the sky never seemed to care about what you feel. for a poetic touch, you gave it a color, a life, and a story that fits in your journal.
but it was never the same, always changing; from one color to another. blue to the orange to the red and sometimes, a bit too grey for your liking.
you chose a word to match the color and a few more for the clouds and the wind.
it's always blue when you begin, not too bright but not too sad peeking through the window to the beginning; a beginning that's so uncertain. but put a smile on your face, a tired little one where your lips barely move.
you don't know why, but grey always had a sad story to rain down. sometimes a gentle kiss on your numb body sometimes drowning you to death. but, it always had something sad about it.
sadness that always fits so perfectly about a long lost one, as it rains down to drench the streets and numb the pain of all the ones that look through a window and leave a sigh.
like a fine Claude Monet's painting, the sky bleeds into a perfect stroke of all the colors; but it's never the same the next day. silent, but tranquil moments of serendipity that lets you breathe. some endings are always more artistic than some beginnings.
the day strips down into the night to end the charade; there is too much dark between the stars. we turn on the artificial colors to fill the room, darkness always questioned your existence.
you always loved the night sky, my moonchild; when the sky lay bare against your eyes you wrote the best lines of all the things that never made sense in your head but somehow someone felt connected to like the stars that always stayed till the end.
a tiny dot in the endless space, awed by the wonders that hide from the sight. perhaps, some infinities are bigger than what we can comprehend. but you always wondered what the sky feels.
don't ask me, how I know her or how she looks like. I'm just like you, looking at the starlit sky, only to see her passing through spaces between the stars. unbounded by gravity away she goes. we are nothing but bones and dust chained by the mundane ways staring at the sky and watching her in awe never to touch her never to see her again.
Do you know why I love stars? They represent something extraordinary. It is like staring right into the past life of something that happened long before our existence. It questions our understanding of time, this is nothing but a universe that existed in different parts of the time. Some a few minutes before, some few hours, some thousands, some billions and some may not even exist at this moment. In the grand stage of things, our now is nothing but a collage of a past that no longer exists. We are so damn foolish, thinking we need words to tell what we feel when the universe does a better job with this darkness and flickering lights.
It is one of the most iconic photographs taken by the Hubble space telescope. These towering tendrils of cosmic dust and gas sit at the heart of M16, or the Eagle Nebula. The aptly named Pillars of Creation, featured in this stunning Hubble image, are part of an active star-forming region within the nebula and hide newborn stars in their wispy columns. source: NASA
I wasn't sure how to start writing this one. I was going through my old notes and found a piece from Cosmos by Carl Sagan, so I felt like I should write something, and I was listening to Eminem!
"The Voyager message is traveling with agonizing slowness. The fastest object ever launched by the human species, it will still take tens of thousands of years to go the distance to the nearest star. Any television program will traverse in hours the distance that Voyager has covered in years. A television transmission that has just finished being aired will, in only a few hours, overtake the Voyager spacecraft in the region of Saturn and beyond and speed outward to the stars. If it is headed that way, the signal will reach Alpha Centauri in a little more than four years. If some decades or centuries hence, anyone out there in space hears our television broadcasts, I hope they will think well of us, a product of fifteen billion years of cosmic evolution, the local transmogrification of matter into consciousness. Our intelligence has recently provided us with awesome powers. It is not yet clear that we have the wisdom to avoid our own self-destruction. But many of us are trying very hard. We hope that very soon in the perspective of cosmic time we will have unified our planet peacefully into an organization cherishing the life of every living creature on it and will be ready to take that next great step, to become part of a galactic society of communicating civilizations. "
If everything is art, then is it beautiful anymore? If you could fall in love with everyone, then is love even that magical and worth all the trouble?
I don't think that I can define art. But we know that it makes you feel something. Well, by that logic, Trump always makes me angry. The very fact that someone like him exists makes me mad. So, being angry is feeling "something" right? Does that mean he is art too? Well, perhaps the art of being a complete dumbfuck. Makes sense.
Everyone should have the freedom to express themselves, that's a basic human right and we should respect it. But that doesn't mean that we shouldn't criticize it. So let's just make one thing clear, if everything is art, then there is definitely good art and bad art too.
I woke up it was late I ran outside stepped on something it was dogshit. I stepped on dogshit!
Even if I write this on a grey background with a fine font to a million followers doesn't make it art or make me a poet.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. - Byron Now, that's a real poet and a real poem.
We are made to believe that we can be anyone we want. But often they hide the hard work that it takes to get there. So our lazy ass brain looks for shortcuts to quick fame. Recently I've watched Carryminati's video on TikTok vs YouTube, even though I don't really like him for roasting Pewdiepie, he had a point.
TikTok is stupid, let's just get that out of the way. Anyone who says that they are TikTok content creators is dumb too. I may be generalizing, there are some really good content creators there. But more than 90% of the content in that platform is dumb. I'm not talking about people who are using it for fun. But yeah, TikTok, as a platform, represents everything that's wrong with the world. We can talk for days about how predatory capitalism is trying to make us slaves to this digital laziness that our attention span is going down the drain. We can't read an entire book, rather we double tap on a few lines in a squared box, we don't really have the time to read a complex poem to understand the deep metaphors. So we get deep into this digital utopia of self-destruction without even realizing it. An AI analyzes your every digital movement and keeps feeding you the content that you're gonna like then slowly the ads that you're gonna click. So we are made to believe that you can be a poet even if you don't know how to write, and you can be a content creator with a stupid hairstyle and a lot of filters. It keeps this loop alive.
Staying relevant is the one other thing, every algorithm is fine-tuned to keep you in that digital utopia. The more people you talk to, the more relevant you gonna be. If I don't read your works and reply to your comments, you still gonna keep reading what I write? Like for like, follow for follow culture, right? Can't really blame anyone tho, it's all part of this dopamine consumerism.
14 billion years of evolution and here we are. A world where billions of people still follow the old and obsolete religious systems, a world where we have to fight for basic human rights, a world where patriarchy and misogyny are deeply rooted in our social structure, a world where we still judge people by the color of their skin, a world where we still fight in the name of pseudo nationalism and fake borders that we created, a world where a number on a piece of paper decides your future, a world where the underprivileged people suffer the most, a world where everything is going crazy but we are stuck in a 15-second cringe video.
I've been clicking pictures of the prettiest raindrops on my railing and when they dry away, the dust settling around that hemisphere forms a circle on the metal edge. It doesn't take much of an effort to freeze a moment in a way it looks beautiful; you just have to see it. That moment of strangeness within yourself to find the contrasting colours of a cracked ceiling & the bright blue sky extremely breathtaking, it's what you see, it doesn't exist by itself really. You see a pretty boy down the street, with his natural hair pushed back, against their natural growth & his melanin giving God complex to the half risen sun; you don't necessarily fall in love with him, do you? You just find him pretty, nonetheless, not handsome, not even beautiful. He's pretty in those eyes of yours. Capture it, steal it from him, he wouldn't even notice. I promise. It's what you see, but anyway, maybe your photographs in the red room would prove otherwise to their point of view.
I wouldn't call myself a photographer, I just carry around a poor quality camera of an android phone with cracks over it. It isn't a hobby either. You don't stop time for the same accidents happening again and again because they don't remain accidents that way; unless, unless they happen to change the course of time when you press "play".
There was a boy with his messy hair falling all over his head, that I once saw, perhaps, about more than three years back. There wasn't anything unusual about him, except his name, which used to confuse me at first. I had been playing around with people, quoting words which weren't my own, displaying pictures I didn't own; but something about him made me stop & look for reasons to click a photograph of his. It wasn't invasion of his privacy, he wasn't even looking at me, he wasn't waiting for anything, his shoes were well taken care of, blue or probably black; I could tell he could see me, a bunch of people followed him back and forth & he'd wave his hand once or twice for them to be satisfied, trying to prove his existence perhaps. A specific number of people around him; he said he can't control the number of people who choose to be around him but he could choose to control the number of people he wanted to be around. And then he came to me, looked at my plagiarised pictures & commented a thing or two, shrugged his shoulders, asked my name & left without telling his. He was walking & I took a picture of him against the lilac sky, it seemed like he could use a haircut perhaps and his choice of a floral shirt made him stand out for the photograph. Luckily for me, he turned his face back to me once, as I captured him, he didn't smile.
In the red room, the light was red and dim, yet I insisted on focusing on the man with the messy hair. There was something about him that made me curious, something that drove the sense of looking for the extraordinary away. Through him, I wanted to look for the ordinary. I happened to drop his picture and step on it, perhaps because once my picture gets ruined, I tend to recapture it. So I found an excuse to look for him, in the bleakest, most ordinary corners of the world.
This time, I was looking for him. Writing something, seemingly original this time, about an adventure & I noticed, him, again, tripping over my metal glass. His P-cap fell over and I think I've mentioned his odd paired socks way many times than he would've wanted me to. I just stood there laughing at him, and his stone cold face made it seem like he didn't know how to give away a thin slice of his smile. He just kept tidying his shirt and awkwardly stood still, wanting to say something, but he didn't. He read. But he wasn't reading my words this instant; he had bent caricature, his one foot in front of other, I could see him up close, the pigmented skin on his neck, the badly shaven beard and, probably, make-believe eyebrows. He was reading me. I took out my camera and sneaked in to click a picture, yet the enormous flash made him aware of everything I was trying to do, he flinched, didn't smile. And he left; making it clear how he didn't want to be, I don't know, held? Maybe.
It was the season of the Blue. Blue, I've been told it's the most beautiful colour, is it? I was coloured in Blue. Someone used to tell me how my smile looks perfect in blue. Someone painted in Blue. The sky, was blue, the roads, the wallflowers. The moon was blue that evening. I was Blue. Or perhaps, as someone told me once, "it's what you see, it doesn't exist by itself really. He's pretty in those eyes of yours." I saw myself in love with that blue but perhaps it wouldn't seem so blue in that red room. I photographed everything that seemingly could touch the colour; even my heart, in blues. When the world is painted in one colour and one colour only, you lose the importance of that colour's crayons. Perhaps I was wondering whether that raindrop on my railing was a teardrop of mine, when I saw that floral shirt, red and blue, emerge from behind the benches. He stopped by and read the edges of the dust settled around my tear; told me how he went home that day and wrote down all the things he would've wanted to say to me after knowing what colour I was inside, how decayed; yet decided against making me feel what he felt.
He made me stand up, picked up an ant from my shoulder, crawling up my way to those ears to chant what they always have, he threw it away. His thumb ran across my cheek to wipe off a tear that fell after he touched me, and the blue faded away from that portion of my skin. I was white. We talked about and walked around the places we won't walk. He sat down by my left, showed me flickering blue lights, fading away, I saw them in his eyes, the first time I felt an emotion stronger than hiding inside of him, I photographed his newness, his realness, him. He didn't smile.
Neon lights, broken bars, handicapped street lights; people coming alive at night. I've been clicking pictures of the prettiest insignificance; perhaps you wouldn't understand. It's been more than three years, more than three stories I've told you about us, more than three photographs I've clicked of us; when I tell him how I can't forget the blue still, how I wish to remember it, through the photographs I clicked; yet I wonder if he'd kiss me white despite such an odorless album under my pillow. And all he replies is that he fears how he isn't enough to make the blue go away. I cry to be unable to make him realise, he said, "Everytime I've made you cry, I do too"; and I spill every emotion of mine on my covers and pictures, I fail to relapse. He didn't smile.
Perhaps you don't understand. The moon doesn't need to be visible always. Sometimes, you need someone, to allow yourself to stand, to allow them to pick you up when you fall on the footpath and all of your photographs spill into the gutter. You yell at them, just because they couldn't save all of those pictures but four, and you. Sometimes you need them selflessly, because they make you love yourself. Sometimes you love someone because that photo frame holding the photograph from the first date you had still holds good.
I fell for you because you were ordinary. I fell for you because you understood me and didn't need to pretend to exist around me. I fell for you because you told me you are never leaving me. I fell for you because you didn't so easily fall for me. I fell for you because you become so happy when I tell you how your sense of clothing, that wardrobe full of floral shirts, is spectacular. I fell for you because you don't go to sleep without seeing me. I fell for you because you found me beautiful in every colour. I fell for you because you don't ask me for a picture without clothes on, you ask me for what the tag says on my bra. I fell for you because you talk about fingering belly buttons with me. I fell for you because you panic while holding babies down an elevator if their parents don't collect them within a few minutes. I fell for you because you cry when you see a picture of adorable puppies laying in a grass field. I fell for you because you have a fetish for eye movements. I fell for you because you told me you'd support me if I chose to be a mother. I fell for you because you don't tell me that I shouldn't say I have a sad luck; instead you tell me that you are in sad luck because I am too. I fell for you because you wait every morning to talk to me before you fall asleep. I fell for you because you wanted me to wake up after you so that you could kiss me & watch me wake up. I fell for you because you show me the colour of your underwear everyday. I fell for you because you always wish to help me wash my hair. I fell for you because you named my nose peanut and my pyjamas polka. I fell for you because you call me muru. I fell for you because you're not someone I thought I'd look for reasons to click a photograph of. I fell for you not because I needed to; I needed to have a friend, I wanted to fall for you. I fell for you because I wake up and you call me yours. I fell for you because me smiling makes me the highlight of your day. I fell for you because you made me walk in places we won't walk. I fell for you because you kiss my photographs in the dark, under your covers. I fell for you because you made me click a picture of whenever I smiled, just to develop a habit of smiling lately.
I wasn't in need of your love, I wanted it. I wasn't broken & hung over you like a cloth stuck onto a branch. I was made to learn to love myself before loving someone else. I never fell in love before photographing you. I stopped searching for a blue in the red room after stacking your photographs. I fell more in love with you after you told me, "You made me learn how to smile in photographs. Whenever I have to smile in a picture, I think of you."
when i look at people older than me, i often wonder how they made it here. how life didn’t swallow them whole. i study their faces like a map, i see the pools of weariness in their eyes. i see the way wrinkles dangle around their mouths, how the lines seep into their skin, little reminders of how long they’ve lived. i glide my eyes over their hands, the signs of growth and age splattered on their knuckles. i wonder about the stories they’ve gone through, i wonder if they were the protagonist or the antagonist. i wonder how they managed to wake up, to sleep, to exist through so many days and nights. i get overwhelmed. i can’t even fathom the thought of tomorrow, i can’t look at it with willing eyes, i can’t embrace it with open arms. instead, i dread it. i look at all the days i've lived, and they hang around my head, all the old memories, they haunt me. and so i wonder how they did it. i wonder how they’ll continue to do it, until death decides it’s time to take them. i wonder if i’ll ever get there. if i’ll ever look in the mirror, and the fine lines growing across my face will be normal, welcoming. i wonder if my days will be worth waking up for, if the thought of tomorrow will become a gift i’m lucky enough to receive. i can’t picture myself like that, aging, embracing. i can’t muster up a version of me with gray hair, and crepe skin. i’ve always thought i’d be gone too young, that this sadness would sink me into my grave before a wrinkle could settle into my fake smile. i’ve been convinced i won’t make it out of this battle alive; that this darkness is too strong, too thick to break through. i don’t know if i’ll ever be an old soul. but i do know i’ve been a drowning one. a lost one. a dying one.
with the coloured hair and high pitched laugh you live inside me as i see my hands trembling i always try my best to water my window plants with a can full of holes
oh we've all been there
i am like the little boy who lives down the street scribble his best plans in charcoal like Brunelleschi then throwing them in the fireplace shhhh no one will ever see
see it evanescence, like every last dream
or like an old woman who has seen nine lives sitting at her kitchen table she can't confront her inner ghosts anymore because they hide where her arm can't reach as her partner used to lift all the heavy things
so why bother cloaking?
yes you with your messy kitchen yes you with your dusty keys yes your with your demanding job and you with your sawdust dreams may be we are miles apart but you live right next to me
we are all living together on writer's block
i agree that the drains are clogged the chimneys are smoked and the whole of us are broken or broke
get it out, let it go
isn't it beautiful? the little speck of hope you find on the sidewalk of writer's block.
A withered storm, a wasteland, that never breathed again. An ancient mariner, living with the loss of a friend, whose repentance slithers into the winds. I'm the one to stand in my balcony, with my flesh, turned to revelations.
When ballad is a disguised yelp, and there are threads connected to eardrums, to keep the sanity a peaceful trend, what would the silence do in the corners of asylums, if not sit and smile.
Memories, are a resting seesaw, with all the broken leaning on one side. The strings never break in the middle. Maybe, that's all a person is, flesh, and strings of different lengths, some attached but loose in the ends, some taut at starry beginnings, and some hanging through the death's end of the very long and very short sizes.
The wreath of words you wear on your hands, stop them from moving so recklessly. When courage is funny, the flickering courage is fatal. The beads that smell of voices, keep you from dipping your fingers, in the rivers of untimely grim.
A stargazer, that stands by the night, would tell you of days he fed on them. A stargazer, wanting to be a human enough, a hero enough. A stargazer would gaze into the past of the sky, and exhale.
Life is a series of eggshells, some that you walk by the side of, knowing them to be the decisive moments. A fortune to be grateful of, is a burden to the one with weak muscles. Who would mind a supplement of hope and some proteins with every dull meal.
It's never that the spaces between poetry, stay silent. They are always reeking of names, fading with the rain of shoulds and shouldn'ts. Everyone is going to be drenched, some day or the other. If you ask me, you don't choose to let go, you just can't choose anything other than it.
And days walk on a wire of dreams with an 'almost' to fall upon. I am wearing the scents of nostalgia in one and anticipation on the other hand. I smell conflicted. I smell more of a mourner than a dreamer.
She forced a smile as I asked her. To an apparently simple question she struggled to give an answer.
She questioned if I had ever fallen for someone, to which I responded quickly by uttering "obvious, no". Her parched lips witnessed a laugh as she enjoyed seeing my childlike behaviour. I could see how perfect she had become in camouflaging her remorse.
She took a few seconds and regained her control, only to present me with a few more questions, making a deal that she'd answer to everything if I was able to satiate her with a suitable response. I was bound to fail, I knew.
"Why do we always need someone to stick around or please us by surrendering to our demands?
I was quiet as I had no appropriate answer. She realised she had to dig in deeper a little more.
"You cherish the raindrops that drizzle and fall on your face along with inhaling the petrichor that incenses everything around but the same droplets get despised when they enter the downpour. Now the sky, as you say, bleeds pain without realising the magnitude".
I could see tears glisten on her cheeks as she ended her note. She succeeded in answering with her mere analogue, teaching me a lesson alongside.
There's this absurd similarity we share. We nurture our fancies at the outset only to have enough of them later. Suffocating loyalties make parting acceptable.
We're all here, trapped by thoughts that derange, shadows that overpower, illusions that harm, only in return of having people who cease to hold on "