They say people who drink coffee, are often sad and lonely, or maybe they don't say it at all, maybe that is just one of those things I had made up to believe.
The girl I once loved, survived on five cups of coffee a day. Emotions secluded her face, only the lonely eyes gazed your way. She loved words with a hint of irony, melancholy and sadness, wrapped in one, but on some occasions when she took overdose of those words, She got transported to a world ruled by sadness and melancholy, and the land beneath seemed to be made of glass; ready to shatter at any moment. But only on that glass, she knew where she stood.
My diaries are overflowing with downhearted poetries, yet here I am, writing another one, because I know this girl I am writing about is out there somewhere, probably sipping her fourth cup of coffee of the day. I know she wished, she could be more happier with each sip rather than alive. I know that because, it is what she frequently said, but it's sad that being alive doesn't make her happy.
The girl I once loved, left me one winter, after showing me the wonders autumn holds, but her absence taught me what autumn betokens, 'the preperation of an end'.
This girl I am talking about, I am quite sure is gulping down her fifth cup of coffee, filling herself with more words of grief.
I remember now, it is she who believed, 'people who drink coffee are often sad and lonely'. But she was the one who taught me what happiness feels like. By now she must have finished her fifth cup of coffee, feeling more alive than ever.
I hope this time she feels happier too.
(I know this is really cliche, but I happen to love cliches:) P.C- Pinterest Happy Pride month! *I know I'm late*
That song. That's the song that was playing when I first saw her smile drop. She had sadness loom in her eyes, the kind that couldn't be hidden anymore by the curve on her lips. Her eyes felt like they were dead, but her smile felt like a blatant effort to show, she was alive. When words acquire a certain melody, and the lyrics acquire a certain residence, you listen to it repeatedly, for that finally feels like home. I guess she was not expecting me to play 'The night we met'. When she asked me to play my favourite song, in the dead of night, she had been expecting anything else than that. She was not ready to lower her facade in front of me, not yet. I had only met her that day, when I went to meet my best friend; she had recently shifted there and she was her roommate. I stayed that night with them, my best friend already out like a light before midnight. She was an insomniac like me, so we sat there on the verandah instead of sleeping and decided to tell each other everything about our life. Stupid decisions are often, made at night. It was easy for me, half a glass of whisky and I already spoke like I was attached to a lie detactor. So, I offered her a glass but, she refused, she implied she could speak the truth sober. Halfway through the night and I wondered, if she even had any flaws, any gloomy story. I kind of forgot human beings are often made of stories of misfortune. But than again, she did not feel human-like. She asked what my favourite song was, and if I had told her just the name, maybe I wouldn't have known about her lie. But I being the extra exuberant person I become when someone asks me about my favourite song, played it for her. It all started with the click of a button, and lasted three mintues and twenty eight seconds long. The song ended and she seemed to come out of her reverie. That three minutes and twenty eight seconds, taught me more about human emotions than any textbook ever had. I froze. How do you react when you come to know about something that you shouldn't. That is right, you don't. So I sat there on the ground, frozen, hands moving the glass to my mouth, so that I could fill myself with 'pretermit' potion. "I d-don't', she started saying but I cut her off. 'It's fine. We all have our own tragedy. You were just better at keeping it a secret." Maybe this wasn't a lie, maybe this was just something she wanted to exclude; something she was not willing to tell me. Her happiness did not have to be a lie, just because she had sadness in her life. Maybe she existed because they co-existed. But all I knew was, that she had a tregady, I knew nothing about. #writersnetwork P.S: Forgive me! I keep writing so long posts. Boring you all to death:) But I kinda like doing it:)
I read your letter to her. That was the least I could do. I swear I didn't break down, like you might have thought I would, in the middle. I kept on going because I guess after the 46th time reading it, the feelings of the words evapourated and your death made a little more sense.You knew our mother couldn't read but you still wrote the letter. I guess you really liked making me suffer. Look na baa(older sister), I try to laugh at these lame jokes but your absence just gets me everytime. I read your letter to her and for the first time I didn't have to explain a paragraph line by line. She kept on nodding. I guess there's something about death, that makes you a little more wiser. She lifted the jug and poured herself a glass of water and gulped it down at one go. She than proceeded to leave without any word. There I was in our room. Alone. That gave me time to finally open your letter, to me. You called me your sunshine, didn't you? Than tell me did my ray fail to provide you warmth? Tell me how will this sunshine live without her sun?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------- P.S: I have a bad habit, that if I fall in love with any particular thing I keep writing on it. And this time it's death. I promise I won't write anymore about death *atleast for a short while*
P.P.S or is it P.S.S: Please read @joelynthaimei's recent post. She wrote the version of the letter that I told my baa wrote here. It is damn lit. I swear you won't be disappointed.
When all the light in the world ceases, and the night arrives, you finally admit your mistakes because you know the night doesn't hold any spectators.
Curiosity doesn't die at night, it's just everyone is too drowned in their own sorrows to hear someone else's. Some are too drowned in alcohol to understand what you say, and most sleep; for we close our eyes, when darkness arrives.
When all the light in the world ceases, and the night arrives, you start to live, with two packets of Virginia Slims, and a glass of Sunset Rum.
Nights are dangerous, for you feel like slipping the truth, but you don't know where it will linger, which path it will go down and which soul it will meet.
I know I said the night doesn't hold any spectators, but the truth has its own audience. #writersnetwork
P.S: I am a nyctophiliac. I effing love the night.
// You seldom speak You always sit at the back of the class, trying to grab as less attention as you could. You are not an introvert. You do not dislike speaking, it's just you are afraid. Afraid you'll tell your secrets. Life had always been hard for you as the secrets you gaurd are truths about yourself. No one knows the real you except one and somehow you always find yourself grateful about it. // You knew death You have known death since you were eight. You were sitting in the back of the car watching it all happen. You watched as you parents hummed to the music playing on the radio, to your father losing control over the car due to the slippery roads and you watched as the car crashed into a tree. You kept watching your parents lifeless body till the medics got there. Then, you were eleven and living with your aunt. But you watched another lifeless body, this time hanging from a fan. You couldn't figure out if death followed you or did it only take the lives of the ones you loved? You were sixteen and walking back home from the theatre with your best friend. She couldn't shut up about how good the movie was and honestly you couldn't tell, you were busy looking at her rather than the movie. You were in love with her and no matter how foolish that sounded, you decided to tell her. But you watched as out of nowhere a man shot her. You too were ready to die but alas the police got there in time to rescue you. You watched as a bullet sucked the life out of another living body. // Your secret Now at nineteen, nobody knows your secret. You guard it with real carefulness. Nobody knows that you had befriended death, that he's the only friend you've got. But you don't try to make new friends because you don't want to make death angry; you didn't want anymore lives to be taken. So now you spend your days alone and unhappy. But you had no choice. Slowly death is the only companion you've got and you are aware he is lucky to have you. //Your death Death takes you with him at sixty. You both are happy to be finally with each other. Everything that you had missed out on Earth, death made you experience here. During days, you both couldn't help but explore. Sometimes you would knock on souls but they don't wouldn't open the door and you left and other times the souls left with you. At night, you two are wrapped around each other, watching the moonlit sky. Finally something beautiful you were able to see. If you knew death was so peaceful, you would have died earlier but maybe you needed all these years to realize how graceful death is. #writersnetwork (I am sorry this turned out to be so long:)
You started living with the beginning of an alphabet, and died, now and then, with the last stroke of a blue pen.
You spend way too much of your time, locked up in your room, thinking about things that you should forget.
But when words starts to cease, you start to squeeze them out of you, But that's not how it works, words should be flowing out of that blue pen.
Numbness, strikes you once in a while, but you don't exactly know how that feels. You just know you have a pen in your hand, an empty paper in front of you, and hundred holes, counting the nights you did not write. #writersnetwork
// I am absolutely in love with Lord Huron's songs.\
My heart is just a vaccum now, where feelings go and dissapear. They fall so hard, that I ache till I bleed, and it leaves a scar that no one can see.
But I let them fall on a white sheet instead, and dress them in blue ink. I give them a little life, I make them a little dead, and watch them sit still, while time goes by.
It is a little of me I keep, to look at every now and than.
I trace the curve of the words, and even frown at my vain attempt to sound rational. I end the paragraph with a full stop, but it feels more like I am killing them.
For I will stack them among pages, let them suffocate, let no one read them, in hope that one day it will be forgotten. Until one day, they are just some lifeless words, that I wrote one winter when I froze with time. #writersnetwork
I don't know if this makes sense, cause in all honesty I wasn't trying to. I was just trying to rhyme, trying to sound like her. I wanted to know, if I could fool you, if I sounded like her. But I guess it's not the words, neither the rhyme. It's the voice of hers that you fell in love with. And in all honesty, I sound nothing like her. #writersnetwork
You stand on the patio, tears flowing, although you are not quite sure if it is out of anger or sadness, not that knowing which, would make it any better. The hot breeze blowing makes you angry as you are drenched in sweat. The song playing in the background doesn't help either, you'd prefer to listen to 'Whiskey Lullaby', it doesn't match how you feel, but it would help your tears to flow a little better.
You do not know what is wrong with you, like most of the time, and that ticks you off even more. Who cries at house parties but that is what half a bottle of 'Port and Tawny Port' does to you. At 33, you turned out to be every bit of the person you did not want to be; broke, stuck in an awful job, heartbroken. 'Pathetic, don't forget that', adds your brain. 'Like I could ever forget', you blurt out, maybe a little louder than you hoped. A couple of people near you look towards you, but they couldn't care less and go back to doing whatever they were.
You look in front of you. An empty street, not a soul to be found. You feel lost, but you continue to drink. And you start feeling 'wrong'. You yourself are not sure what this 'wrong' means, but this is the rightest you felt in weeks. And that is all you could think after drinking so much. You have done it. Now you can't think straight. You grin, you smile, maybe even a laugh escapes your lips.
You go inside and there's a song being played. You know you know this song but you still can't figure out it's name. You slip out through the back door, descending down the stairs, called yourself an uber.
You reach home twenty minutes later, you pay the driver, even a little more than the fare. You had to, you had vomited twice in his car, although you know the real reason was because you forgot how to count. You climb the stairs of your house, enter your bedroom, drop on your bed and pass out.
Today when you woke up, yesterday's events don't seem strange. That is how you usually spend a saturday night. #writersnetwork
Silence is so defeaning; like you'd pay anything, for some thing to cause a sound. You never noticed it until one night, you were waiting for your mother to come around. She packed her bags and stormed off through the gate, and you wondered where she'd go to that late. Everyone told you, that you were too young to understand. But what they didn't say was, they'll blame you till the end. You waited for days on end for her to return, and one day the men in the khaki uniform, informed your father they had found her. You jumped for joy, and waited for her near the gate. But she was laid on the ground instead. White sheet covered till her face, and she never looked more beautiful, not a hint of sadness in her eyes you could trace. Some unknown men carry her body to the grave, and her body burnt there, for her ashes to turn grey. #writernetwork
The lines are faulty in the sense that everything is stable within the periphery vision of an eye having a cataract. The line is drawn parallel just opposite to the grazing cattle and its nonstop chewing quirk.
It takes time for the line to extend itself and the food takes twice the time of languid chewing to get properly digested.
With certain peculiarities attached on its back, the line isn't following the normal regime. As the vision gets bad from trying to strive for clarity over the horizon, the curve is worse than perpendicular bends. Somewhere near the blurry future, the sight lost its limb.
Now the line has no one peeking over its habitual misunderstandings. Freedom is cherished in every literal way roving about in all the directions.
The extensions now follow their own mind, and the feud is evident. After the surgery, all the sight witnessed was a tangled mess. -------------------
Tired is a synonym where overbearing are the chores and normal actions need extraordinary efforts. The muscles strain to the last end of the finish line, but situations extended another 100m blaming it on luck.
Dusted from every direction I walked with glass slippers of today's reality, shining throughout the way to the past.
The jealousy was imminent among the memories, but father felt proud of his daughter; a sacred rendezvous of affection.
Paddling with wooden legs, the river seems to be far fetched in its entirety. I touched the shore after an eternity yet legs gave away under the weight of rotten wood and today I wanted to throw the glass slippers away and watch the sunset with the memory of my complete self. -------------------
Our last kiss was like a Boeing 737 meeting another face to face Lighting up the sky like Hindenburg did In its last flight. and the humans abandoned it forever. Because you see, we humans Can't afford flaws. And the left ones look like, The first draft of a heart broken poet, The streets of Kolkata Sliced by tram lines, An evening sky, Not the one that you see from a beach But the one, that you see through the gaps Of tin sheds and electric wires, from a slum. The left ones look like- Airport kisses, where the lips cherish the present and the heart wanders in the uncertainty of the future. Or like a blind follower of Nietzsche Standing at the slopes of Vesuvius. Like mother's food in your throat And a broken heart in your chest, Neither can you spit nor can you swallow. Or like someone who had slept with 18 persons on 18 different nights But felt only his lost home 18 times. Or like remnants of History Kept carefully in museums, Craving to die with the rest of the past. For the left ones have no names, They are just numbers, casualties in a war Called love.