Among the subtleties of human predicaments, I often like to imagine, is a lie that they had us believe. A lie- or a truth gone rogue- that was fed to us to keep the darkness away, which now ironically forms the very basis of it.
The fundamental error of our lives has been to let that lie settle into our souls, to place our bets on the belief that- purposeful things cannot end into nothingness.
If you are a wise old man
Who can tell right from wrong
Someone who knows about life
And, everything else beyond.
If you are someone who can cherish
The beauty of nature and its sounds
And, can love endlessly,
Without being love bound.
Then, know that I look for you
To come and give me hope
For, my friend, I am troubled
And am unable to cope.
But, if you are young, naive
Like me, as is fated
You are tired of life and death
And, all things related
You’ve left many things behind
And, some things have left you
You spent your life collecting memories
And, now that’s all that’s left of you.
Then, know that you’re not alone
And, we can still get through life
Be my friend, I am troubled
For even that will suffice.
“Nothing valuable left for distribution”
The will declared
“Memories have been cremated already
You are not
A passenger sitting
By the window
Of a chair car,
Writing a prose
On the beautiful
You are but
A passenger’s shadow
Forged out of the light
Escaping those hills.
You are but
A fleeting moment
Striving to survive
The distance that goes.
You are but
A single serving
As the station arrives.
You are the prose.
I hope our distances are forever measured in miles, and not in years.
I often imagine death as waking up in a train.
You wake up in a white, silverish train with silver metal seats carefully arranged in the sides like an array so that they face each other.
The floor is greyish and after each coach is a small plastic tube of the same colour connecting the coaches.
You wake up and find yourselves sitting at the foremost seat of the foremost coach. The train is moving very fast and everything is shaking. There is no sound at all, except a pleasant song from your childhood. It’s like you are wearing earphones. You glance out of the window and see familiar places passing you by, in a beautiful sunny background which is reminiscent of a pleasant weather.
You stand up and look around. The seats are almost full. Each and every person you had ever met in your life is occupyng a seat. You take a stroll towards the last coach, passing through the junction tubes, holding silver poles to compensate the shaking.
You see your mother, your father, your lover, everyone. But, they don’t recognise you. They just look at you, stare at you suspiciously, as if you are a stranger who stole something valuable from them.
And, for some reason, you cannot talk to them. You cannot open your mouth, you cannot think of speaking. The only thought that is running through your mind is that you know these people and that at some point of time, they must have known you too. And, that is all you can think of.
You continue to walk and soon reach the last coach. The shaking starts to get milder, and milder, till it stops altogether. There are no familiar places outside the window anymore, and nothing is moving either. You just see a white platform. Slowly and sluggishly, the doors slide open and just, as they do, you notice that there is no music playing anymore. There is no sound at all, in fact.
You look inside the train, everywhere. Everyone is still just sitting. No one lifts his head, no one bats her eye. No one steps to get off, except of course yourself. It’s time.
You slowly walk outside. The train doors close behind, dramatically. The platform is like any other platform, only cleaner and whiter. There are a few people around. There is a weather around, but nothing other than the whiteness of the platform is noticeable. It is like a dream.
As you look behind, you see the train going away, carrying everyone you had ever known. But, you are not sad. Both they and you have let go.
You turn back around to face the platform, and just as you do, the music starts again. You take a step forward, slowly and gently picking up your right leg and putting it down a little in front of the left one. And, just as your sole (soul) touches the ground, everything except the music fades into white nothingness- oblivion.
Imagine the worst that can happen and know that it’s life and that it would still be fine.
It’s not when things go wrong
It’s not then,
Things go wrong all the time
And, so, it’s not then.
It’s when they are fine.
When they don’t go right.
But, they are supposed to
And thus are
It’s when a shriek inside
Is silenced by denials
When a time of beliefs
Is turned by dials.
When heads are down
And hearts are tired
Of being buried.
Of being unheard.
Of being dead.
That we fail as beings.
Here is another poetry project. This one took me a lot of time. It actually represents three poems. How it works:
Poem A (One Two Three Four): Start from the beginning. Read every line of each stanza
Poem B (One Three): Start from the beginning. Read only first and third line of each stanza
Poem C (Two Four): Start from the beginning. Read only second and fourth line of each stanza
Each combination would be a different poem.
Two kids sitting in a park
Near the age-old oak tree
Their minds wandering to where
Flows a river of tranquility.
They could read each other’s minds,
The air of thought is felt
To say, they would not dare
The words wouldn’t be spelled.
They would want to stay silent.
For in silence, there was love,
People would call them mute.
In language, there was rut.
But, no one knew how it was
At that place of silence
It was an escape of their suit.
To where there is no violence.
They lived their life like that
Take me there, I beg, I say
In a hope to live without words
Take me to that heavenly play.
In a hope to maybe run away
I wish to live, I wish to escape
In a silent anonymous curse
I wish to die, I wish today.
We can never be part of a revolution. We live in crowds. We shout in whispers. We see through masks. The only ones we kiss are our deaths. The only deaths we face are our lives. Our existence, our presence revolves around the same axis as our absence.
We exist in boxes, we sleep in one, we walk in one, we are sick of one. But, we aren’t gonna break one, the box, for we are scared of living without it: alone, outside.
We are desperate, sad, needy people. We are begging for a revolution. But, we aren’t gonna get one. Not that we lack ideas. No. Only none of us, no one from us has the guts to start one. We can never be part of a revolution.