My first hindi post, I know the spellings might be wrong please bear with it. #hindi (Picture belongs to the rightful owner) Apne mujhe mujrim tehraya
Apne mujhe mujrim tehraya Najane phir kyu apki bahon mein akela pan sa mehsoos hone laga tha
Pehele kabhi na tha yeh, par shayad ab lagta hai, kuch palo se panapne laga tha yeh, akela pan, jo mein dekh na saki
Kehte hain aap, ki mein aap ko samajh na saki, ab apko dekh kar najane lagta hai kuch ajnabe sa par fikr ajeeb si hone lagti hai n
Shayad yeh mera akela pan hai, ya apki adat sir lag gyi hai, magar maloom hai mujhe, ke yeh apki mohobbat nhi hai.
Aap karib hokar bhi door ho, kahin apni duniya mein mashroof ho, aur shayad wahan meri koi jagah nhi, samjhti hun apko , par dil mein dard sa uthta hai apke jane ke khwabon par
Par, aap idhar hain hi nhi, phir? Shayad yeh bayan karke dard diya ho apko, shayad samjh na saki aap ko, shayad bhula gyi khud ki har zaroorat ko apke liye, par ho sake toh is khat ko padh ke muskura dijiyega
Akele hi sahi, hum, door hi durust, aap thik hai, toh sahi, shayad door se hi sahi , apni chahat ko bayan karu, par chahungi hamesha, aap khush rhe, yehi dua karu
(Humming river flows in you by yurima) It happens, when you listen to a song and it constantly runs in your head, in loops at night when you close your eyes even then you can hear it.
So, I don't know what to write about, from a few days, I have been feeling like (humming gets distorted-eventually stops) a mechanical being.
This journey, has put me into a rat race that I don't wanna run, but I can't quit. It's life or death and every other rat forces me to run faster, but I don't want that entirely.
It's difficult to differentiate our responsibilities and our wants when the choice available between the two Is needle thin and sharp. And I have been looking at myself, asking myself, why do you wake up medi? To run this rat race?
I have been questioning myself, what is me? Who is this person, I tell everyday to do better, to be the best so that everyone praises me. Who am I and who is this person inside me? Whom I get angry at for not performing well.
What is self love? What is love? Do I want to know? How can I take care of myself. People throw around these words like sympathies.
Is there anyone who knows what is the actual connection with the inner self, what will drive me till the moment I die, barring a money making 9-5 job, red dry eyes and a computer screen?
Maybe the direction is not known to me yet, but I'm moving, I know, I'm thinking, I'm working, someday I will get there, these all are things we primarily presume when our brain goes into anxiety mode so that the consistency of the illusionist bubble of life remains, but something very near to us breaks that, and maybe what I will know myself to be in 5 years, I might not know myself again in the 6th.
Let me see you. No! Not like that! Looking at anyone looks, it's just a matter of images crossing the cornea to the iris. I don't want to just let the photoreceptor cells send the electrochemical impulses to the brain, I want to see you. I want to know the details not visible to the naked eye. What moves you. What makes your heart race. I want to see that aura whose strength creates its own gravitational field, which pulls me to its center.
Vision is an untapped gift. Its connection with the central decision-making body drives millions of sensations, often overlooked by us. The simple glimpse of your silhouette, for example, is capable of sending shocks of pleasure through my body, connecting hundreds of nerve endings, intertwining the senses, confusing reason.
That's why I like looking at you so much. I can spend hours exploring every detail, making a mental note of even the most discreet things. I feel like an interpreter whose task is to catalog the details of your beauty, to promote the compilation of sacred curves and textures. It is a title that I wear with pride.
Let me see you. Yes, like this! Vulnerable, insecure, cold, body and soul. Your real version, without masks, without modesty, without moral and social barriers. This hot, devastating, passionate hurricane.
Let me look at you like an idiot, with an airy face, wishing to eternalize any banal instantly. You are a work of art, and I'm an enthusiast or an admirer, facing the beauty of the divine brushstrokes with tears of joys in my eyes. I will look, until one day something robs me of that ability.
You are not in love with me, but I know the love with you. You are an eternal portrait in my head that never had before on anyone else. You showed me again singing birds, mewoing cats and barking dogs. You showed me fun night shows to watch together like I am sitting there with you. You showed me how to valuate myself more than before, how to love myself. You showed me to enjoy life when I lost joy. You taught me sorrow, you thought me how to let go of something . You taught me life love and nature again.
I love you to all time I look at your eyes and can’t say it, To all gone tears for you To all nights I didn’t sleep To all first time moments To you, That I will never forget you.
i wanted to write something buoyant so i titled it love. it took me two hours to stop, tear the page, wipe away the tears and realise how love is not sanguine but a journey with no mirrors placed at the blind turn, dusty roads that start from one end of the rainbow but rarely do the travelers find the other end.
i flipped the next page and titled it family because they say a happy home is where family is. within an hour i found myself tearing that page. it took me five minutes to gather pieces of myself i spilled in the last hour.
a deep breath.
i titled the next page as friends but it took half an hour for the memories to wrap me and suffocate my already choking lungs. i tore off another page while inhaling toxic mist of betrayal with watery eyes. (betrayals are worst than onions. noted?)
i scrolled through various apps for an hour searching for joyous quotes but ended up questioning their authenticity, as my heart was still withering. i put my phone away when it hit me, "writers write for themselves." those positive lines, were them watering their own heart. they won't pull me out of the pit but they did pull 'them' out.
i titled the last page of my journal 'sanguinity' and i wrote about the sky. how it's so vast, and holds itself and everything together. it helps me believe in hope. in myself. in good after bad. i call it, sky-a friendly void.
i wrote about him. about her. who'd walk behind me in the storm with a broken rainbow on his shoulder and a withered flower in her hand. i have waited for them to stop, to return. but their belief in me was stronger than a rainbow and a flower. i wrote about my parents's eternal love. the pure relation between me and my siblings.
i did not write about toska but selcouth. i wrote about accepting the lacuna. not filling it.
i wrote about happiness and i felt it. the flower in my heart is blooming, slowly.
I wrote this while seeing a sunset. My journey hasn't ended but I now know the purpose. I'll write here again when I feel like it.