When I was little, mom and I would go out to the meadows, She would stand in the wind whilst I pursued the butterflies The wind would ripple through our clothes, our hairs dancing mindlessly as it passed by, our skins would respond to its touch raising goosebumps like one in love when she sees her beloved
Mom would wrap her hands around herself, close her eyes and draw in some air, feel as it sinks down her lungs losing its cool nature and comes out warm she would smile like she won the lottery, the most satisfying look on her face as she joined me to race after the butterflies, we would laugh together, those were the best memories I had of my mom
Now I'm older, I still go out to the meadows but it's not the same anymore I'd repeat every gesture of hers and assume she was right inside of me doing the same, the tears would flow, they somehow reminded me of the watery glow in mother's eyes the wind would come to comfort me, dry my tears, sift through my hair as it compels it to move to the rhythm of its beat, I would smile, we'd play together, it, consciously making me relive every moment, so I don't feel too sad
Before I'd leave, I'd always pick out a dandelion — mom's favorite, she called it “the Sun that brightens up your day” It was to be the first thing I'd see in the morning and the last before I'm absorbed into oblivion But before then I'd whisper to the wind and say “thank you for standing by me”
Dad, are you there? Do you still hear me? I can't seem to feel you near Father, Why have you decided to stay far away from me?
You have left me to the teeth of the lions, You have refused to hedge me in, In your presence the bears prey on my flesh. Dad I'm scared, do you see me? As the tears threaten to trickle down, I try to be strong, But just as the broken pitcher, it's beginning to leak out.
Father, my sorrows abound, My heart bleeds as the deer butchered for the greed of the hunters, You turned your back towards me in my distress, I seek you in my desperate times but you choose to stay afar.
Your ways are foreign to me, Your plans rest only in the awareness of their drafter, Your dealings with me I understand not. But who can question your ways Father? Your thoughts are a mystery in themselves, And although my mind seeks to understand, Revelation is kept far away from me.
I long to feel you near father, To lay in your arms as the suckling in the arms of it's mother. I long for your kisses to lead me into your presence, For your love to tingle my skin as it did in the time past. I recall laughing like crazy when I used to feel it, Now my wistful memory fails me, I disremember what they used to feel like.
I no longer feel your presence in the rippling wind. The soft daisies no longer reminds me of your gentle touch. I'm aching right here, do you feel it too? It's been too long a while Dad, I miss you.
You promised you'd never leave me, Dad you said you won't forsake me. You said your presence will always abide with me, Why don't I feel it now? Have you obliviated me from your thoughts?
You've never been one to lie father, never! And although I don't know your plan for me, I choose to believe it's the BOMB. I know you're up there, somewhere, staring right down at me with as much love as your heart can muster.
You tell me to be patient, I will! You tell me to trust you, I will! Till you come through Father, I'll be right here waiting for you. And Father, if you never do, Still I'll wait.
It was 8:30 in the morning when the incense slipping through the fissure of curtains scintillated the bruises on her face. Her eyes perceived the glittering sun in the darkness of the room craving to dwell with the veracity of her life. Her eyes stuck to the cell on the floor, maybe she was waiting for someone to make vibrations over the vole.
She could retaliate for her miseries, the world is so big to fall in love again and fit into conjecture of an stranger again. Still she chose to wait for him. This could be her stupidity but she call it love. She invoke everyone to ponder, what if, the last night you were alive with him and not just a pillow. Where it was all love and red rose. When he worshipped all your crevices and kissed the beauty of your soul instead of calling your physical appearance hot. When he swayed you back and forth embracing close to his chest instead of grabbing your ass. When he knew something is upto you and bugged you until you bled all out. When you left his eyes embracing you, unnoticed and blush for an untold promise. When he swung your hand back and forth cause it may ask a smile to warmth your lips, and he knew more than you could do to yourself. It was all love, so pure and innocent where you were you and nobody else. But the next morning you realize you are dead. Yaa, it all ended for something silly, leaving you under an uncanny dream. Could you love someone the same way again?
She draped herself under the hollow memories, for she believe, perpetuity isn't a myth. Nevertheless they long to be together again but once a love is a forever remark. Be it sooth or an illusion, it will never pave a way out of your heart. She covered the cracks of the curtains to never face the resin and returns back to the nightmare which is a now a part of her daily attire. A music flung out of her room //kuch to log khenge Logo ka Kaam h kehna// A satiric smile altered the atmosphere and she stood under the shower to sparkle the bruises over, cause they are the jewel where she indwell her love !! failed love !! ,for her soul is more of black.
Writing isn't a therapy for me. I never understood the idea of writing being so therapeutic, that somehow trying to write down what you feel is gonna magically makes it easier to survive. The objective part of my brain knows that language is a complicated thing. It's sorta like an output of whatever it is that your brain process and you experience as feelings. And feelings are just chemical reactions, when you zoom enough, chemical reactions are nothing but physics, right?
Is it okay to see humans as much complex physical systems running on chemical processes that perceive the world as it is?
I always had this feeling that we are limited by our language. How much you can express yourself is limited by the strength of the language itself.
Sometimes you feel too much, it is as if all the words the world has to offer is not enough to pen it down on a white sheet of paper that looks as empty as the space between stars where light forgot to touch. You're not sure what to make of it, what it is that you're feeling, or the why, so you keep it for yourself and try to make sense of it.
It is a strange kind of loneliness, isn't it?
Is it the limitation of the language or the limitation of your knowledge about the language?
But at times you don't need the language at all. One look at your best friend and you immediately know that inside joke you both are thinking about. A touch, a hug makes it easier to lift that weight pulling you down. A silent night staring at the starry sky with that someone, and you know, you just know that this is the one, even if it only lasts for a day or week or month or a few years, you know this is the one. Infinities and forevers are tiny little moments, aren't they?
I used to romanticize about reality and existence. I still do. But there is this internal battle that I'm forced to go through where my left and right side of the brain fight to figure out who can come up with the best explanation to this reality that I perceive as mine.
Do you really need to understand "the why" to feel a little less of the existential dread falls upon you every night? Or knowing that "why" takes anything away from the subjective experience that feels so personal?
I don't think I've ever loved anyone enough to write like Neruda, or was sad enough to write like Bukowski. Perhaps that's why the lines often end up being so mediocre that I end up deleting on a second read. But there are some words, carefully structured by someone else in a way to make art. With the very first read, it connects with you. Every line, every word, and every space makes sense, telling you the story that you always wanted to shout out. "this is exactly what I feel".
Perhaps it is not the writing that makes you feel better, it's the carefully crafted words that you read and knowing the fact that there is someone out there who feel the same, finding that human connection to know that you aren't the only one. Someone has lived this life, lie down in the same space, and looked at the same sky wondering about the same damn questions. Some managed to find the right words to tell the story and some never did. Maybe all of this is how I feel, maybe you feel it too. Maybe this story is mine, maybe this story is about some random stranger with no name or a face, maybe this story is yours. Does it really matter?
I don't think it fixes you, but for a moment you are not alone, you smile. One day you learn how to make peace with it, but still wonder about things beyond all the words and all the languages that the world remembers, beyond the mundane chains beyond the bounds of gravity, something somewhere the world forgot to reach.
You wish you could understand, how you feel complete yet empty at the same time. I wish too.