You notice the texture of your pruney fingers, notice the bones that show, trace the veins, the alien touch and the strangeness of it, notice how the fingernails blush when you make a fist, the lines off which people stir stories about themselves; have an urge to write something on your wrist, but the pen never works- it has to be pursued. It isn’t vanity maybe, but the spoils of an epiphanic solitude, or maybe a mournful fit of vacuity, when the thoughts stream listlessly and you blend in a strange silence which has alluded you, when you stare too long, breathe to deep, touch languidly, and then a sudden tick- the littlest trivial sound wakes you, and it has been just a minute or two.
the anxious warm breath
gulped down the throat,
a trapped pulse,
to the tingling ribs and sore bones,
The sting of nails buried in flesh,
The cold shrivelled fingertips-numb and wet,
The face torn into a forever smile.
Lusting after the sin of joy,
pleasure dome for the broken,
They can’t revere with nostalgia,
Nor burden with hopes,
Seize it and live,
Or die in oblivion.
I want to hold you tonight, press you against me, and let our imperfections agree to a transcendent completeness. I wish to owe my self to your eyes, drink in their depth, breathe in your breath, to touch you, my precious; in awe of your beauty, to kiss you, your tender sweet lips; that you belong to me, my strange joy. The moments whiled in the thought of you, shimmer across the horizon of my solitude and birth smiles, and I wish to hold fast to these moments, wear those smiles as something to show for my life. I’d revel in the knowledge that you, my wish, my sweetheart, love me. And I’ll love you till my heart aches. Only if you were here, I know you’d be much more beautiful than you are in my thoughts. Only if you were here, and I knew it is you. We may be strangers, and what a lovely stranger you might be- treasured behind the veils of fate, smiling over the littlest things, anxious about the littlest things, or lost in your thoughts, looking into the night sky, wondering about the stranger who couldn’t take his eyes off you..
For, now, I have no secrets or escapes treasured in the folds of time. The autumn is bold and bleak and the spring, mushy and a diluted sepia. I’m trapped in a loud and painful transparency of dry words and elusive loose-ends. Its nothing really, nothing’s wrong, but something’s missing, something visceral or maybe I’m latched onto the idea of missing it.
That wincing with joy-
That nervous quiver
Of an assent
A hope against hope.
A chaste solitude-
to vague meters,
an undulating buoy.
– A Memoir, A-lover’s Prodigy.
In a palpebral serenade,
The tender sky,
upon the rippling thuds-
Fading into a euphonious silence;
The air smells of stones and washed clothes,
A thought scattered like an inconsolable cloud,
Shimmering like trees at dawn.
We often speak in whispers, in thoughts, in first breaths; these soliloquies have a quality of an ongoing conversation. Sometimes I trace it’s embossed roots, and the humble weeds tie moist anklets round my feet. And if you look closely, it’s tiny leaves seem to be broadcasting codes- memories- they say trees do have them. Maybe it has memories of me- transmitted over light years- over galaxies. It’s first blush bleeds my solitude in the misty sky, and in it’s penumbra- a respite, an escape- from a world, unnerved by tranquillity, I am, I always want to be.
The kid was shown a flashy bauble today, as he stood on a balcony of a high rise-a posh office building overlooking the ever-so-mesmerising Vashi creek. He has listened to or met many who’d say “That’s how they lure you in”. And from this mess of luxury and cynicism, the eternal unanswered unswerving existential tension a dogmatic question rose its irritable bald shiny head… the overrated do-I-belong-here? And his philosophies on happiness were questioned somehow, so weak can convictions be sometimes. And the irony in that sentiment, probes him, tugs at him either trying to push him more deep in his rose-colored bubble or pulling him out of it, wearing a face of a reality, the one which everyone but him see pitying his innocence.
We’re a rag-tag group of three, contemplating life, women, discovering movies, music, aphorisms, little trivia about ourselves/each other, crazy, boring, hypocritical at times (though we’d hate to agree to it), but close, close enough to laugh at a joke not even cracked, to know one’s mind, get offended for each other, but yet not claim to know the other one inside out. We’re or at least I’m amused when I look back at the time before I met these idiots, and thinking of the time when we’ll be out of college, on our own, of the time when we’ll actually start missing ‘us’, we sink back in these moments,too stubborn to let go of them, suddenly a bit scared of the world. Creating, forging, stealing, plagiarizing each other in our memories, sincerely, adamantly hoping someone somewhere sometime in the nearest future to invent that god-damn time machine.
Past the realm of a superficial clarity- the mundane tangible consciousness, past the effortful rise in an absorbing skylight of a turreted facade or simply a dissolving in- mesmerized- in the warmth and beatitude of an awe-inspiring contemplation or an imagery, lies a promenade, a gallery of sorts- housed lawn, twilight, virgin silence- with huge English windows, out of which these daunting visions, their spasmodic beauty, appear, as effervescent projections. There is a religious urge, a need to register it- sculpting thoughts in a translation, reaching out, garbling words in an attempt to echo these thoughts.
Such, the mind- a delightful vial of an elixir- inexplicably personal, a renegade, a visceral pretention. and in it’s gravity, a deluge of archived obscure memories- erratic and promiscuous. Enthralling déjà vu s, premonitions, assumptions, convictions are what, if not, tricks of this sinister intangible omnificent organ- privileging, fashioning you an identity.