Today.

Pathetic poetry patters.
Raindrops types, slithering down clouded windows on grey pigeons.
She texts me- There is a rainbow.
Where?
Not in my eyes. From here, 12 floors down I just see monkeys straddling the iron rods that are scaling the building face.
Baby monkeys. Mothers. Fathers perhaps.
I see you come in. This thought that had been hovering around gingerly for a while, shoves plans aside and makes a lot of empty space for itself. But it doesn't sit down.
Gets up. Wanders away.The gaping space staring at your face.
Punched clean away. Tears are burning my eyes.
I am screaming out inside.
And I am counting seconds to breathe this anger away. Scathing, bitter, fiery, hot anger- rushing up the nerves in my temples.
I stare down at the floor, nails cutting into my palms.
Peace.
Pathetic.
You. Me. Her.
Well. Even when I tear every action apart, fragment and deconstruct into the most honest acts- the scales are tilted.
The eternal battle for earth and sky. The darkening shadows in my eyes.
The bludgeoned to death lullaby.
Even the mice patter on wooden floors.

Missing

There I was. In a flimsy white slip, hand stitched lace at the hem, kiddy pink panties. Didn’t have a swim suit. Ma did not think I needed one for one trip to the beach. Sitting on my haunches next to the pool. Baba was in the pool- asking Ma to give me to him. I could not swim. Baba’s out stretched hands took me into the blue water. Then I was running on the wet sands to the sea.

There again. Amidst the rolling valley. The bluest sky and the darkest green. I threw a stone at a lamb. It butted me down. I rolled down the tiny hill, sat there and wailed till my parents finished laughing and came and told me- nothing happened. The sky was still blue, the grass still memory green.

Look at me. In the white snow- a blotch of red. Ma never let go of my tiny fist wrapped around her finger. I took a handful of snow and ate it. I wish I knew then what a snowman was- orange candies were more important to me. I knew a poppy though. Innumerable stars, being fed sitting on the log cabin stairs, blue woollen dungarees, I looked like a boy. The yellow tent blazing in my mind’s eye.

Why do I remember so little?

Where did Ma and Baba leave me and go?

The Imaginarium

Everyone thinks that their problems are bigger than anybody else’s problems. Everyone wants everyone to understand. To love them. To like them. To hold them when they sleep at night. How am I any different?
Do I not miss the feel of someone next to me when the person gets up and leaves?
I.
Someone who could not share a bed. I now share my life with people who may not exist tomorrow.

I write with the fear of losing all that I have ever written. Retarded Rhymes from the time I was 12. In minuscule, neat alphabets, with pencil on paper yellowed with age. an old note pad that belonged to my grandfather.


Words rhymed, the poems were small, painfully simple lines. Innocence perhaps, more complex feelings had not yet assaulted my words then. Love still rhymed with dove, blue with you, sky with why.

I wrote of love- without ever being in it. Wrote about imagined pains. Drama as always. No colours, no visions, no time lapses and no morbidity. How difficult can black graphite on paper get?

There is no going back to that oblivious innocence. I have lost those poems. Words, oft used, ever abused- rhymes, without knowing about passions, about desires, about sins.

My mother wanted to keep those poems- but I lost them. Maybe because I was growing up. This grownup life had no space for such simplicities. If I knew that growing up was such a scary process- I would have kept those poems forever.

Aboard the Flying Dutchman!

I have decided to get back to blogging. Since I have partially stopped maintaining a diary. Heartbreaking. For those empty pages I had been longing to feel. They have been violated. It disgusts me.

I am waiting for something stunning. To write about. That little beacon of hope that gets brighter and brighter as the words are created- and then it blinds you. I want to blind people with thoughts. For some people I feel- have not had one worthy thought in decades. Waste of brain, waste of space.

I also hate people who leech off ideas. When I hear them talk to others they go-
For example-
"Oh! I love Simon and Garfunkle...the cover for Watchmen...ooo...so nice...makes the song stand out more..."

Hello! Did you not hear of Simon and Garfunkle from my Ipod!??

Another-

"In Lord of the Rings- I love the way the elves look...and the place they live in...so pretty! And I can't believe that there is a reading of LOTR that reads homosexuality into the text...CAN you IMAGINE???"

Excuse me- You don't know where the elves live...and the essay you are talking bout is in MY laptop!!!

This is usually done to impress men- men who have a sliver of intellect. Just a sliver.

Digression. But then.

There has to be a brilliant idea hovering around somewhere. I just need to catch it, when it is resting unaware on a mossy branch. I hope it looks like one of the fairies from Pan's Labyrinth.
Catch it and pin it down in ink on handmade paper. Then it would look perfect.
Or I could sit on the helm of the Flying Dutchman and dangle my legs till something better came along.

And then I could write.

Ordo ab chao

I have decided to get the word 'chaos' tattooed. Below this other symbol. It makes sense to me to add something more to that symbol- for apparently, both me and the other person in question who got it tattooed- didn't give it too much thought. We just picked a design that looked cool, remotely related to 'love'
So I have decided to add the word 'chaos' to it.
Chaos is a permanent state for me. Nothing else makes sense.
My mind is never at peace. I never have dreamless sleep. It never rests, I can get back to a dream, just where I left it off, in case I am not satisfied with how it ended. I can follow it, manipulate it at times.
My concentration span is lesser than that of a sparrow.

So now. When the word is done- the symbol will read- chaotic love.

For a change. Perfect.