Unfinished

You and me,
are an unfinished symphony.
(a bruised knee,
a spot weak,
tap and it falls,
a half turned key)


A page torn,
from the end of a book
leaving you teetering,
hanging on a hook.

Cause no one knows what happens in the end
and it feels like an arm you've lent.
Cause you can't really give it, but can miss it too
and it slowly but surely, turns blue

Remember?

I find memories
lying abandoned
scattered with
the wind of today
to the corners of
my mind.

I mind losing them
Leaving them unaffected
without affection

With remorse or
the promise of guilt
or even a wistful
smile and grin.

I find them untouched
yet they fade
exposed to the sun
Polaroids I made.

Bleached, bone
dry
of original emotion
yet they fill
me up
and scare me.

I find a life
I may never have
known
were it not for
these memory seeds
sown.

So cold

Snow
Snow
Snowing in my ears
Coldly, so gorgeous
Trickling down my spine
dully, so lustily.
Horrid, like a knife.

A sweet beguiling glint,
symphony of my life.

White
White
Whitening my hair
Crowing so royal
Melting into my mind.
Chilling so soullessly
Heavy, like a crown.

A glittery shiny hint,
Weighing me down.

Wanderlust

Wanderlust.
Pick up
and just
leave.

Depart, deny,
denounce, decry,
decide, devise.
Derail,
and just
leave.

Itch for something.
Go for gold.
Sing for loose
change,
Be sold.

Hold my hand,
and jump.
Don't wait for
the thump.

Free fall.
Stand tall,
and just,
leave.

Roses

I wear a monocle
It's tinted rose
Just the one eye.
One side of my nose.

I could get the other one
Then I could see
A world that was tinted
Completely.

But I'd rather not
And keep my feet here,
On the ground and firm.
Skip the fear.

A monocle is fine.
It's fair even.
A skewed vision is good.
A semblance of reason.

I'm swaying, agreed.
The guiles of a beautiful color.
But I hope the wind
Won't topple me over.

Hanging upside down on an electricity pole

His head, taking a toll. 

What makes you happy?

If you could circumvent the idea of needing someone, would you be happier?

The song Zinda, from Lootera, is quite the personification of this thought. Zinda hoon yaar, kaafi hai.
Isn't it enough? To be one of the lucky few who live to tell the tale? Survive heat waves and deluges and landslides and freak electrocutions. Be able to survive and trust your heart to beat enough beats, and be strong enough, so you can concentrate on things that might make you happier for a little while.

'Après moi, le déluge. After me comes the flood.' Regina Spektor did say it well though. 'I'm not my own, it's not my choice.'

So we all live like that, with a little bit of the devil may care attitude, I'm gonna do that which pleases me, let the flood come when I'm gone. 

Which, tries really hard to go back to the idea, that is needing someone a naive idea that ensures survival, or maybe even a way to spend time in a lucrative fashion with?

I'm not contesting the idea of evolution and why one would need a partner, its just that, the search seems like such a futile endeavour. Where do you begin? How do you know you've reached the end? 

I keep thinking of the post I wrote on Waiting. Derived from the book called Waiting by Ha Jin, and how I talked about how we're always waiting for something. Waiting for Godot, after all.  

So how do you know when you've reached the end? The end of your wait? Maybe you will never. How will you? 

I have a theory, that a person can love only a limited amount. So a serial dater, would have less and less of her heart to give out to her newest beau. People do find someone after years and years, and spend their lives happily, but I think something of that rush and excitement and madness would've gone, and the urge to settle perhaps would've crept in. 

But how do you find someone in one go? WHERE do you find someone in one go? Discovering a soul mate is nearly as ridiculous in believing in past lives, although, I did buy Dr. Brian Weiss's spiel for sometime. But even in Before Sunset, or even Before Sunrise, Jesse raises the question that there are supposed to a limited number of souls right? So how is our population growing?
If that means we have fragmented souls and smaller and smaller pieces of originality, would you then attribute it to the multiple marriages and rising divorce rates? 

And if that is a ridiculous statement, then that points to the fact that souls do not exist. 

Ship of Theseus, a brilliant film in what it discusses with the audience and enlightens and questions the integrity of your soul, also picks the question of karma, karmic retribution, and faith.
If what you believe in, is the truth, then the truth is subjective, and so is the interpretation of every lie and every evil. This is perhaps the stem of organised religion. Which religion would you pick? Is that even an option? 

The overreaching arc that covers all the points that I have gone through, is that a person, i.e. we, are extremely selfish. It's not a revelation, just to acknowledge and live by. All that we do, is for ourselves, meant to save our souls in some way.

If you were to receive a stolen kidney, would you really give it back? If it went against your beliefs, would you still take medicines tested on animals if your life depended on it? If you were more comfortable and honest being blind, did society and the idea of being complete force you into new eyes?

So, finding someone is also a part of that selfish urge, to determine a validity of your existence, to see yourself appreciated in someone else's eyes, and to be able to see that in their eyes too.

But, even then, in the end, there remains a question. If your ownership in this world, you acknowledge as nothing, and, maybe not build a life of an ascetic, but remove yourself from the circle of possession. If you could circumvent the idea of needing someone, move beyond attachments. Would you be happier? 

Sloth

Day 10

Today is the first day of my revolution. The world stirs around me, slowly, and I curl around the thought. Snaking my arm round my pillow, I will a gracious tear, but it doesn't fall, jut sits there, unwilling.
The crowd buzzes round and round, like I'm the decadent pot of honey instigating the temporary lives of flies. Or maybe I'm a rotting piece of flesh, discarded as easily my clothes. Perhaps the people feel restlessness creep into their houses from the crack under their doors, and the rush of wind when they hurriedly enter homes, flicking on lights to chase away darkness that sits like tar in the corners.
My pores probably seep this unrest, failing to affect my blood in the least.

Day 5

A fading lamp flickers in the corner. It holds my attention for the most part. The writhing flame expresses much of what I don't. If only someone would listen. They're trying to listen to the wrong thing. Ears should be put to use to sense the sound of fingernails scraping against winter skin, the slow hiss and crackle of matchsticks and the sound of hope falling six feet under.

I try to understand the idea behind movement, and the hustle and bustle people seem to hold in high regard, but I abandon that affair for another day. Tonight, I make peace with some things I wish not to comprehend.

My mind strains to hear other people's thoughts, rather than the superfluous words they supply. Immense effort must go into forming sentences that convey so little. So tonight, I lift my arm to silence the orator. The most I have done today. People are stunned, invariably stirring debate.
Of course, no one thinks to ask me, or I would have told them.

Day 1

Inertia, is the rebellion against movement. But inertia isn't voluntary. Every heartbeat is a push, effort taken to move blood from one place to another, or it would just sit around and go cold, terminating the thing we call life.
My eyes move reluctantly from one spot on the ceiling to another, resisting. A hand pushes my hair back. I slip over the countless others that surround me, waiting.

Waiting as if I am a molting phoenix or a shedding snake. Waiting for me to blink.

Day 12

I imagine there shall be a soundtrack to my life. I fear it shall comprise of silence. A brief interlude in the telling of other greater tales. Tales that involve so much more than stillness and a stony quiet.
 A finger twitch to ascertain life and a flinching pupil to seal the thought. A rhythmic beep to keep everyone happy.
People expect my tale to be one of great sorrow, misery and tragedies. They wait for me to gather my limbs and speak of something gravely that makes their hair stand on end and their toes curl unseen.

They expect a reason behind me, guarding me, solving their questions. Reasons are elaborate excuses given to justify action, but reasoning is largely a feat in futility. I give no reason, I answer no questions, yet I exist needlessly.

Day 25

A ray of hope lands in my room struggling through the dark foggy thoughts. It glints faintly there, lying on the floor and I try to will it towards me. Hope is a strange thing, there can exist plenty in the world, and none inside you. I try to stir, to accept that there might be a chance of reclamation, that my speech will redeem some part of me. But, irrelevant of the passage of time, the ray stays stationary, waiting for me to evoke it.

I don't know, how to. I don't know, why. I don't know.

Day  15

I have now worked through my winding tale of the past a couple of times. With each retelling, my eyes die more, and my voice becomes someone else. Those people become a race I don't believe in. I feel comfortable in the slime that has been suffocating me, finally. To shake it off, shrug off the thick layer of slime that coats your eyeballs and your heart, it isn't a question of effort, but possibility.

And to me, it is not.

Day 20

Strange as it may sound, I have died more. No number of eyes or hearts can move me. I have deadened all my senses, cause to feel nothing is better than to recognize everything. There is a force around me that is asking me to hang on longer, to stay put, to push past these stubborn doors, and the force is growing, its pressing against the windows, and my heart.

I cannot continue. I shall not continue.

To continue would mean that I have to exist in a life where my ideals are shattered, and where I am shattered. Where the basic fabric of human function is shredded.

I do not wish to continue.

Day 30

I leave today. They're trying so hard, but I leave. It grows inexorably strong, my urge to do something, to move, but even stronger is my body's willpower shutting down. My brain is unable to accept the brutal truth. I give up my revolution to others.

Other women will pick it up, other men will pray, many things are bound to happen.
The first day of my revolution shall not be my last, this I can promise you. This I can grant my soul.

To return whole and to maim and malign those that were capable of inflicting my devastation.

When I return, I shall be stronger that their horror, and flower out of this revolution.

But for now, I will leave. Leave the ray of hope behind, cowering under the raw power of my horror.

For now, I will leave.


*Dedicated to December's revolution, and every woman's pain.