Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Rain Talks

The day the sun rises from the West will be the day we shall turn our backs to each other.

We were what they called the "unbreakables". It was We.

Listen to the rain, love. What does it say?

It doesn't call your name, neither mine. It tells me that we mistook the winter dew to be the monsoon. It tells me that Spring will be here soon, and that we shall our time, again.


Now Playing: Wish You Were Here | Floyd

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

She was The Jade

She. We were the world. Things were set straight soon. It was the only life I had. She. The only words I ever knew made her their Sun. She. The only bliss I had experienced was her touch. It soon fell under the spell of repulsion and withdrawal. She. The only eyes I saw while waking up were black. They soon turned black. She. Lost in her own soberness, she did away with my madness. I. It was all inside here...right here! The madness. The uncontrollable fire. I gave rise to the phoenix she was so proud of! I. She knocked me down with her smile earlier. I. She knocked me down with her smile now too. Only the connotations changed. She. The only hidden closet she had was the one with her hatred. That out, now I cannot exactly determine what she has kept in the hidden closet now- my name or the whole part where she said she loved me. I. It is not darkness I am going through. It is not even the enlightening moment. It is the only time I am talking about 'I'.

She. The only things which made her close to me were down in the dumps. Well, those included the way I looked at her. She. Today, she wants me to look at her differently, for she has always been right. I. Lets not talk about the million dollar question of what's right and what's wrong. Lets not get into the tiff of breaking the myths and bubbles of her little world. I. God only knows how many times she has peeled the skin off the cuticle of my nail. Oh well! I know that too. Approximately a hundred eighty five times. It did hurt.

She. There was one thing which opened her eyes. Well, the doctors asked her to wake up. No, I am not trying to be funny. Trust me, that is exactly what happened. The doctors did the miracle, as always. I. The memories are secondary thoughts at the moment. I want only one thing. She. Not. I.

I. Tables have turned, love. Promises were never broken. The only difference was that you were never the unattainable. You came too easy. Left more easily. She. Not. This day, she commands me to let her beg of me. Well, I have one thing to say to her. I. I sang for you. I brought rain for you, erased the clouds from the sky, even almost touched the bottom of the bottle. She. You were the sigh I took when I broke my first guitar string. I had tightened it too much. I. Well, lets rewind it. She. We were the world. Things were set straight soon. And honestly, I have some rum to finish. She. Not. I.

courtesy: deviantArt
Now Playing: Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You | Led Zeppelin

Monday, December 12, 2011

Colourblindness. Untruth. Illusion.

Its the colour of your eyes.

No, its the colour of the rocks.

Its the one which mixes well with white.

All colours mix well with white.

Oh then it is that colour..

Which one?

The one I believe it is...

Which is???...

Its the colour of the dreams we have.

Dreams are vivid. They cannot be contained in one colour.

Oh well, then its the colour of th sky when it rains.




Tell me?!

Are you sure?




You're colour blind.
Its amber. Not brown.
You escape what is real.
You cannot believe in anything.
You do not live.
You remain an illusion;
A speck of sawdust,
But still a part of me,
Of my being.

I like this song. Also, I am terribly hurt. More, later. Do watch it. Its called "I Believe"

Thursday, December 1, 2011

The Last Thing I Did Was Give The Street A Kiss

I was sunk in the snow. It was knee deep. Cold. Just like it was when the first time I made love with the man I have now forgotten completely. It was stagnant. Just like the first time I bled. Absolutely quiet. Just like the first time I was high on weed. Blurred. When the dew drops used to traverse all along the glass window, making maps which always seemed like iron bars to me. It was like that long lost illusion that the world will end. And I loved the streets. They cracked at the first snowfall. No one really filled them back.

They were mere things. Full stop. Like the little gravels on the street which ripe at the first sunray of morning. I lived in a wooden house. Yes. I set it on fire. Not because I forgot the man I made love with, in it. But for the simple reason that I could not bear the noise the wood made every time I got smashed into it. It had a small balcony- my room. When we were young, we sat there, sipped on wine. I could only see the street from there- my first love. I remember the man saying, “You cannot walk there. It’s too broken and cracked. There is not one place to put your feet on. I will get you a wagon.” I smashed the wine bottle on his head then. He smashed me into the wooden walls, again. Remember the first time I bled? It was stagnant. It froze. Dried. And chipped off. The man gave me a pink corset. He liked the cougar look. I poured acid on it. He smashed me again. He then tried giving me a diamond in a chain. It fell in the fire place just before the first night. Remember the first time I made love? It was cold. Very cold. Though I always liked when fire talked to me, that night the transition was silent; it was put off. Never giving up, he then gifted me glass bangles. No, I didn’t break them. I kept them safely until he died. He was happy for that. I was not always evil, after all. Sometimes, I loved him too. Alas! I cannot recollect his face now. He once gave me a bag full of pastel colour sheets and asked me to fill them with words. I made little rolls of them. Remember the first time I was high on weed? It was absolutely quiet. He entrapped my skin ruthlessly. I burnt his neck with the butt of the ignited weed roll. The man was never a quitter. He tried again. This time he gave me a pair of glasses. We were growing old. He asked me to wear them while he took me out. I melted them with the same fire. He punished me by making me stand beside the glass window early morning. Remember the dew drops? It was like I was behind iron bars running wild over the screen in front of me. It was blurred.
Then one fine evening, I stood right beside the street. He came and pulled me towards him. He whispered, “I love you so much. Can’t you see it in my eyes? You hurt me every time. I want to be with you even then. You never speak. You are mute. Cold. Quiet. Stagnant. A blurred image. Why don’t you love me?” I still kept looking at the street. Its cracks fascinated me. The gravels seemed to be calling me; they seemed to say that they wanted me to walk with them and bear the sunlight with them. The man kept repeating the same questions. I looked at him. I looked at the street.

The fire was enormous. It was all over the woods. I could hear the voice. I could smell the ash. The glass bangles were with me, broken. Remember I had kept them till he died? Till he died! I did not want to hear the noise the wooden walls made when I was smashed into them. I did not want to clean the blood stains. I loved the fire. It talked to me. It knew the colour of my eyes. It knew the freckles on my skin. Then there was the street. I travelled, in the direction of the gravels. Found myself amidst the cracks. Then emerged little illusions from the cracks; that the world was going to end. Why? Because I was sunk knee deep in snow. And the last thing I did was give the street a kiss.