In the cold room

Dear Prashant<justwriteprashant.09@gmail.com>,

I’m writing to you again. It may be a bit impulsive to mail you but if you are reading this…

The floor, yes! I’m sitting on the floor. The room is cold. The lights are switched off. The speakers are singing beautiful melancholic lyrics interweaved with the sound of a sad mouthorgan. It’s not what nonsense the voices are saying but what the voices are feeling. And true! The voices are sad. The cold room itself is lamenting its misery by touching me on the floor. It has a painfully cold story. I want to get up but somehow I feel connected, I might be gifting it equal amount of cold stinging stories back. I’m sad.

“Try distracting yourself!” She had suggested the other day. “When I’m sad, I sketch!”  She holds an important place in me. Thankfully I never told her.

Not that I have never tried it but my hands are sad too. They resist being bothered. All I can do is, write, but that as well is not helping. Books? No! Walk? No! Music? No! Movies? No! Please no! Nothing’s helping!

I want someone to hear me. But I am unbearably alone. Trust issues! I have trust issues. I am slightly paranoiac as well. I don’t want anyone to enter my shell, still, I am human, and I’m alive, I breath and something in me surely beats. It yearns to be heard.

“Pain demands to be felt.”

Try visualizing me! A man in a dark room, kept like a heap of flesh on the floor, dead face wearing a macabre expression, scribbling the diary in the only light seeping into the room through the curtains, some sad artist singing ‘blues’ with mouthorgan and violin in the background.

 So many contacts on my phone! I have scrolled it thrice but have called none. I’m sure no one would want to hear me, more importantly; I do not want to talk to anyone. Often it comes to me as a sudden realization that I am surrounded by loads of people and yet I am alone. Am I sounding needy, vulnerable and desperate? Oh yes! I am! 

“You are so vulnerable in your writings! How can anyone share his vulnerability?” She would say.

I did not reply her, so here goes the truth. My pen is naked! It is justified for it to be a slut and to let go off its wildest dirtiest fantasies in the most shameless way. It does sing the melody of my vulnerability at times, and I let it, for I know; it does lie at times, but never pretends. 

Yours truly,

XXXXXXX<xxxxxxxxxxxx@rediffmail.com>

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I was Flying

Aren’t bridges wings? Why has man thrown logs over streaming brooks? Why has he erected columns to pave way for humanity? Yes, they are bridges, they are wings! You fly over the land, only that you have your feet on the concrete. You feel the smell of air of the heights. You are born to fly. The ones on the ground, don’t they feel the desire to stand where you stand? Don’t they envy you for being at a height? Yes, you certainly fly, coz you are born to. Bridges are wings!

The other day, I was standing on a bridge. I was flying in the breeze, which fingered gingerly through my hair, and, like an old passionate lovelorn lover, seduced me to loosen up my clothes to feel her running with every hair, every goose bump of my body. It gently pecked marks of love over my body parched by the sunny days of lost childhood and fake adult rationale and hypocrisy. Yes, I was in love with the wind again, with myself and our solitude love making. I was flying again; naked I was, having stripped off my clothes of materialism, shrewdness, skewness and hatred. 

I was looking westward, to the setting sun. The horizon transitioned through thousands of psychedelic shades of amber, as the earth kissed the sun. The sun blushed and the whole sky, the whole of my bosom’s universe felt the tinge of love.

The river, the Ganga, that tore the horizon of nothingness filled wilderness into two, like a flying bird rips off the heart of the heaven into two, was wavering and returning back the blush to the sky. The boatmen down into the river carrying young couples pulled their boats in the stream. They are blessed people, they make some of the most mesmerizing and cherishable moments for people. They trouble their hands pulling oars to let people capture the spectacle into their hearts. They see numerous stories beginning and ending before them. On one hand they look at people starting their lives anew and on the other hand they turn their heads to the far back to look smoke rising from the cremation grounds.

I smiled at the brutally paradoxical irony. I pulled on my hood and flew away! Smiling! Waiting to fly over the scene again someday…in solitude…

I might survive this pang, I might survive the next pang, might survive  yet another fit…

But how many times do I survive, till I survive?

The Lovely Summer-girl 

Beneath the night sky, with summer heat high; lay two souls, bound in a roll;

In the tide of stars and blooming crescent, they lay embraced arm in arm; the cool breeze and her velvet hair danced over his face ,  her lips chirped stories of her age , which he did not listen but heared without any damage;

At times prevailed silence , it felt like night sky; still and full of feeling like the stars, where the blazing moon of their embrace cooled their heart’s pending scars;

The boy felt like rain, in his tiny brain; when she told him a thousands of stories and hundreds of her friend’s mysteries; he lay there on her arm, caressed her cheeks with his hands not so strong, and stole glance in her eyes which danced as her talks went high.

Never did he leave her alone, searched for her eyes all day long, she looked forward along; every morning he woke up in her arms, ‘Ah! this is the best morning.’ he thought.

But his best summer came to a halt, before he named what he felt in his heart; like a mesmerising dream he held her in him.

He bore his summer girl, deep down his bosom; and loved to play his tune when alone;

Some words he should have said remained unspoken. he let her go, for it was his first crush, and he savoured the unsaid intimacy he had with her.

The Irony of Death

After a whole life, after the river of glooms, he lay enlightened,  beneath the tree; the worth of childhood smile, at the end, was realised, and he lay down there in dirt, wearing the enlightenment, kissing the earth.

Unknown  to his enlightenment, his family cried. He lay still, bearing the child’s smile, too lazy to leave his eternal nap of peace.

Birds and  squirrels, his friends from childhood, peered from the boughs above, singing a merry song harmonious to the soul’s  content he held within.

Born naked, dirt played, animals befriended; it took him a lifetime to realise that the dirt he now lay on was an eternal truth; the clothes of hippocracy and rationale, he had stripped; and the lost “socially ridiculed” friendship he had accepted again. Lying in dirt with his childhood embraced.

He fell in love, for the first time, with himself.

She’s adorable…

She’s like, a beautifully crafted piece of literature;

She’s like, an impeccably brushed canvas of miniature;

Like a mural’s splendor, she’s my soul’s plural, yet singular we stand ajar, bound in the music of sentimental silence;

The bosom’s lip sync, like the perfection of Mozart, like the harmony of Beethoven;

 

Her eyes rain love and faith,

I akin to a desperate prostitute, shameless not heartless,

Look up at her, to not lose a moment of falling for her,

Every time she blinks…

 

O love,

Let the newborn in me, grow in your cuddle;

The infant love cheer thru the verses;

Let the rhyming current of our sprouting purity end up in the ocean of love.

200_s