Maps

The need to write you a letter was felt from the day I felt your absence which was probably just a week after someone brave, braver than I asked for your love. The things that I told you I can never take back, but the irony is that none of them was really directed toward you. I was in a daze, a daze that was supernatural as well as real as it felt to be. I thought everything was going right. And then came the days and then the nights, the fear of losing you even after losing you already. Today I do not want you to answer any of these that I eventually send you, I just want my brain to glean whatever I could not tell you. Death would appear acceptable only after that. Target something, they say and you well did that, target so that the previous destinations seem undesired. I could not do that. When I was writing the scrapes of separation and smelling things that I would never want to smell again, I felt the journey to be unbearable. Everytime I felt I cannot talk with you, it suffocated. I stopped thinking so.

Today I want you to listen to all these rants and ruminations and in a way, I do not even want you to. Probably you are still in your quest to achieve newer gazes through novel eyes and I would prove to be a mirror of an ungazable memory. Nostalgia is unexpected here and passed time, as beautiful as it were, is also unwanted. I cannot tell you how I wish you were everywhere that I was going, but that is only for me. I see you in many places, exotic and more, I feel a weird sense of jealousy, I know that you know I am jealous, but I never knew. With you I felt the best man and I know that was a fallacy, a logical fallacy, but too late to have understood that. I dream of wishing and of desiring a chance meeting you in an airport or a coffee shop or in a place more unthought of. And then you would steal gazes or avoid eyes. The Social Network presents you really differently and I feel more nailed, more coffined. That I will ever be able to speak with you or rather you will feel like talking to me and invoking a regime of wrong and bad, is a far of idea but it knows you better and not this unavailability. 

Dream

The dream,
The dream of flying high and keeping your feet grounded.
The dream of Jesus or the dream of Bacchus.
The dream that ended on a rooftop.
The dream that was of togetherness.

Then when the dream has beguiled you to become reality,
adrift in the sky limitless,
found beneath the sky tender, among fires and campfires,
only to realise dreams no more shared.

Jealousy, envy and rage - all rush toward the veins, close and far.
Why?
Why am I not there?
Was it my fault to be born?
And then, finally,
when I look more closely at the photograph,
I shudder. I tremble.
Some dreams, maybe already realised, hence not anymore dream like, are to be kept in tact.
How beautiful, who knows,
you could spoil it !

Thoughts

The day starts with a heaviness, things dont work out as unexpected. Instead everything seems pretty in their places which are in their own terms with the existential reality. I get up.

I am asked not to become too predictable, otherwise there would be no publication. So here i am trying to be uniquely unique which might make me worthy of getting printed. Anyways, I need to script my daily thoughts. And my daily thoughts include intentional and precedent-ed thoughts. Thoughts of silence, lifelong silence. Thoughts of getting shredded into pieces in order to become one. These are credible enough and really, I am not being sarcastic. But my thoughts of cruelty also preside in my so called palace of innocence. But do I love to be inactive? Only that can make me innocent. If its all about innocence then one should know that only doing nothing can make you innocent. I would like to call it rather as the museum of innocence(you know who I am referring to). Enough of cruelty and innocence, I give a damn to both of these words. Infact, I am more interested about the merged existence of reality and illusion, and trust me I am not even being hegemonic to place reality before illusion. And now with the lightness of the real worldy air, the chill gets me, it feels more breathable than the rest of the day, the heaviness seems to be evading. I start walking, trembling between dream and consciousness. I water my plants.

I (may be) start thinking about my nights, not the last one but the coming one. Daydreaming I reach my delirium. Daydreaming I start searching soft spots of life where a timid face is timidly caressing me. I want to lose myself amongst doors full of dreams, full of stories. I sometimes feel I lack stories. You know it feels right to be sad when I see no pen or paper to create a story. I just need to fill in the gaps of someone else who sits elsewhere and enjoys my endeavours and I sit with a face full of trying to behave like a interim writer. But sadly, I do not find solace. Either this is God or its me, or her, or me again. I start laughing.

Its taking too long. I am still thinking about what I dreamt. I do not seem to remember the little bit which was may be a second or a decade or an eternity. Lets try and get back to work or whatever it means. Work, does it have any particular dimension that I have to or I can, only work towards a certainty. I know that I can be contradicted that I am using a two-faced language, but I am really not doing so. I am saying that a person can climb the Everest or simply walk it down. Now is that totally inconceivable? You saw that I posit less questions, but may be not lesser. And that is the trick. I begin the anchoring. The hosting of my life. I invite you here to find me. No greater promises. I start waiting.

Now when there are no guests at all I start complaining. Complaining about my endeavour. Sadly enough I scrabble out faults in order to remain sane. But butterflies are so proud of their colours. Human beings behave like psychological butterflies and leave behind their effect even when they are not present. I have such a butterfly in my life too. It or he or she runs inside out and makes me laugh, makes me sob. Please I want to remember those days. I am quite okay with my much vulnerability. And it continuosly makes me search my faults and my insanity.

Watered my plants, I feel moist and also dry. Moist in my lowers and dried in the uppers. I need to rethink my thoughts about life. This is because I have decided to wait for too long a span of time where you can not leave out the threat of the end. And end means that then I have to start afresh again, probably. The dimensions of my thoughts will change suddenly and if I am not a prodigy enough to remember whatever I have learnt then all is lost. This is a permanent threat that forebodes me to scrape all my insecurities and my triumphant jealousies. Very recently in my sane insanity I felt a strong urge to call my unconscious mirror-spect and promise to ignore the absence of it(or he or she) in my consciousness and ask it(or he or she)for the minimum favour of talking to me. But alas! it did not last for the necessary time it required to execute it and again I am back repenting my super-activity or very unfortunate inactivity. I have started shedding my clothes but is no one watching or gazing or atleast winking at me? Do I inspire utter laziness like I used to do in my graduation classes while napping sitting on the first bench? Are you all really not bothered about my unsocial or rather antisocial nudity? I keep on surviving the most penetrating of ordeals. Now I am getting tired. I have started abusing and have stopped amusing. I try to face the mirror within me but it reflects that I am just overdoing it. It is much easy to follow the norms but I am really not against them, infact, I really believe in 'following the norm'. But what if I can not follow? I feel dejected to confess my inability but I am doing this because no one will involuntarily help me. And amused, I am realizing why do people are so helpless about me.

I look at my bed and see no signs of frustration. It feels that I am also unable to detect my disease. I am only sure that one exists. But still there is no sign of frustration. I again see my bed and search signs of a particular season, then I move to my window, then to my door, then the staircases. I reach the terrace. The sun has already shone a lot. I wish it to shine a bit more and make me shine because I am just like the orbitantly dependently visible moon. But am I happy or content about my visibility to others? For the moon its all about sun and it knows that it can not emit a single ray of light on its own. The moon has received the definite article before it only because of the Sun. Now who the hell is the sun? Do I know him or her or it? I know that I know but somehow I try to follow the norms and pretend that I do not know that I know. You still blaming? May be you all are because I myself do not stop blaming. Now I understand I had gone too far to make you realise that I feel. Now I realize that I need not be nude in order to show myself. It is just me who feels sorry, ashamed, dejected and failing but also feeling. I still ask is it good to feel nothing not even numbness.

I come down the stairs like I am descending from heaven and go inside my room There are a number of house hold works that I usually do. I get busy. May be the crockery or eatery or the itinerary of a special food. People mostly like cooking if the recipe is a bit uncommon. I am into typically North Indian and Hill cuisines. It is a bit hard to stay fit for a long time if you are eating too much choles and bhaturas and paneers and mustard. So a better alternative is always is to cook base foods with no spices. Right now I am in my room planning to go out because through the shut window panes the southern wind is making me teary. I have to eat but I want to go out and face the wind, bend for it, bend my non-existent heart infront of it. I do not feel hungry anymore I do not feel like cooking. Someone play me some flute. I should die here. Should I? After so much exaggeration should I cease or let this be the arrival of the in-advent? I do not enter anywhere because nothing gives you indifference apart than yourself which is atonce evanescent, translucent and existent. I do not end. I just stop here.

Journey

Once I was going out and thought that this might change my life. The change I was expecting to happen had become incredibly inaccesible. So, I had to go out. I knew that I did not want any props to depend on. I just needed a vehicle. In search of may be an epiphany or just an arbitrary moment which would strike the pose and get me back to calmness. It was not without fear or scepticism as I always have used to feel, but somehow from a very long period of time I knew that I needed to go out. The destination was always selected- The Himalayas. Later I understood it was more about desolation than the location because I had lost my faculty of staying calm amidst multi-lingual people. I thought that recluse may be helpful. In between I sometimes thought of coming to terms with my vulnerability. But most of the times I fell like ninepins. Everytime, when my security system went off I felt more tied. I used to weep then. People are usually dependable enough on tears to erase their earthly inefficiencies and inaccuracies. But for me everytime I wept, everytime I felt those streams flowing down my brain I felt more and more inexpressive. It felt like my last hope was getting shattered. After this I suddenly stopped crying but only when I was not asleep. Whenever I woke up with tears in my eyes I trembled with fear, I shuddered with pain thinking about the future. I was dying to get to the roads. So I went out. This was the first occurance when I listened to what I wanted to do, intensely.

Is that too important, coming back to life? If no then why do you and I hanker to do it? Why life has such a big influence on us? Have we ever asked ourselves that is that life leading us rather the love of life leading us forward or is it about the death and the awe that it inspires and gets us running from it.

It was not easy to sever all the ties that kept me fast tied for what looks like an immortality. But even immortality is a moment, atleast theoritically. So, I kept suggesting my brain that even I can untie them. Inevitably, the first face was mother's. She was very beautiful. And beautifully she had managed all the woes. The most fierce phases were handled by her very calmly. And then there was her everpresent childlike affinity with me. She never knew that she was actually taking me and dad as two brothers who should try and win her heart with their exploits. Mother hurried all the way to reach a point of tremendous pleasure as far as a mother is concerned and usually expected me to fire the life-crackers on the eve of her fulfillment in her life. But I was too self-absorbed or atleast I tried to pretend because I could sense the tie-up that was foreboding my tenure and not that I hated staying tied up but I would start hating it very quickly. And that would have insulted mother which I never ever want. It is true that sometimes I was sure that this lead to some serious consequences concerning my reputation as a boy, or a man, or just a person. It felt good, mother loving me so much and her being so damn sure about my certainties and with this there was the smouldering of so many sleepless nights when I used to plan my plans. Yes, I admit I was a definite thinker with less tendencies to infuse my thoughts into my works, but still, I felt choked by something external. And that something was my mother's face full of signs of uncontrolled nerves which were spoiling her beautiful face.