A late night thought

Hope is that someday it would make sense
Or maybe we’d to learn to accept the senselessness
Hope is that someday we would find order in the chaos
Or maybe we’d learn to deal with the high entropy
What, when, why, how
There’s no ignoring
There’s no escaping
Things happen;
Painful ones, joyful ones,
People happen;
Interesting ones, awful ones,
Who’s wrong?
Who’s right?
We are, in the end, just lines oriented at a random angle –
Converging, intersecting, diverging,
Maybe we make sense from a plane above,
Maybe our experiences together are infinite hues splashed over a vast canvas,
Maybe, maybe there’s a reason
Maybe, maybe there’s an answer
Hope is that someday our beautiful mind would find beauty of his own;
Hope is that till then, he wouldn’t give up hope over fears unknown.

*

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I fear,

I fear I won’t live again,
I fear death,
I fear I may wake up in the hospital tomorrow
complaining about migraine which maybe actually turn out to be tumor –
a beautifully malignant one.
I fear cancer
because cancer runs in my family.
I fear cardiovascular disease
because that runs in my family too.
I think I also fear every other kind of sickness,
irrespective of how related they are to me by blood,
for who knows what’s coming for ya?
I fear pain,
For I have witnessed it in action too closely;
Most of it has been forgotten
but the handful of remnants are enough to haunt me for the rest of my life.
I fear grief,
I can’t even think of it,
I don’t want to think of it,
I have been his neighbour, maybe his roommate, may have been him himself,
Anyway, now I want to stay the fuck away.

I fear love,
I fear people might disappoint,
Someone might wound my heart,
And what if it’s never healed again?
I fear dreams,
Often I dread that they are delusions,
Often I dread that I don’t love them enough,
Often I dread that I am running out of belief.
I fear future,
For there are so many things that I don’t know.
I fear past,
For there are so many things that I don’t know.
I fear present,
For there are so many things that I don’t know.
I fear hope,
For I fear failure,
I fear happiness,
For I fear success.
I fear my purpose,
Or lack of purpose,
I fear I may be meaningless after all.
And I fear that I fear too much.

I want to freeze
in this moment,
ice cold,
unblinking,
motionless.
Maybe I should be a tree,
I want to be a tree,
Bloom in various hues, through various seasons,
Overhear the conversations between birds and squirrels,
Dance in rain,
And bath in the sun,
Have people marvel at me,
Have people love me,
Have people chop me down.

I think I fear end,
I know I fear end,
And if this is the end –
I fear I just have to deal with it.

*

 

The Sunset

Sure, it’s beautiful –
This ending day;
Crimson, Magenta
Tiffany, Tuscany
Why are the birds departing already?
Wings dispersed like charcoal ashes in the air,
The street lights shining like a long diamond necklace along the roads.
There’s moon on the other side
The love birds must be exchanging a cheesy dialogue or two.
This public display of affection makes me uncomfortable
But the moon alone makes me more uncomfortable –
For the night shall be gloomy,
Cold and restless,
Unsettling.
I am hoping you two understand human mentality more than I do.
You have been here much much longer than me after all.
You have witnessed thousands of lameness like this being written right here
And you will do that in future as well.
But here’s the thing –
Sun, stay here for a little more while
Moon, you can stay too if you want
I am just not sure if I am ready for the darkness yet.
Don’t leave me with my disorientated freezing heart,
I could appreciate some warmth right now,
The warmth that’s safer to obtain from you
Than a heartless lover
Or a bottle of wine,
Or a puff of smoke.
Don’t leave me just yet.
My treacherous mind is scarier than the ghosts outside.
Don’t leave me just yet,
Hear my plea if only you can.
Another day will be passed-
A new link of disappointment added to the chain
A new day dream of what could have been.
Be the present,
Don’t be the past yet.
I am not yet adjusted to your ridiculous speed.
But you won’t listen, will you?
You will say you are coming back,
With another dawn,
Another day,
But it is not the same!
It’s a different date.
It’s a different day.
It is NOT the same.

So, you have gone,
The dark starless night.
Maybe I could still fish you out of the horizon,
If I am patient enough
If I am quiet enough
But you have gone.
Gone.
Maybe someday I might visit you again through a time travelling machine.
Gone.
Or maybe just skim through some random memories
at a random day
reading a random diary entry
or listening to a random old song.
And I would long for you even more,
But gone,
Gone –
That’s what you are.
“Move on,” you say,
Like a person apologizing for not loving his lover back.
I will, of course
Not that I have any other choice,
I need to live in the end.
But I wish there was a pause button,
A rewind
Or even fast forward
But too bad;
It’s much more simple than that
Once you hit play,
The only thing you can press
Is Stop.

The Ketchup Bottle

Living is frustrating, isn’t it? I mean what’s the point of this life? Always being led by the breeze, floating, helpless, sometimes trying to be a rebel without a cause. Sometimes, trying to dream, be that dream just for a minute, just for a second or even less than that. But there is no dream, is there? There is just delusion. You don’t have it in you. You just don’t. You keep telling yourself that you can do it until you think you believe it but then you never really do and finally you give up. I know, I know, I know, I am talking bullshit here, ain’t I? This is not going on a positive direction. You think? Why am I even trying to impose my own spoiled mood on you? You didn’t wake up to read this kind of shit. Remember 2018 is the year you resolved to stay away from this negativity. The truth, however, is you can’t stay away. Denying is more painful than simply accepting. So accept it. You will experience an unusual kind of freedom. It’s not like I am not fighting, you know. I think I still have energy to put on a brave and bold face and occasionally shout, “Shut up!” to this babbling brain. I still have some calories to spare for this kind of cool shit. But it’s not always easy being that person. Like today.

 

However, here’s another thing though – when you try to think of a life without a dream, you realize that it is even more pathetic. Getting up, doing some weird kind of work without will and without heart. Every morning brings another headache and every evening you cheerfully bid adieu to another pathetic day with a few cocktails swirling inside you and generating a temporary feeling of euphoria. Before you know it, you are already an alcoholic or a pothead. Some people get away with more socially acceptable and non hazardous ways – they hide in books, movies and TV series. Sometimes, I feel that the whole entertainment industry is kind of dubious in its motives. Why do we need entertainment at all? What are we trying to distract ourselves from? Umm..our own lives? Of course, it’s a shallow way of thinking. We are not always distracting ourselves, are we? Sometimes, we are just looking for new ideas and inspiration. The kind of ideas that complete us, maybe?

 

Anyway, it’s not quite awesome – living like this. You are happy and in another moment you are bombarded with the reasons you shouldn’t be happy. Because there is always, always, always so much to do. All those things that we need to do but we never actually do. Why? Make a choice woman! If it’s too difficult, then choose something else to do. Choose something that you think you can do. Really. If you feel it is doable, then fucking do it! Why aren’t you? What is stopping you? Just fucking give it all your shot. You are the one who made the choice, remember? You wanted this! But we won’t do that. What we would do instead is write a bullshit post like this and laugh. Hahahaha. Joke’s on you, miss. Well, shut the fuck up.

 

Why are we such asshole to our own selves? I don’t get it really. Fucking take the things that you think you deserve. Look them in the eye and tell those people that you fucking deserve it and they will be convinced. They will be. The hardest part is convincing your own self. It is such a useless war. Well, like all wars. How are we so important and not important at the same time? Sometimes, life seems as insignificant as an unused 2017 executive diary. We are flooded with despair when life makes us appear tinier than a speck of dust in a speck of dust. Individualism – they tell you how important you are. Are we really? We just want to be important. And sometimes, we don’t want to be important. We want to know. But we don’t want to know. We want to want. But we don’t want to want. Because if there is indeed something you really want, then why the fuck are you not doing anything about it. If you want it, get it. Keep trying unless you have it. Yeah, these words look pretty as an instagram post. Not so much in life. I am a fucking hypocrite.

 

Ah, it’s not simple – being human. It can be simple. But brain, brain, brain, brain. Why do we keep repeating the same mistakes our whole lives? We do things we didn’t really want to do and then we keep wondering about the stuff we wanted to do. Boring. Boring. Boring. I curse my life. It is not boring. It is anything but boring but I can’t see it another way. If I perceive it to be too exciting, somebody’s gonna come along the way and hammer some senses into my thick skull about how it’s really not. Oh my important fucking life, my important, important, important life that I wish to keep talking about. But really you don’t give a fuck. You are waiting for me to shut up now. You want to talk about your own life – agreeing, disagreeing, presenting a copied idea as your own. Shameless bastards, all of us. Mass produced industrial product – with the same fucking ingredients, same fucking taste, same fucking packaging. We are all the same. There are selected few who are not but they are produced in another sophisticated and elite factory altogether. We, on the other hand, are those low quality cheap products that supermarkets are bombarded with. We come in identical bottles just with a different date of manufacturing and expiry dates. Sometimes, even those are same.

 

But even a bottle can have a story. Can it not? I want to believe that it can. Get up. Get up. Get the fuck up. Ask yourself again. What do you want? Ask yourself again if you really want it. If the answer is yes, go for it all the way. Don’t be another bottle with the same conveyor belt to getting rotten in the fridge story .

 

Actually no, you are that another bottle already.

 

Or maybe there is still hope.

 

Whatever makes you happy, man. Whatever makes you happy.

*

Lonely Bunch of Fuckers

Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
Trying to hide from our own demons in each other’s company,
Trying to find our own selves in others,
How does that even work?
How does it even end?
Our eternal search for eternal connection – something or someone who could save us from destroying ourselves.
Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
Settling for company we don’t even like,
Listening to things that we sort of despise,
But better that than listening to our babbling brain –
The person will eventually shut up, the brain won’t.
Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
We flee with numb solitude when we actually need companionship the most.
Such lonely misguided souls!
Wanting to lead, wanting to be led,
Searching for truth, searching for love,
And at the same time shit scared of both.

Aren’t we both such lonely pair of fuckers?
Cheers to yet another glass of whiskey!
Hope it melts the frozen insides,
And the frozen tongue,
So that the vocal words flow better than the thoughts.
There’s no need for love tonight, for love is scary and too fantastical to be true,
So let’s wait until the line between lust and love vanishes out of the blue.
I might agree to meet you next time,
and the next time next to that,
I might agree to see you, talk to you, laugh with you,
And hate you even more than I possibly can,
But that doesn’t matter as long as you drive my emptiness away,

Until it returns again.

*

Infinity Loop

The other side of the dream
lies another dream
lies another clean slate
that you need to start scribbling on –
Infinity loop
According to my disoriented head
And according to my head high with hope
I am just in a bad mood.

The other side of dream
lies new sets of insecurities,
More shit to deal with.
What did you think, you’d get away so easily?
What the hell is wrong with you?
I think even happiness hurts sometimes
When I laugh
often my heart yearns for the solace in sorrow.
Crazy, isn’t it?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Most of us don’t even know how to live!
Why do they not train you before throwing you out to Earth?
Here, we are trying to decipher the meaning of life
through random Instagram posts
deemed inspirational according to current popular culture.
Perfect.
Hence, the training,
Hence, my point.

Anyway, the other side of dream
lies a new list of confusions
But wait
Why is this moron complaining again?
Can’t she just revere what she has?
Who’s complaining?
I am not complaining!
I am just trying to get rid of some pathetic filters of my mood
I hate it when I am poetic like this
I hate it
I hate poems
Though those are mostly what I write
I hate the honesty it drips with
And I hate how people simply don’t get it
Not their fault though
Poetry is pathetic.
Here, I admit it.

The other side of the dream
lies the new kind of rage
and ungratefulness,
New sets of blows to conscience
New sets of excuses
New kinds of cruel addictions
You thought you could get away so easily?
Sit back
Relax
And get another cup of coffee;
The door just leads into another room
for you to find another door
to yet another room.
I guess the key is to not lose patience
(At least, that’s what the tweet said)
What do you even want from your life?
Maybe food?
Or a quick nap?
Long naps, actually,
Very long indeed
But then you cross a threshold
And you enter into a series of nightmares
Not your position of particular liking,
But you are too lazy to wake up
And your brain is too desperate for you to do the very same.
So ultimately you give in,
Eyes open
Mind shut.
Inherent surviving skills, I figure.
I am impressed
Maybe they will come handy
when I am being too harsh on life
on myself,
like today?
Come on get me out of here,
Brain!
Brain?
Where the hell does it go when you need it the most?
Wake me up, will you?
No,
I know,
It will watch me suffer.
Let me get some popcorn for you
Loser. Fucker.
Oh, you need coke too?

But anyway,
The other side of the dream;
Welcome to the infinity loop,
To the Hotel California rules
It will be easier to ignore, easier not to perceive
That once you check in, you kind of never leave.
The hotel is humongous;
Infinite rooms, infinite doors
You are lost now
Just like you were lost before.
So does it really make a difference?
On the other hand,
I heard the room service is great
And the food ain’t that bad
And despite being in the gigantic maze of rooms,
And corridors,
And floors,
And halls,
And what not,
You can still easily find the bar.

I mean, just saying.

*

How’s life in England?

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone notifies me of yet another text bearing the same question I’ve heard daily since the past two months. And I am left wondering, yet again, how the hell do I answer this?

How’s life in England? Each day, I wake up with a slight hangover because somehow I have developed a habit of mistaking beer for water. The morning begins with me brewing a tasteless tea and slicing an apple, often along with my fingers. Then I connect my phone to the speakers as I eat my so-called breakfast and start preparing my lunch. Two months back, cooking was my least favorite task and now it is my top choice for procrastination. I chop vegetables while dancing to some 2000s rock. I still don’t know how I manage to pull that off. The day progresses as I finish cooking my lunch which is almost never completely consumed by me. I leave some curry for my flatmates. And by the evening, there’s no trace of it left. My utensils are cleaned and neatly placed back in my shelf. Cooking a little extra so that you don’t have to clean? I figure it’s a pretty good strategy to go by. But this is not what you want to know, do you?

How’s life in England? Well, mostly it’s the blue sky and chartreuse grass spread across remarkably vast stretches of land. Each day I discover a new breed of dog. Each day I come across those cars that I never thought I would see in three dimensions with my own eyes. Each day I meet different kinds of people. And almost each day, I write about them in a small cafe with a small blackboard placed at its gate happily flaunting the beautiful handwriting and the supposedly reasonable rates of different kinds of coffees. Hours pass by as I type random stuff on random things and before it gets too cold (and it’s not even Winter yet!) I return to my kitchen to enjoy a multi-cuisine dinner cooked by flatmates. My kitchen is not a particularly attractive one. The dining table is almost never cleaned. Sometimes, the refrigerators stink. Noone is ever able to find his/her plates or spoons or coffee cup on time. When one of us burns food accidentally, we don’t pray for our own safety. Instead we pray for the inefficiency of the smoke detector. I look at the small exhaust, the electric heat stove, the rarely used oven, the toaster that partially works and the silver platform that’s turning grey – This kitchen is as ordinary as it can be. I look at the people I am dining with. This kitchen is my favorite place. But this is not what you want to know either, is it?

How’s life in England? Whenever the sun shines outside my tiny window my heart swells with happiness and hope. And then I think of the pending work, my spinning head and my heart immediately sinks. My table is splashed with my clumsiness. I am running out of clean clothes to wear. The bedsheet of my bed is beginning to stink. The mattress has given me a permanent back ache but I love my tiny little corner. My cupboard is bare but surprisingly, I don’t hate my limited collection of clothes. I am slipping below the poverty line slowly but steadily. However, somehow I don’t hate my depleting financial state. I am not sure why I am here sometimes. To write life? To live life? Sometimes my room haunts me too – to make it more eerie, there are unexplained bruise marks on my limbs. My financial burden haunts me. My insecurity and uncertain future haunts me. My dreams haunt me. But I am here anyway, I guess, happily haunted.

Days in England – It was clear sky a second ago and it’s suddenly raining. And despite the unpredictable weather, I can safely predict that it would never rain when I do have an umbrella with me. The cloudy night sky is bit of a shame but at times when it is clear I can almost get lost among the diamonds shining above, along with the silhouettes of the trees caressing the edges of the river. And then there’s the moon. The same moon I wrote a letter to saying that I would do what I love to do and in some surreal way I am still keeping that promise. I like to picture myself looking at this satellite somewhere someday in the future and instead of the moon, I like to believe that I would be looking at my own present self. We would briefly acknowledge each other, smile and whisper, “It is going to be alright.” The moon is my imaginary time travelling machine. When I look at it now, I suddenly see myself searching for it through the clusters of buildings back in Vadodara or strolling under the moonlight through the peaceful beaches of Goa during my final undergraduate year or picturing nose or eyes on it during my kindergarten days.

How’s my life? Each day I am going older. Each day I am learning something new. Though I can’t specifically point out the change but I can still feel a certain kind of novelty running through my blood. Life in England – It’s the walks among the pretty homes in red bricks. It’s playing with the amber leaves lining the footpaths. It’s being marvelled by the sparrows with orange necks. It’s walking through the trails lining the river. It’s catching a brief experience of forest and making an escape from urban life during those walks. Living here is modern and ancient at the same time. I am simultaneously falling in love in Swedish beer and cutting masala chai found in the streets of India. I am simultaneously falling in love with butter croissant and Latte and also with freshly cooked potato paratha made by my mother back home. I am amazed by the quiet and peaceful locality but at the same time I sometimes miss the crowd and the cacophony as well.

It’s writing, so much writing, reading, scribbling, dancing, drinking and being terrified of the fact that these days are disappearing much faster than they should and also the fact that I would miss this more terribly than I can ever imagine. My life in England? Well, honestly, life seems to be chasing me instead of I chasing it for a change. At first it was overwhelmingly surreal. Now, it’s overwhelmingly busy. Like the gas compressed in a cylinder, it seems like a whole lifetime has been squeezed into a couple of months. Weeks are long but yet they fly by. And sometimes all I do is breathe and watch yet another sun explode into thousands of shades of Crimson and Magenta and all those hues that I can’t even name.

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone is still beeping with that whatsapp message.
“Good.” I text back.

A love letter

Dear,
How scandalous and embarrassing of me to anticipate for the day when I will be able to speak to you again,
when you are not supposed to exist,
when your charm is something I should easily resist
But look how glittering you are!
Even the dawn can’t make your presence disappear
How tempting it is to touch you,
even though it’s a common knowledge how toxic you are
How attractive it is to pursue you,
even though it’s widely known how forbidden you are
O Honey! O Darling!
Why mustn’t you desert my heart?
You bring death to my life,
You bring life to my death,
You bring love, you bring hate,
You bring joy, you frustrate,
You destroy, you create.
Are you even real?
How embarrassing and scandalous of me to be influenced by you so much,
Wasn’t my life already complicated enough?
No, it is pointless to accuse you
Because I think you make my life simpler instead.
You are blood into my veins,
Air that I could breathe,
Despite your debatable actuality,
You mean,
You exist,
As if nothing else matters.

***

Dead lives,

Dead lives, dead leaves,
Scattered across the grey streets,
On a soulless journey to nowhere or everywhere
with the winds sweeping them onto different destinations
With the time decaying them back into life;
Just so they could fall lifeless once again.
What do you hope to find in this circular maze?
How are you different from other carbon corpses?
Dead eyes, dead voice,
After all, a beating heart was never your choice!
Like the stones, like the deepest ocean bed,
You are silently waiting for the end ahead.
Hush!Hush!Hush!
Don’t think it too loud!
Hush!Hush!Hush!
The stars might overhear!
Time might end today or after infinity,
But the blood must continue running stale in your veins
The thoughts must wander lost always.
Dead leaves, dead lives,
sleeping indifferently on the streets at nights.
Make sure there’s never anything to see
Make sure that the eyes are always wide shut
For if they blink open, if they ever do,
It will all come fiercely rushing through,
in all its unfairness,
tearing apart your blissfully protective wall of indifference-
The storming life,
The warrior love,
valiantly destroying your ignorant existence,
Your living death.

***

The Study Table – III

I

II

III

Life moves on. So, I moved on too –

My new destination? A scrap yard. How did I come to be there? Didn’t I tell you that my ex-owner found me too old and too obese for his “renovated” home? He was so sure of my ugliness and my uselessness that he didn’t even put me up on sale – He threw me straight to the Scrap yard. Before I could even analyze my surroundings, I was taken by a roadside barber. So, now I had a new job role. I watched people come and go, some getting shaved, some getting massaged and some getting their hair cut. I remember how happy the mirror placed on me used to be. I despised her. Her happiness made me grow immensely jealous of her. With each passing day, I became more and more morose. Throwing me away like garbage after all those years of my diligent service wasn’t a fair treatment. Couldn’t he just chop me off and use me in a bonfire? I would have been happy with that. Sitting there, by the road, was humiliating! I am the one who needs to be kept sedated with smell of books. I am the one who survives in the presence of poetry or the equations of chemical reactions or trigonometry problems. The lumps of hair accumulating on me were infuriating. The barber scratching the razors on me didn’t make me feel better either. Initially, I had thought that the girl was worst. Then I thought that the scrap yard was the worst. But somehow, I kept descending to worse of worsts! I was tempted to call the barber worst too. But I couldn’t, fearing the ironic implication of that statement. Nevertheless, fate took the unintentional and the unsaid challenge anyway.

The barber abruptly left one day. Initially, it seemed like a dream come true. But in reality, it has been a nightmare. I spend my days and nights alone on the road side. So, I get roasted in the afternoons, wet in the rains and remain immensely dusty all the time. The horns of the cars haunt me, my loneliness haunts me, my uselessness haunts me, my existence haunts me and I stand waiting, waiting for my end to finally make an entrance. The way things are progressing or regressing, I am sure my end isn’t far. But if it is, if it is somehow still far, then the worst haunts me. And here you are – miraculously standing with that unwavering look of admiration in your eyes. I am not flattered. I am amazed. For a moment, I am tempted to forget what I have been through. For a moment, I am tempted to be hopeful. For the first time in a really long time, I am happy. It doesn’t have to last long. I know it won’t. But I am grateful to you for this. I am grateful to you indeed.

“It’s a pity how this table is thrown here. It should be used, it’s so pretty!” I hear the woman’s voice.

“Pretty old, you mean. Pretty broken, you mean. Pretty ugly, you mean.”  Her friend replies and I find myself agreeing with him.

“Pretty apt for our café, I meant.” The woman replies.

“This? For our café? No way!”

“What’s wrong! It matches with the theme. Plus, I will work on it. I will make it pretty presentable and pretty awesome, you will see!”

“I am not so sure…”

The woman comes near me. I shiver at her proximity. I shiver at her touch. It really had been a long time since any human had stood so close to me.

“The table is old, yes, I know. But the wood is still good, see? They don’t make such furniture anymore! Let’s take it to our garage. I will repair it.”

“You do that in a month’s time. Or else I will throw it.”

“You can count on me!” she replies excitedly.

I refuse to believe my ears. Does she really mean it? After this long series of abandonment, did this just happen for real?

Epilogue

I was sure I was going to return to the road again. I didn’t think I was repairable. I was sure that the woman would give up on me soon. Miraculously, she didn’t. I ended up being in her café instead. I couldn’t believe my own transformation. Though I am no longer a study table I admit, but I am always sedated with a stack of books at my corner. Quite often, I am also greeted by the heat of laptops and the mild heat of the hot coffee filtered through the coasters. Sometimes I am greeted by interesting conversations, interesting people scribbling interesting things in their notebooks and I love it.  I love it all. But then amidst all these beautiful chaos and entropy, I keep myself reminding that I am, at the end of the day, just a table.

***