The day is bright, the sky is clean blue, some branches and some leaves are in pretension of dying. Everybody is warning everybody – the weather is changing. All of a sudden one would realise, yes! The the city is coughing at the same time. The skin is always hungry of layers of moisturizer.
In such a weather, in such a day, why is that some kind of dryness, too, gets stuck in my throat? Why does the heart feels empty? Why does your soul longs for some unknown place?
In such a day, I daydream of old friendships, of old love, of my very first love.
With a rare softness
An extreme one
Put a scissor
For an ultimate quest,
Of being alive,
Oh dear beloved,
Clip of agony,
The residual insecurities
Of our hearts
The beauty is awaiting
Bring it to my womb,
Let it grow there
For once and for all
Let the fairy tale begin
Through me, ah, through me
Its been a long time since I posted the last time. I won’t lie saying I was busy, I wasn’t yet sure whether to continue the blog or not. The answer is NO.
I really want to thank the 30 people who followed me. Only a countable number of posts, and my inactivity, but still some people found our posts worth reading. More interesting posts would come. Readers, please keep coming.
I write my today’s post to all the hypersensitive souls.
Does it ever happen that somebody casually comments something, and we spend several days ruminating the same thing in our minds? It can be a word of praise, it can be a word of contempt. Sometimes some people make us feel so low that we start picturing that person as a devil with big nails and teeth. And the people who make us feel better suddenly turn angels. Why everything so extreme? Why are we made to define the extremity of emotions?
These questions bug me so much. I am on a perennial wait of disappearing one day from my room. People are always kind to those who disappear. Let it be exile, kidnapping, death, anything.
The passionate teacher of our college, he doesn’t like me I guess. His old eyes suffer from pride cataract. After all Cambridge University is not the parameter of my passion. I am passionate about poetry. I loved poetry since I was a child. My writing is bad, for I don’t write their language. I write mine. I burn myself to make words and phrases, to write a sentence. My small, easy words come from my soul, not from a mere dictionary. If Gertrude Stein could be mad in her verse, why can’t I? People use hypocrisy as perfume in every fold of their “self”.
I wish I could walk out in the soothing darkness, and black out all of a sudden and never come back to this world.
The chaos in my house burnt the ties between him and me. My only bridge to reality is breaking. What am I suppose to do? I am fainting.
A sheer curtain like something secludes me from the world. I see, I observe, I absorb, I think but I cannot touch it. The world—I do crave to be in it. Sometimes, I accuse it of careless parenting. My poems, my writings are my constant attempt to reach out to the world. These are my screams. O World! Hear me. I want to talk. I do love talking. I am all alone left in a high tower except an ardent lover who visits randomly.
Before this blog, I had two more blogs, and a Facebook page—all failed. The page did achieve 500 something followers. The problem is my retreating nature. I shrink back in myself. Its comforting that my present readers don’t know. I can be anybody…and everybody. This time I would fight myself to continue this blog. For I believe, my words would flutter over this earth and blossom new spring.
Let the show begin. Good morning readers!
Some lines dog behind us even days after completing the book. I have “greatest works of Virginia Woolf” in my possession since nineteenth March of 2015. I tried to read short stories from it, I failed. I tried “Mrs. Dalloway”, it could only partially absorb it. In my last vacation I thought of trying “To The Lighthouse”, I did read but couldn’t complete it for various reasons, one among them is the monotony in the characters. Even though I didn’t complete it, a few lines kept me haunting as a sweet poem does—perhaps, this is the magic of the lyrical quality in Woolf’s writing. So, Readers, here are these line. I hope you would love it too.
For him to gaze as Lily saw him gazing at Mrs. Ramsay was a rapture, equivalent to the loves of dozens of young men (and perhaps Mrs. Ramsay had never excited the loves of dozens of young men). It was love, she thought, pretending to move her canvas, distilled and filtered; love that never attempted to clutch its objects; but like the love that mathematicians bear to their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of the human gain. So it was indeed. The world by all means should have shared it, could Mr. Bankes have said why that woman pleased him so; why the sight of her reading a fairy tale to her boy had upon him precisely the same effect as the solution of a scientific problem, so that he rested upon the contemplation of it, and felt, as he felt when he had proved something about the digestive system of the plants, that barbarity was tamed, the reign of the chaos subdued.
(Painting saved from http://www.google.com)
I wish I could be with you, next to you, wrapped in your fragrance in a cold winter evening like a shivering body lying beside the warmth of motherly fire. After a hectic day, I could’ve rested my palm gently against your warm cheek. I wish I could be there with you, just to spend time talking about the most illogical matters in the world, or to remain silent–to drown my self into your eyes, in the serenity. But, my reverie shatters into pieces, far away, far away, from the toil of unuttered emotions to the pebbled shores of derangement. I keep my secret desires and unfulfilled laughs in the safest coffer of my heart , and I forget to open it again, scared of the world, maybe of myself. I can’t afford to have a look at you, beloved. I’m not there to soak tears from your eyes, let me in, it’s cold out there.
Refuge is not that pleasant anymore, shelter me, oh love, forgive.
I shrink back within me.
No news to go out. No news to come in.
Even home is far.
And I choose not to catch back the crowdy train to home.
I shrink back inside the box.
walk to me smelling the route like Tommy.
(Picture credit to http://www.google.com)
To the people who will read us:
There are two of us speaking through this blog—me and my companion; two drowned souls in the hateful addiction of aloneness. Writing has been a perennial cocoon for us to escape from the un-adjustment gap between the ‘self’ and the ‘world’. This blog is to reach out; it is our monologic conversation with the world. This blog would contain our musings that we think can entertain ‘you; the readers’ in some or the other way. I hope this ‘monologic’ conversation doesn’t remain ‘monologic’ for long time, and we make good number of great friends.
Poetry is close to both of our hearts. So most of it may come in fragmented language of poetry. So. Here is a poem like piece I wrote telling about our blog (which is also in our ‘about me’):
Little thoughts; sudden thoughts; quick thoughts; how they are lost! Some here, some there. Some between the pages of old books, crumpled and un-pampered! Like a sigh in sadness, like a cry in madness. Like the smell of beloved’s body…Wooh! And lost. Come with me, enter the trance, the trance of words we created with some gathered thoughts.
I climbed up in myself
I am seated.
The body sways
To either of the side
First left, then right
Left right left right
Like a cart on a pebbled road
I am seated quietly
On a sunny day, of course
I love to see faces with my binocular
Climbing to the two eyes
High, with a ladder
Happy faces, sad faces, clumsy faces
Quiet faces, talking faces
A ‘hello’ would distract the motion
The rhythmic swaying
I will record a ‘hello’ too
And play it on my gramophone