On losing things

. It starts small
with a tiny wormhole at the bottom of your purse
Sucking your hair clips
your rubber band
your pens
your masks
your peace of mind…

And the wormhole gets bigger
your helpless regretful forgetfulness
engulfs your scarf
your earphones
your wallet
or your beloved water bottle
that you left at the restaurant
in the auto
in the mall
at the hotel
in the train
where it was finally lost for good.

About time we close the wormhole
but damn,
it only gets bigger
sucking your gold earrings
your car keys
your phone
your ATM card
your job
and your sleep.

Oh fuck you,
Will you stop?
Of course not, will upgrade!
Why just things?
When we can also lose trust
or your hope, or your health
or your time
A minute, an hour, a year
or an entire lifetime.
Let’s lose people
your ex
your friendships
your relationships
a person you loved the most
or a few
or maybe just you.

Where do I find them?
My time,
My memories,
My people,
Scattered in bits and pieces
in places I can no longer visit
How do I ever find them again,
my lost things, my lost self
that I miss so much?

**

On being different

PC: depositphotos.com

I don’t know why
but being different is important to me.
Does it give me happiness?
Not always.
Does it give me clarity?
Not always.
Does it give me money?
Never.

But still, I have to be this way.
I guess it gives me a bit of meaning.
But if I brood too much,
that meaning is lost.
I guess it gives me a soul,
But if I commercialise it that soul is lost.
I guess it gives me a bit of passion,
my raison d^etre,
But there could be so many better reasons to live,
There could be so many reasons not to live,
And my pen can’t take the weight to counter them all.

Maybe it gives me some goals,
But I never complete them till the end –
An end that can be recognized
An end that concludes a dream.
But what exactly is this dream?
To create, and abandon?
To wander, lost and confused?
To fix, and break something else in the process?
To explore, this endless world?
only to know
that you don’t know shit?

Sometimes I wish I was like everyone else
or whatever I think everyone else is like
But I know I can’t be that
being normal is boring,
and being different is exciting,
being different is freedom!
But freedom at what cost?
The corpses of expectations,
The greener grass of the path not taken,
The tormentors from the land of uncertainty,
And the goddess of procrastination,
asking for hours and hours
of daily worship.

But when I create anything
everything melts away
My creation
compensates for the lack of a company,
it compensates for the apparent lack of purpose
and even though it’s not a magnum opus
I love it.
It doesn’t make me exactly that different
but it gives me the illusion that I am
and nothing else seems to matter
until the last brush stroke,
until that last one word.

It doesn’t make sense.
But being this way
somehow feels the right way to be.
I don’t know why.

*

Nature’s most common poetry

We spend our lives chasing things that only last for a short period of time. When that short period of time ends we continue chasing the same things in new forms.

But the question doesn’t vanish with your continued negligence – The most absurd question with no apparent answer – Why are you here?

These set of virtues; to be able to see, touch, feel, hear, respond, interact, understand, modify, calculate, read, write – what have we done with that? All these exceptional abilities don’t seem that exceptional among seven billion other creatures who are capable of doing it too, many of them much better. Where does 1 stand before 7,000,000,000?

Where does the drop stand before an ocean?

But maybe numbers don’t mean much. Does the drop know that it’s beautiful on its own too? Does the drop know better than to compare itself to the ocean? Does the drop know that the other drops are not competitors but collaborators?

So do it. Don’t just keep on chasing things that you know are ephemeral. Even if you didn’t score that high in SATs, even if you don’t work for Google, even if you didn’t go to Stanford, remember that these are not your standards, these are THEIR standards. They will tell you oh-so-politely that you don’t matter. You are not intelligent enough. You are not creative enough. You are not experienced enough. Don’t let that bother you. Don’t fall for fake social diagnosis. Take a deep breath and ask yourself, “Was your life really about all this?”

Surely, there’s a possibility we may never find it. But the answer must be in the attempt. This experience of how you came, and how you felt and how you went again – Nature’s most common poetry – this experience of being a part of it itself is quite amazing on its own. The world is large and you are small but it doesn’t matter. What matters more is to know that the world is huge and you are tiny and it seems that it could have very well existed without you and yet you are here.

Pause, and let that sink in.

Your human existence?

Your human existence
is running out of evidence
as your tales fade away when I pass them to others,
and others, preoccupied, don’t pass to another,
as words die at the tip of my tongue
when I try to recall the songs since long unsung,
as I toss and topple through a restless night,
and people who knew you depart gradually out of sight…
as your same old stories are recycled over and over
camouflaged as new ones, drunk and sober,
as my own judgement dresses up like your possible advice,
In moments of uncertainty, that’s a cunning disguise,
as your clothes lay, never touched, never worn,
degrading slowly, yearning to be given away or thrown,
as your photographs smile like you never left any dots or dashes,
Conveniently ignoring that your flesh and bones are long gone burnt to ashes.

And, you are far from being mattered now
Hence you exist like a god;
Never seen
Never heard
All your mistakes are forgotten
All your missteps are wise
Your fury is symphony
Your love is a way to paradise
Your voice is a miracle
Your smile is the turquoise ocean
And all my tears are my prayers
All my sorrow is my temple
You are worshiped here everyday
You are glorified every hour…

But then you are not a god
Just a handful of memories;
Fading and dripping,
Now only the best ones remain in the filter cone,
And they too are eroding everyday, millimeter by millimeter
Lost in the wind, lost in the history, lost in our ironical transcendence into  nothingness…