun for me, by the way. Candor has its own perks. But it, sure, is an ailment.” We almost walked half a mile by now. She proceeded. “You know what they say, ‘To get back one’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.’ But, here I am telling you being a youth is more than repeating one’s follies. At least in your case, that is. First things first, having too many interests doesn’t make you passionless. Nor having no passion for life is a fault. Not everyone is filled with passion these days. If you can get a few things that can hold you long enough, you would be quite well. Yes, society romanticizes the value of passion in every path we take. But what you should know is, what would be left for you at the end of the path where passion takes you? The moment you achieve it, you would reach a sense of fulfillment, of course. But not for that long. We, humans, are not known for our satiety in life. The moment we get there, we always need more. So it really doesn’t matter if we have a sustainable passion for one, single thing. Rather too much of it will become handy at some point. So enough with torturing yourself for not settling for one passion.” 

While we are crossing the road, I saw a few strands of her grey hair were loose and lying on her face. She tucked them in where they were with no trouble. Hmm, her hair resembled mine. Except it was grayer and shorter. I clutched my jacket as the wind was growing stronger. “Age is a matter of experience, young lady. And also matter of mistakes. The one thing older people share with each other is how many mistakes they ever done over time.” She chuckled and noticed the sky intently. “I don’t think I have much time with you, after all. The dawn is fading.” She stood right before me and held my arms tightly. “Here’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. When you wake from your sleep tomorrow…” My hysterical laughter cut her off mid-sentence. “I am not asleep, for sure.” I squealed. She half grinned and continued. “When you wake from your sleep tomorrow, you are going to see a different realm of the world you have been living in. For once, your obsession with the parallel universe would pay off, perhaps. Call it the new realm or a new universe. I would leave that to you. But, what I want you to know is, as much as this life seems dull and uninteresting in your eyes, that is not only for you. Anyway, you can still survive the common bickering of the society and the inauthenticity of everything. In the meantime, you should have a heyday of your life for once. You cannot analyze everything before happening. You should let yourself feel and be there in the moment. Mistakes aren’t to be avoided. A few of them, in fact, make life wondrous. You are allowed to have some setbacks. It wouldn’t kill you to have few.” 

I felt hot tears prickling my eyes. I swallowed and saw my strange company right in her eyes. She seems to have my eyes, too. But hers were surrounded by wrinklier skin than mine. I cleared my throat to thank her. But she gave me a look that assured me that she already knew what I was going to say. I closed my eyes to help myself think. But when I opened my eyelids, I was standing by myself. I looked around to see where she could possibly go. There was no sight of her. “Well, that would be the best ending for a strange morning,” I muttered to myself and continued my walk. I couldn’t help but wonder how much resemblance we had with the woman. She was far more interesting than me, though. 

When my alarm buzzed, I searched for my glasses drowsily. I was asleep. Moments ago, I was sure I wasn’t. Apparently, I was asleep on my desk. I must have slept while reading. I yawned and stretched my body. I cleared my eyes to look at what I have been doing a few hours before. “Oh, the dream!” I nearly screamed. “Oh, it was a dream.” I stood in the middle of my room confused. The weird thing is I recall the dream with much more clarity than I ever recalled any other dream. The rain started to tickle the roof. I paced in my room from one point to another. But there was no other explanation for it, except it was a dream. The rain intensifies as well as the coldness. I picked up my jacket from the pile and clutched myself in it. My fingertips sensed a piece of paper inside the pocket. As I unfold it, it read “The Strange Spinster”. I gaped at the paper for a long while. 

0

The Phantom Pain

Prickling sensation in parts I cut off,
I sense- I sense pain where I should feel numbness,
I perceive fire when I should feel coldness,
I hear the thumping of my blood,
In parts I killed,
In body parts I amputated.
I breathe in life,
In parts, I should have felt death.

How could I feel pain,
If there is none left to perceive?
How could I feel movement,
If there is none left to flail?
How could I feel ache,
If there is none left to ache?
How could I bleed,
If there is none left to squeeze blood?

A pain cruises the parts I cut off.
Life springs in the dead layers.
I thought it was over,
When I killed it all.
I thought it was enough,
I thought dying once was all I needed,
To quit the hide and seek,
To stop the denial and the facade.

But then,
Even when there is none to feel the pain,
There is the illusion to perceive the ache.
Even when all is lost,
There is always some left,
For the phantom pain. 

2

I wanted to know what to do,
Before the music halt,
Before the rhythm fades,
I wanted to know what’s next.
Because when the music ends,
When the song ran out of lyrics,
That’s when the pain strikes.
That’s when I start to lose,
Not just the battle,
But the whole war!
Before the music stops,
While my heart is beating,
My limbs moving,
My head rocking,
My eyes blinking,
I strike!
But- after the music stops,
The darkness sets in,
The cadence of suffering begins,
When the music cease,
Quietude reigns,
And pain wins!

0

A Conversation with Gertrude Stein.

“We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair. But to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.” She said, loudly. “Yes, yes, Gertrude. I get what you are saying. And I wouldn’t dare to contradict you.” She gave me a weak grin as if she knew that I am going to. “But…”, I went on. “…How can one write about something she doesn’t know? Specially when there is something one is fully acquainted with!  Despair! I cannot only write about it. I can tell you the building blocks. I can tell you how those blocks come into being. I can tell you about the edifice. The Edifice of Despair! I might be romanticizing about it a bit…” “A bit?!” She cut me off mid-sentence. “You are head over hills for despair. You are not only obsessed, but you’re also madly in love with it. Why can’t you see beyond your despair? You know there’s something beyond the reef, don’t you?” I sighed deeply. So deep, I felt my ribs protruding. “I like your writings.” She proceeded. I am sure my eyes almost popped out in unbelief. “I do. I just think your soul is not in any of them.” She stressed her point probably noticing my surprise. “It is a muffled scream located from beyond. I hear the echo. Not even the first echo. The third, weakest echo which is disappearing into the air. Where is your sound?” She posed for a moment trying to come up with a better explanation of what she said. Or is she reconsidering her comments? I usually think I can read and interpret people’s faces. But sometimes it is beyond difficult. The contours on her face couldn’t give me a hint of her thoughts. 

“Sure, write about it. Write about despair as if it is the only thing to be written about. But…” she is pointing her finger directly at me along with her soul-piercing eyes. I break off eye contact immediately. I can’t stand people staring at me. “But…” she almost yelled the moment my eyes started wandering. “Find your voice! Stop mumbling. Quit this muffling nonsense and step out into the world. Tell me the depth of despair out in the light. Shout it out at the top of your lungs until my ears are deafened. That would be the first step of something.” “Yeah…” That was the single word I could utter at the end of her speech. “The muffled noise” My brain registered the phrase. She is right, of course. I’m barely making a sound, let alone a noise. It can’t even ripple the surface, don’t bother to see a splash. But finding my voice is going to be hard. It is going to be harder than finding myself. Oh wait, I didn’t find myself yet. In fact, I don’t think I will ever find it. But- maybe finding your ultimate voice, even in an imaginative world might be easier. Just maybe. 

The next day, while I was lying on my bed, a heavy knock at my door woke me up. It was Gertrude Stein at my door. I was more than surprised to recognize her voice as it was coming a few steps away from my door. “Gertrude?” I sounded sappy because I was trying my hospitable voice while trying to hide my surprise. “You’re even weirder” She almost knocked me down as she entered to my tiny apartment. And she was right, I am weirder at home. I didn’t know what my next steps should be. I felt like I stared at her for two full minutes. “Stop standing there as statue. Bring me a coffee if you have any. Otherwise, sit. I felt like we left off things hanging on a cliff.” I almost ran to the kitchen to prepare coffee for my house guest. I was too conscious about my every move. I feel her eyes on me the whole time. When I half turn my face, I saw she is not even looking at me. I exhaled the heavy air off my chest. “What brought you here, Gertrude?” I asked. “Coffee is a lot more than just a drink; it’s something happening. Not as in hip, but like an event, a place to be, but not like a location, but like somewhere within yourself. It gives you time, but not actual hours or minutes, but a chance to be, like be yourself, and have a second cup.” I figured she wanted me to be seated first. “I didn’t know you were a coffee person.” I requested, but she didn’t respond. 

She started talking when I settle with my mug in front of her. “You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterward in a recasting…It will come if it is there and if you will let it come.”  She went on after a sip. “After all everybody, that is, everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves. That is why writers have to have two countries, the one where they belong and the one in which they really live. The second one is romantic, it is separate from themselves, it is not real but it is really there.” 

“But it’s so frightening, Gertrude.” My voice shrieked. “Nothing is really so very frightening when everything is so very dangerous.” She said and continued to see me right in the eye. The woman had answers for every question I might raise. She is still waiting for me to say something. All of a sudden I felt like I actually lost my real voice. “A very important thing is not to make up your mind that you are any one thing.” She broke the stillness with her bold voice. “You cannot only be despair. I’m sure there are left over pieces here and there. Gather them. Or don’t. Why should a sequence of words be anything but a pleasure? Just remember, there is more of you. Even in this Lost Generation, there is more of you.” She didn’t say another word for long. The thrill of having a houseguest was overwhelming. But I was trying hard not to let it get me. She studied my face for a while. But she didn’t say much. When she was done with her coffee, she left the apartment at once. 

It was the buzzing sound of my alarm that awakened me. It was 4a.m. in the morning. I must have dozed off for an hour or so. I rubbed my eyes to see where I am. I am not in France. It is not the 1920s. It was all a dream. It was in an alternate reality I had two days long conversation with Gertrude Stein.

0

A Memoir of Trapped Girl.

She felt her cold hands. She must have laid on the floor for almost 6 hours. She inhaled deeply, her whole body stretched and her eyes twitched when she felt the coldness through her linen-layered back. The rain must have stopped. She can only listen to a drizzle on the outside. She opened her eyes. But she couldn’t see a thing. It is almost midnight, she surmised. She gathered herself to turn on the light. 

Her eyes struggled to close again to fight the brightness of the light. Once again, she wanted to lie on the floor. Not that it changes anything, not that she could think better nor she would be comfortable, but it had its own solace and cordiality. For the last few hours, all she could manage to think about was if the ground could handle her weight. She felt so heavy along with her sadness that nothing would be able to hold her weight. It was at moments like this she turned to words. Not words to speak of. But words to imprint on her notebook, phone, or anywhere she can engrave them. She goes back and forth on the idea that words are great weight holders than anything.

“A girl escaped death but was trapped to live.” She writes. “The moment she escaped death, she thought she was free from every shackle. The power of escaping, running away from a thing is enthralling. The feeling is exhilarating. Nothing seems impossible. No amount of chain would seem enough to hold you captive. How little did she know then?!” Her eyes took a break to stare at the wall. “Nothing, no one is free in this world. The moment you escape the prison of death, you are yet entering a new prison. A prison of life! That’s a much worse prison, to be honest. You are trapped in every way imaginable.” But she couldn’t go on further. 

Her hands are tied to write because her eyes couldn’t stand the flickering light rays out of the lamp. Besides the coldness is antagonizing, every time her fingers moved she felt pain. She turned off the light but her brain couldn’t stop crafting sentences. The words that were occupying her empty thoughts are rearranging themselves in a certain order. She couldn’t say if that was a blessing or a curse. But there is no off switch for her brain to stop schematizing the words she found interesting. 

After an hour or so she was still wide awake. But after forming zillions of phrases and sentences, she felt her mind going quiet. Like she is weightless and free. The arrangement, the words, the sentences, they might or might not make sense. But she felt the solemnity of the night, the tranquility of the air, and the straight line in her head.

0

Deprave me the spotlight,
If you want me to shine,
If you want me to live,
Avoid the attention you could ever give,
For I grow in dim light,
In the darkest hours,
I bloom like Night-Blooming Cereus,
In the elusive nights,
In a wondrous oddity,
With spellbinding aroma,
I’m like the Queen of the night,
Only to fluorescence,
Once in the full moon,
Of the magnificent summer nights.

0

Grief is the tribute we pay for loss. We lose something every day. A part of us dies in every moment. A part of the human population dies every moment. We die. Our loved ones die. Sometimes not even physically. But they wither away before our eyes. And we concede for all the losses without a wince. It is when the bigger part of us die we start to pay our tributes. That’s when we grieve.

I don’t feel the heaviness of sadness for every loss every minute of the day. I don’t fall apart that often. But, deep down I know I’m breaking apart into pieces. The parts of me which were glowing like a full moon are now cut down into pieces. Fragments. Thousands of fragments. I no longer exist as one full person. I exist in pieces hidden away in things. That is when I start to wonder if I’m actually faltering away as a whole or if I have lost the hidden cases for my fragments. 

That’s why I prefer if people asked me which part of me died today rather than how I was doing. I wish I could give recognition for my loss. Yes, you may say I haven’t lost a thing. But to the very least, I have lost a chunk of time. But, that is not all of it. I have lost much more than that. Time is just one of the essences I have lost for the day. And maybe there is a way to remedy that or maybe not. The thing is, when we lose things together, it feels like we haven’t lost them at all. The collective grief we escape makes us believe that we haven’t lost a thing. Or even if we do, we don’t give it enough credit to tear us apart.

But grief is grief. The sooner we let ourselves feel and sit with it, the sooner we can get away from the excruciating ache we feel in and out. The later we embark upon that adventure, the more the pain will devour us as a whole.

1

The Girl with Freckles. 

“What exactly do you like about the rain?” She almost whispered it to his ears. The heavy pour was making all the sounds disappear. The thunder was roaring once in a while. He knows she doesn’t usually like to raise her voice. But this time, she did raise her voice even though it came out like a whisper. “What is there not to like about it?” he said. Her chuckle which hid her scoff cut him off. “Wha…t? What are you scoffing for?” He was expecting her pretentious, almost always pre-formed opinion about it. Not that he hates it, it just kills the mood or his fervor when it happens. His fondness for rain couldn’t be less changed because of this. But, he was giving her a chance to say more about it. “You know I don’t like it when you talk about things in hyperbole. This is just a talk. Not a poem or story. Just state it plainly. Like in the real world. Not like hanging up in some fantasy. As if you’re taken aback by the former world. So, what do you like about rain?”

He wanted to say how non-artistically artistic her response was. But he was afraid another scoff would cut him off again. “I love rain. I feel like the sky is letting go of some pressed-on feelings at once. I like how it cancels all the other noises. I love how people are scared of it. The serene helps me think. The quietness gives me solace. And the thunder helps me sleep. Watching nature acting up salves my pain.” Her solemn look gave him the courage to rant about his true feelings regarding the rain. “I like how it quiets down the crowd of the city. I love the spontaneity. You could guess it might rain. But it will surprise you whenever it does.” He gazed to the outside as they were sitting beside the glass window. The fat droplets are thinning down. It almost seemed like a drizzle now. He wanted another cup of coffee. A hot cup of coffee as he was feeling the cold air down his spine. She was too far gone into the wind. Or the rain. He knows how much she detests the cold. And the rain, too. So it is highly probable she was trying to see his point just for the sake of it. But she really seems to be taken away. 

“What about the grey color?” She asked all of a sudden. He almost choked on his coffee. “What about the black and white mode of the view? How did you not mention that?” She was looking at his face. “yeah, yeah…there is that too. Wait, since when are you interested in the rain?” He asked a bit eagerly. “I don’t know. Well, people change! Isn’t that what you say every time?” She responded while touching the freckles on her face. It was a habit she does whenever she was thinking deeply. In a way, she felt like her outside was reflecting the inside. Who could see the freckles of her soul? Who could feel the unhealed bumps when one is void of freckles? He wished to touch their bounds. It was like the art of constellations which he couldn’t recall the name of. 

“he..llo!” She waved her hands across his view. He woke from the daydream he was having. The rain was intensifying once again. “Yeah, I…I never thought of it that way. Somehow I’m taken by the golden hours. Unlike my usual likings, the golden hours of the dawn have some effect on me. But now you have mentioned it, that could be one of my reasons. I just didn’t know it yet.” He gave her a smile mixed with a sigh. He always stammers when he is caught off guard. She kept playing her fingers on the strings of her freckles. And he was once again taken. Her freckles matched her brown eyes. Her eyes might seem dark just like her hair. But with appropriate lighting, she is a brown-eyed girl with a brown hair complexion. 

The quietness is blooming on the streets. The rain seems to take a pause for a while. They roamed over the streets quietly. And the nighttime was hastening to conquer the day.

0

The Greatest Euphemism

Isn’t living the euphemism for dying?
Aren’t we dying when we say we are living?
Aren’t we living for the celebration-
The commemoration of our lives,
On our death day?
Isn’t death the coronation of life?
Isn’t life a souvenir for death?
For the sake of remembrance when we depart?
Isn’t life the irony of death?
We think we are living,
When we are actually dying!

0

Insomnia Café: Expired Moods

I wish to raise my voice,

Out-loud!

To everyone to hear it.

I don’t want to nod along,

With every idea you bring.

I don’t want to be imprisoned-

With the fear of conflict,

Or confront.

I wish to say what I feel,

The way I feel it,

Not as I’m supposed to,

Not the way you dictate it.

I don’t want you to pity-

Me or my countenance,

Or behavior or virtues.

For once,

I don’t want to grant an acknowledgment, 

For the tag you provided.

What if I am more than-

Mere Lady Creativity! 

What if I’m so much more than-

The quiet model of subtlety! 

What if I don’t want to be,

The muse you wish to see.

What if I want to roar,

At the top of my lungs,

For everyone to hear,

Until the room shakes,

Or the windows rattle,

What if I can be me?

Just me!

Without the responsibilities or requirements! 

What if I want to contradict everything you say?

Your presumptions and logic.

What if I laugh out loud,

At your hysteria and simple mind?

What if I take out my amiability-

From the pictures, you had of me?

What if I declare-

My true feelings and emotions,

Without giving my regard,

Other than myself.

What if you see the ‘wrong’ color of prospects?

What if none shall matter to me from now on?

Do you wish my company the same?

Or do you like all the things I do-

To be the reflections of your desires?

All your unattainable desires!

Impossible deeds to be performed by none!

Proprieties to be conducted by pawns!

I aligned with your rules,

And your requirements, 

With nary arguments.

To kill my true self,

And dreams I had.

Only to gain shells of a kind,

To be cleaned and polished.

To find myself now,

Dropped in lagoons of personalities,

In the sea of the dead,

Dead, expired moods.

Insignificant, unimportant images I once cherished.

All to be tied with destitute, now.

Not one of them to matter,

Or weigh an ounce.

Yes, I’m still alive! 

Only to be surrounded, 

By the morbid, I collected.

I light a candle,

Once in a while,

To the moods I killed!

My moods that expired! 

My enthusiasm I buried!

My convictions I have sent away!

My strong beliefs I extinguished!

The greatness I once acquired!

The orderly plan I once had,

Only to be captivated,

With fear and strain.

I, Lady Creativity, wish to resign-

From the life of yearning.

I wish to wallow in my pain,

For as much as I want, 

Without bearing your pain,

Or trying to be healed.

Without being forced to figure it out,

Or map the blueprint. 

Without yielding to your requests,

Or heavy yokes you detest,

Without carrying you through it,

While you are being protected and cared for.

I should learn to confront,

Without being tortured by guilt,

Or ached by wounded pride.

I wish to recover from the madness-

All the madness I went through alone,

When no one was looking,

In my solitude, 

Alone in the crowd.

Allow me to be gentle,

To my wounded heart,

To mend the tears that opened,

In my failed attempt of closing them.

Yes! Life is built amongst others,

Friends and acquaintances.

We find our true nature and color,

Amidst those who are closer.

We share one another’s burdens and secrets,

In the light of that spirit.

But, would you rather call it fair?

If the burden is to be shared only by one,

A single individual, rather than both.

Would it really be friendship or relationship-

Of any kind of sort,

If one carries and the other just dumps?

If one becomes the bruised lad,

While the other keeps punching?

If Depression keeps hitting,

Do I keep being knocked out?

If I can no longer press the juice,

Out of my misery-

If I cannot be creative 

To ease the pain I endure,

If I digress to be happy 

When I thought my ache is gone,

Would I call that a relation?

Or a mere prison?

Would it be a passion,

Or a typical death potion?

Resentments and I are truly unfriendly.

But, it sweeps over my door once in a while.

Not regarding my marriage to Depression,

Rather about my life as a matron.

If anything my identity as a social paragon.

Or all the things I acquire as reputation.

But again,

Do not dismiss me yet,

Allow me to grow,

And be my own mellow.

Don’t grant me a title,

For being the perfect model,

Because eyes might deceive,

But words shall be candid.

She quit scribbling not because she ran out of words or reached a resolution for her climax. That could never be the case. But it felt relaxing enough to share her deepest thoughts in her secret notebook.  With that, Lady Creativity put her secret notebook back in the place where she usually keeps it. Looking at the wooden box, she reminisced all the great memory it holds from her childhood. An uncontrollable smile crossed her face for a moment. She proceeded to the bathroom to polish herself for the coming day. The golden hour of the dawn hasn’t arrived yet. But she wanted to visit the café before the day catches up with her. Her insomniac brain and eyes needed the magic of the caffeine!

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The World of Words

I succumb to a world of words when I’m suffocated with the world of ‘people’. I hope you are not judging me prematurely, dear reader. The world of people is quite suffocating if you are a constant member. You should take a break once in a while by entering to the world of words, that is books. Books are good escapes for those who are exhausted of this world. They create a great illusion for the things you hate to endure. Even though you may not live in them forever, you can spend so much time in them. So much so you will start appreciating the world of people. You will understand them better by assigning a character for them or taking part of their world as incognito from one of your book world. That is much more enjoyable than facing the world as it is. If you are anything like me, that would help you endure the unnecessary drama people create almost every day. 

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A Monologue on my Notebook

Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons are perhaps the epitome of my week. The very reason that I’m not yoked by duties for the day brightens my Saturday more than anything. The very fact I do not have to engrave a smile on my face or act amiably towards anyone highlights the day. The freedom of doing anything, literally anything, is the utmost satisfaction. I can do something which I think is good rather than being dictated by someone that I should do this or that without being reminded of the consequences of my actions. Oh, the tale of freedom we tell ourselves! None of us are free, indeed. But for once in a week, a brighter morning, despite whatever the weather may look, the morning of freedom strikes. Of the 168 hours of the week, the few hours of the morning tend to dictate my leisure time.

Since I’m on the discourse of freedom, I do not wish to bound the day with a schedule or strict planning. But writing, reading, or even sleeping till the wake of the day is proved to make the day more than productive. Creating the world of imagination, and escaping reality for mere hours would certainly remedy the sour taste, rather a state of my life for once.

But if the weekend’s few hours tend to depict the brief summary of my week, then, I should mention the dreariness of Sunday afternoons. “Time flies when you are having a good time”, they say. The quality time I spent starting from Saturday morning till the very end of a week and beginning of another, marks to be the shortest period. All of a sudden, wherever I’m suited at the moment, it dawns on me the horror of facing, yet, another similar week. The fake smiles, uncontrolled agreeableness, escaping reality by “not living” but distracting oneself, and so many others follow like the dominos effect. And everything comes together like puzzle pieces. The cycle comes back! The coming and going like a machine of the sort would be once again attained. For the most part, when I realize that I’m not doing it for myself, I keep discussing it with my notebook. I cannot make a sound about this, anyway. But my notebook shall take all the screaming silences I endure.

And, just like that, another week begins! Another Monday arrives with all the baggage it carries.

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