Here

You are over the moon and I hear you say:

I'll be here for you. 

More stories

The air smells of grass and dirt, water and salt. The bench old and brown, the atmosphere calm and quiet.You sit there unknowing of all the stories around you so you make up some on your own to restore your sanity. 

The guy with the red shirt soaking in all the sun he could get? He has been there for long, he does not seem to mind the time he has left. The woman on the bench across from you is talking feverishly to her partner, he seems to be watching her, listening but not quite. Look, red shirt guy just stood up and walked away, maybe time bothered him now. Passerbys, you recognise them: grocery bags, their handbag caught in between trembled and cold fingers. Their pace fast while they register the moments they could not have here. 

The trees start to dance. 

You feel cold and your fingers become cold too. You wear your jacket and try to tuck your hands in. Failing, you decide to leave. Maybe tomorrow you will create more stories. 

     Watch me

            wilt and wither; 

          a flower 

      who forgot to bloom.

Switch off the city lights

On the sidewalk, our shadows meet. They dance together in harmony, blending into one every once in a while as we walk side by side till it's too dark. The world fades behind us and it's just you and I.

 We lay on the sand, our arms tucked behind our head, and eyes fixated on the sky. I only look at you to say: together we can keep count of the stars.

You are them

We stress on how we want to be unique and different but all parts of our lives are led by the norms we follow. Be it in clothing, opinion, acts and behaviours. Everything you do, both you and I know you're doing it because that's what others are doing. That's what people think is right. So tell me, how different are you from them?

Unless you're willing to test the waters, neglecting what links you back and leaving it on the shore, to me, you are them.

Interfering with my rhyme scheme

You interfere with my rhyme scheme.

 I can no longer confide myself within walls of order. Like a poem; your love overflows. There are no lines and you begin to walk out, breaking all the metres. You stop at every point that should have forced you to, and there, you smile. You pass by, uncaring, to the next line. You leave out the imagery, spelling out things you should have hidden. You go on and it is getting even more disoriented. You step back, read it all, and try as you might to disassociate yourself from the poem you created.

Bittersweet

You are being stripped away. You become as carefree as a bird and without having to spread a single wing, you are soaring up above the clouds, going higher and higher. You see doll-sized people, buildings and from where you are, it all seems funny. You laugh because it feels like you should have did it a long time ago anyway.

 You miss where you used to be but you don't want to get out of here just yet. So you stay. A wave of strange sensation hits you; slaps you hard across the face. Bittersweet. You enjoy it.

Make them dance and sway

Speak to me in a language I do not understand, make me decipher each syllabus and watch me fail. Let me struggle to catch my breath with every new word I try to utter, every sentence going above my head like moving clouds on a still day. Laugh and let me hate you for it and accuse you of not trying hard enough.

 Give music to words, make them dance and sway.

 Be my eyes, my senses. Describe what it was like when the snowflakes first hit the skin of your hands, how, at the moment, you decided to hold on to that feeling for eternity. Make me wish I had witnessed your excitement to cherish every bit of the white blanket.

 Most of all, make me want to be with you right now.

Finality

If you annoyed my little cousins, they will most likely come up to you and draw a cross mark with their index on the palm of your hands.. When they play House, they would trace a line on the ground with their tiny feet to divide their stuff..

Simply because in their world, an imaginary line or drawing has a certain finality that cannot be reckoned with. So you are forced to believe that it is there, when really, it is not there at all. 

The written word

When it rains so hard you can barely see, when the wind hits your face and makes you cry for all things you did or should have done.. When it's too cold to go out for a walk and clear your head, when all you need is coffee and some alone time.. 

Seek the written word.

Find solace there. Contemplate. Read, and be jealous that you did not come up with something as brilliant. Beauty lies right there.. In appreciating what’s in front of you and aiming to be half as good even if you can never be. These moments of living somewhere that is not here.. It’s beautiful and it takes you to places you’ve never been.

By Default

The sounds are so faint. They have started fading in the background ever so quickly yet you cannot hear yourself. It should be easy, you think. This. It should be easy. But things never turn out the way they seemed to be in the beginning.

It gets hard around here.

You feel pressured, stressed and constantly worried about the next screw up, about something going wrong and then you worry about fixing it till you get it done. Once that is out of the way, more things follow. And you find yourself between this and that, hardly ever listening to yourself thinking. 

All you hear is chaos.

Interrupted conversations.

Missed signals. 

Then you worry about all this too. You also worry about worrying. You worry that if you are worried too much it is going to get your spirits down then you worry that being optimistic will only mean getting your hopes crushed with disappointments. And then some more. But when all this clears out, when you are no longer in confusion, things become crystal clear. Things start to take shape, come into focus and align perfectly in front of you.

For how long though?

Mere minutes. It does not stretch for long. Moments of absolute clarity are always fleeting. They just vanish out of sight before you could even let out a sigh. Yet you stand there, confused. Not knowing whether to feel happy or worried. But because that’s what you have been doing for so long..

You become worried again. By default.

Why you write, and why you stop writing.

You write because you want to read your thoughts. You want to see them embodied on paper. You write because there is something you want to say. You write because even if there is no one listening, you would have still said it somehow. You write because when people fail you, words remain visible. Clear. Those journals? They account for something that happened once and might not happen again. You write because you want to hang onto the memories that faded away so long ago that it feels like they were never there to begin with. With the curve of each letter, emotions were stirred. With each set of ellipses used; a hesitation. A pause. Moments of deep thoughts. Of belief and doubt and everything in between.

And then you stop writing.

You stop writing because what you write suddenly becomes too much. You stop writing because you realise it does not do you any good, if anything, it engulfs you in this little bubble whose walls became so thick that you can see them. You stop writing because the way out was never the way in. You stop because the words.. Your words.. They hurt. They hurt to look at, to think about. They hurt because you are constantly reminded of what could have been but hadn't.

Finally..

If piles of nonexistent letters could exist, then it'd be those I'd never written.

Manual

What if every time you can't make a choice, you refer to a manual. A guidebook that is alphabetically categorised with possible situations which start with ifs. You just flip through the pages in a hurry, find a solution and you act accordingly.. 

But it's never that easy.

Even if you do exactly as it said, not missing a single step.. There are so many variables that are going decide whether the thing you have done is good or bad, stupid or wise. 

Till you find out, keep turning. 

Of Mistakes

The thing about mistakes is that they loom down on you when you least want them to. They hover around; remaining still and silent. It does not matter if you tried so hard not to think about them, it does not matter how long you have tried to accept them, they will still be there. A wound as fresh as new.