Words..

And I guess this one goes to the one sans wings.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd,
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

- Eloisa To Abelard (Alexander Pope)

JFC

Excerpt from a random script that I've been trying to finish for long. There's nothing more enraging than thoughts that refuse to flow out as words. I need the words, and I'm waiting.

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This is what my life has become. Waking up to the musty smell of an apartment that’s far from clean, and sipping stale coffee, taking a moment out to wonder what crap they fill the packet up with.

And then there’s the routine.

Staring through the dirty tainted glass windows of the bus on the way to work trying to comprehend the meaning of it all. I see the World fly by in shades of yellow and brown, I see hunger, I witness poverty lined along the border of the darn street. And it hardly stirs a feeling in me.

I feel nothing. I’m a programmed monotonous neighborhood-friendly by-product of everything that’s wrong with humanity.

I’m that annoying blinking cursor on your word processor, the one that makes your fingers twitch in irritation and hit the keyboard.

I am nothing, and I want to die.

The stain, it’s in my heart. And there is no cure, no other choice but to endure the slow serenade of hopelessness.

I am nothing. Let me die.

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I wait, and I wait. Free.

# Whatever

Just scribbled this one down when I felt like it... and texted it to unsuspecting people!

The weather sings,
a tune profound
to fill my heart,
with joy..
abound and all I wish,
for time to last,
when lives around me
come to pass
This day shall live,
in vein and sand,
and whisper to the elder men,
that life is truly beautiful,
and how I wished the Earth would still.

#4

The Suns arise,
bursting forth with boundless joys of life,
the sullen night...
goes on an exile,
hiding through the shame,
of our boundaries thin,
giving in to light,
giving into tides and time.

Should I survive?
Fade away unmarked by ties.
let hearts rejoice?
Like a butterfly,
tearing out of chains,
cocoon breaking and,
flying into autumn breezes,
stripped off laws and binds.

Yet this shall pass,
yet this shall die,
and then reborn,
like dawning light,
I think again,
to muse my way
illusions soaring
to sleep again.

Life

The small guy lay on his bed, leafing his way through his Social Studies book.

He paused at a certain page, and suddenly looked up.

"Have you ever been on a plane?"

"Yeah", I said, "Back when we were in Delhi. Sponsored by Dad's office. Maybe 5 times."

"I've never been on one." He sighed, "What does the city look like from up there?"

"Nothing distinct.. ", I muttered, "All you can see is blocks and blocks of buildings. And clouds."

"Wow... I'm gonna fly high, soon as I get a job and have money."

"You will, soon. Just hang on." I smiled.

He now flies.

To his father's funeral.

# 3

That sinking feeling.

When the endless fall that was part of your dream seems to be chillingly real. When you wake up sweating and stare at the ceiling, unable to comprehend why you are awake.

When you feel as though you are falling down a deep dark abyss even though a part of your mind grapples with the fact that you are in bed.

I realized today for the third time in my life that listening to songs alone in a dark room that is stoically silent otherwise can lift your sense of self up better than anything else in the world.

You lie on the cold hard floor and you stare distantly as Soundgarden's Kim Thayil hauntingly plays the opening licks of 'The Day I Tried To Live', and for the first time in your life, you notice things that were trivial not so long ago.

You stare at the relentlessly rotating ceiling fan that has been witness to many a gathering... the loud and boisterous times you spent with your pals, the serene times you spent at peace with yourself, the times you spent with that special someone in your life.

Fight Club, and as Norton corners Marla Singer, the faker, the way you felt the small yet significant warmth of a person leaning against your shoulder.

With four walls and a ceiling standing testimony to that beautiful union of hearts.

Your moments of happiness, mistakes, and tears. All within those walls.

The memories rush back as the song rises up in a crescendo, with the guitars screaming near breaking point. You quote Nietzsche and wish you could forget.

'Blessed Are The Forgetful, For They Get the Better, Even Of Their Blunders'

When you are one with the space around you, and melt into the non-existent realms of the World.

At the climactic peak, when you yearn to reach out, spin the wheel of time in reverse, and just gaze at your own life from another perspective.

And silence falls, fading into nothingness.

'Shapes of every size move behind my eyes
doors inside my head bolted from within
every drop of flame lights a candle in
memory of the one who lived inside my skin.'- Shadow Of The Sun.

Amen.

# 2

When the wind runs
through the fingers,
when the sand is kicked up far,
when the night of
endless whispers
and the days of dreamy stars,
wither out with but no trace
from the steely hate of gaze
and the broken empty pot of heart,
cries out with bridled rage.

When the mask in man is torn,
and the weight of life is borne,
when the people keep on stealing
thoughts undeserved and out of tone,
when the flowers rust in peace,
in the falling might of trees
and an endless screaming wail
hits home
in a leaden hollow wheeze...

Will this throbbing ever stop?
In the vacant sea of hearts?
Will the winter wind turn green
rush as the summer brushes clean?
Will the spiders of our past
clean out the cobwebs off the lost?

Will the winter wind turn green, rush as the summer brushes clean?

I just want to know. Why?