A Dream

And the tears we shed alone at night,
Of the joy and delight at the sight
Of a figure divine, conjured from a vision once lost
Of her that was your half
But it was just a dream.

The fingers that touch the infant’s head,
The infant that suckles without a fright
At the moment when body and soul become one,
And mother and child know peace
Yet it was just a dream.

We know what it means to be free,
Unshackled, unchained, unbroken
Each in his own room, that which we call home
There is no prison, no wall to break
And it was just a dream.

Tired of the ennui and monotony,
I’m trying to break free from me.
And I lie awake some nights remembering
A history of life in one scene
And it was all a dream.

Call for consciousness. Are we awake yet?
The alarm rings, yet we choose to snooze.
Ten minutes more. Now five.
Maybe if I sleep some more,
I might awake from this dream.

Existential Musings

I feel we live in a time where existentialism has a new meaning, or maybe just paraphrased a little. It’s not the one that Sartre spoke of or what Camus wrote about. The world is no longer absurd or meaningless. Everything is clear, we see it every day. It’s not that we can’t find a purpose in life as well. Indeed there is a lot to look forward, a lot of ways to make a meaning out of your life, defining yourself and perhaps doing some good in the end. But sometimes the world is just too big and sometimes you feel too small, really small. There is a lot going on in the world today, suffocating and packed is what I feel. It’s like being forcefully shoved into a locker or more realistically speaking, a crowded bus. Of suffocating and helplessness; helplessness and pain; pain and suffering; suffering and suffocating. The endless cycle that we live in and the world still grows bigger and I feel small, tiny, like a speck of dust or a drop of blood, whichever you see first. Dostoevsky (that existentialist before existentialism was cool) said that mans stubbornness to prove his point is why the world is what it is. The answer then, my friend, is perhaps a little less stubbornness.

A part of me, a big part of me, wants to remain small, unknown, oblivious and numb. For what would happen if we started to feel, I dare ask. Having a few close ones, friends who share your ideologies, just a handful to take me through life is enough. Being known is daunting, it’s scary. In a world where internet and social media has made everyone more vocal, do you ever find someone being loved unanimously? And who wants to run that risk of being loved when there is so much hate in the world. God would probably hate the internet. But these paragraphs seem disconnected, absurd even. My mind, when speaking on this topic, is particularly incoherent.

Why do we have that one room that’s all our own? That one room you can always go to when the world gets too much to take. It’s in this room that you feel like you’re back in an empty dream, alone and at peace, not having to share it with anybody, not letting anyone in. Why is it that we need this room? The answer might be a little biased coming from an introvert. But then again, in a new age of existentialism, aren’t more people just like me? I could be wrong and I probably lost a few readers on my way today. But the few that stayed on may have found something. A few, I’ve always liked a few. A few is what I need to get through life. So to the few out there reading this, I’m glad you exist.

Of Cats and Us

A history of insensitivity and atrophy,
We stand together, numb;
Leather for skin, bile for blood,
But my cat outside is oblivious,
Coiled on a porch, she sings, “same as tomorrow?”

We are the crumbs of a dying world,
Of stale vegetables swept under a rug,
A child screams through the night, voices which fade under the sun.
C’est la vie, my cat says,
Licking her fur and a gentle shrug.

Or is there hope yet, for a new kind of death,
One where pain is but at the end,
And should we wake up tomorrow?
My cat, she yawns,
No toll has taken her, no sorrow.

Or should we cease to imagine,
Will reality become a dream?
Can we wake in the middle and continue down that magnificent stream?
Or should we trade places, for a moment fleeting,
For look at my cat, she is sleeping.

Maya

Maya, a fever,
A fervor, my Maya true.
Last night I trembled
Petrified and blue.

Purity is not lost,
Among lines that scar your face,
Amidst the gathering of restless ghosts,
Maya, a death so full of grace

Your body is a canvas,
With blue patches and red lashes,
Nails that bore deep behind,
Eyes of fear reveal thy mind.

Your face is a thousand tethered images
Of love, lost in earthly vines,
Amidst countless grim visages,
You emerge a death most divine.

Oh, awaken me with your wintry lips,
Your summer skin shone under the moonlight,
Let my hands guide thy autumnal hips,
Oh Maya, how can death look a delight?

Maya, a fever,
A fervor, my Maya true.
Tonight I tremble,
Petrified and blue.

Many Like Me

Many like me, alone and screaming,
Hard to communicate, where’s the
Meaning?
In the bus it’s crowded,
Suffocating, it closes in on me.
People everywhere, they stare,
Soundless, the voices scream from their eyes
But only I can hear you cry.

The world grows louder,
Like a million shattered glass, pieces
Of voices chatting and meaningless yapping,
Of voices shrieking and thousands dying,
Speechless, it closes in on me.
Running, running towards thee,
Crimson tears under your eyes,
Looking at a world gone by,
But only I can hear you cry.

See this painting of a distracted mind,
Eating cereal and trying to find
His shoes, his feet in the world,
Where smoke cans hide the blood
Of rebels, martyrs and broken things;
Of faces kissing the dirt where once were homes.
But don’t worry, love, you’re free,
No one can touch you under that Eden tree.

There a plane goes missing, another
Goes down.
But you’re dead, love, don’t frown.
Pity the living, pray for me,
Pray for us, only meekly.
For how lovely it would be,
To look down with thee,
And see many more just like me.

A Fling with Darkness

When the lights go out and darkness fills your room, it is only then that you appreciate the beauty of cool breezy night in the month of May. It is only when you’re surrounded by shadows that you understand the meaning behind a somber moonlight spreading its thin radiant light as you step out of the confines of solitude that is your home. Shadows that push you into the light; that reveal just how alone you are in the darkness. Yet the moon never leaves your sight, hanging in the sky like a bright white bulb. Oh, how glad you feel seeing that pearly orb, beautiful and freckled, shining far away and a weird sense of comfort taking over you, tightening your body only to let it loose again (to feel what I mean you need only clench your fist as hard as you can for five seconds and let go). When the heat of May strikes hard and makes you weary, breathless, dry in want of air, thirsty for wind and your clothes stick to your body like paper on gum, all it takes is a gentle breeze to make you ecstatic. When your body is warm on the inside and a waft of cool air caresses your face and gently dances with your hair you feel a mix of opposites like never before. A balmy shiver takes hold of your body. You feel alive. Your hair rises up in a choric appeal to the nightly goddess for a few more seconds of darkness. And like all fleeting romances this one too races your heart. You begin to wish for an everlasting union with the dark like a boy at the peak of his pheromonal trance. But when the light comes back, the fling with darkness is over. The dance with the moonlight is at its end. You’re back to your old life. The mundane, the monotony, the ennui of life comes rushing back and you forget all about the little romance in the dark. Yet deep down, in a little dark corner within you, something screams out like a fetus waiting for its date. When you sit alone at nights watching TV, or you lie in bed while still wide awake, you want the lights to go out so that once more, for a brief moment in the dark, you may feel born again.

Kissed by Fireflies

“But she isn’t usual.” Shyam said, poking the fireplace with a stick.

“Unusual is exciting, Shyam old chap. It always is,” said Ravi, lighting his pipe.

“She spoke to me and I felt honored, enlightened. Is that a feeling one gets when one is in love?”

“Ah, but how wonderful that feeling is! For a man to feel humbled and small in the presence of a woman is something you don’t get to hear about much these days, do you?”

“She is the fairest creature you would ever lay your eyes on, Ravi. Her skin glows bright yellow under the moonlight; hair flowing down her curved back, engulfing her like the ocean. The smile has something of a child’s innocence and wickedness and the most astoundingly perfect nose.” Shyam said, gazing at the crackling fire, sparks of yellow and orange jumping up.

“Was there ever a creature as fine as this? You are in trouble.”

“She has ruined me.”

“Well, what man isn’t ruined in love? You feel no other can reach up to her; that the bar is set so high and the fall equally great. But it is only when we fall that we truly know who we are.” Ravi said, puffing out a circle of smoke.

“I guess you’re right, Ravi. Have you ever felt it?”

“I’ve spent my whole life avoiding this feeling. It’s easy to fall in love, my dear. But it takes perseverance to be ruined.”

“You make it sound prestigious, Ravi. I’m not sure I agree.”

“Trust me, when it pays off you’re going to come and thank me.”

“When it pays off,” Shyam said whispering to himself, still gazing into the fire.

“Well, I better get to bed. I’ve got to meet the missus early tomorrow for breakfast,” Ravi said, rising from his chair.

“Same time, next week, Doctor?”

“Yes. And I want to hear more progress my dear boy.”

“I think I’m going to kiss her tonight, Ravi. Yes, I think I’ll take that chance. Goodnight, Ravi.”

It was pitch dark outside with very few streetlights along the road as Shyam left Ravi’s house. Walking toward his home, he saw flashes of yellows and greens among bushes on either side which looked like an endless line of scattered little bulbs lighting the night and his path. He was always fascinated with fireflies, the night seemed less lonely to him whenever they came out. In their movements and swirls he could always form her picture.

He decided to go to her house; she lived not more than 15 minutes away from his own. As he approached the wooded fence gate which opened to her front lawn, he felt like he had forgotten something, something that did not seem important to him at the time. He saw her standing outside her door, on the lawn, her bare feet on wet, pointed grass. From afar she looked like a shadow, a colorless outline under a starry night, yet Shyam knew it was her. As he approached her she became clearer. Color began to fill her face and body. She wore the same green shirt and white frock as she did the previous night. Slowly walking towards her, she was two inches from his feet now. As he stared into her eyes he realized how inviting her expression was. He leaned his head forward, his dry and pale mouth touching her exquisitely pink lips. Both locked in an embrace for a moment before she shattered into tiny yellow dust particles, evaporating into the nightly sky like a million glowing fireflies. “You’ve ruined me,” Shyam said as he glanced at the dark, empty house through the window before he turned around for his walk back home.

Magic

The new Coldplay song got me thinking. We all need magic. But what is magic? Not just a man pulling a rabbit out of a hat – even that doesn’t happen anymore; Nor being cut in half – since we get enough of that in our own lives, metaphorically speaking. Ladies and gentlemen in the audience allow me to tell you that magic is an escape. It’s a chance to leave your body for just a few seconds. You leave all the things that tie you down, your monotonous life, your laptop, your favorite TV shows, and the noise in between. It’s a moment of cathartic release. You escape to something white. Yes, you can indeed fly. There is blankness all around. You stand in the middle of all that quietude and you feel glad. It’s the kind of death you always desired. But it’s not death. It’s magic. And it’s fleeting, this magic is. It’s worth your whole life waiting for those few seconds of pure transcendence. I won’t name the ways to attain this. They are far too great and I am far too young to know them all. But one way I do know is when you see her. You know you’ve found her, when she makes you weak; when in all your life you haven’t had the chance to bend your knees and suddenly you feel humbled at her sight. Let me present my lovely assistant for tonight’s act. You lose all your defenses; all the walls and gates you’ve put up. The poker face is lost. You tremble. You sweat when you meet her; beads of crystals slowly trickle down your face and you’re aware of each and every movement. You’re thirsty, but not for water. You can’t talk yet there is too much to say, and words seem scarce. You’re the smiling assistant at a magic show facing your master, her. But you’re also outside, sitting in the audience, watching yourself as you prepare for the ‘Greatest’ act. You will notice that the hat is empty. You’re happy the moment your eyes gaze upon her. You’re ecstatic when she walks to you, asking you for…well anything.  You mumble because for the first time in your life you are aware of your own tongue. You feel it sliding around in your mouth like a serpent on hot, dry sand. Your heart beats and you feel the vibrations. I shall gently tap the hat three times. You’re paralyzed, you tremble, you’re scared, you fumble, you’re awe-struck, and you’re not you anymore. You are neither the assistant nor the audience; you’re not even a person. You’re more. You are what science can’t describe and what literature tries to capture. You are here and you’re not. You are Schrodinger’s cat. You are the rabbit in the hat, and she is your conjurer. And when she pulls you out, Voila! It is then for those brief few seconds that you feel magic. Thank you and do come again.