Wrath.

From one end to the other, the sphere
Completes the circular path,
It's destiny, it declares;
Much to its own wrath.

Then comes the naming of the stories
In the restricted zones
Of my mind's library, that
Imprisons words in tyrannical tones.

The unexplained wins.
Like a statement in the guise of a question,
Hypocrisy, intensely biological;
In an attractive pursuit of possession.

Dreamalikes.

With fresh dreams of one futile future,
the eye-balls raced beneath the sleeping lids;
the legs spread in a sprint,
across the world without a worry;
the arms clutched stuffed linen,
in one hold without a hurry.

Peace came knocking, and woke me up;
Whispered to my ears, it's time to be up.
I frowned and groaned,
Let me see some more, I said.
"Too much, already",
Exactly, as I dreaded.

And thus my eyes wrenched open,
welcomed the colourful darkness.
Sounds of the system serve a reminder of the real.
The debated desires in deconstruction, on;
a road with a memory and a story.
All washed away in the riot of lights,
My nights feel sorry.

Painting.

If you could, you would.
If I would, I could.
And vice versa.
And vice-versa, again.
Or maybe, not.
Not, yes, not.
Chronicling, I kept saying.
And then, I gave up.
And then, you gave up.
And then, they all did.
And it continued.

I stood against the wall.
The cold penetrates the cotton, as usual.
I touched it with my index finger.
And then, with my whole right palm.
Still, it doesn't feel real enough;
Real enough to clutch onto it.

And one after the other, the paradoxes establish themselves.
Distractions, I hope.
But they all are like the magnetic compass.
Can't stop pointing North, no matter where I take it to.
No matter where, when, or how.
Tilted, upside-down, from every point of view;
It shows you.
So I decide to break the needle.
But no, it wasn't such a good idea.
I could have changed the marks, rather.
The diametric metric ones.
Or I could have chosen not to look at it.

But, I did so, didn't I?
I slept it off.
But an overdose has a hangover.

Hypocrisy.

And one day, when everything is over,
and nothingness overwhelms all the intra-personal zones,
I'll build my own fence around my forever.

Life is a big distraction!

The cold metal finger of the mental,
Digs into the surface of the conscious;
Gets in touch with the untouchable.
Untouchable, because it's non-existent.
Apparently, of course.
Were they flying around the head?
Was I looking out?
Or did they crop up in the brain-bed itself?
Was I looking within?
But, firstly, find me the Line Of Control,
Within which, all of it is me.
Outside which, the world is physical or metaphysical;
That's none of my business.
But definitions are, definitely.
It's not even a conflict.
Not even the phenomenon of fluctuation,
That I used to talk about;
Once upon a depressed day.
It's far beyond the regular.
A necessity that I weave.
And then tear apart.
And then, weave again,
To my great discomfort.
Unto unknown intentions.

The Loop.

Experimented. Experienced. Exploited. Exhausted.
As of 28th January 2011, 12:52am.

Can you go down to a place within me, which is so deep, that even I can't touch you?

Blink,

Thrice upon a life-time,
He fought a battle;
He wanted to win;
How badly, I doubt.

Riddles.

Let's buy the white-tipped red caps.
Saint Nicholas.
Where do you get all your money?

Angels fly down, without fuel.
Without a ticket for every mile travelled.
But if, it's not a myth, how can it be material?


Makes sense, maybe.
For music comes at a price too.

Unimportant.

And, then, there comes a point, when nothing makes sense anymore.
But why? How?
A game of chess can be the example.
All the elaborate designs, evil, or otherwise.
Narrowed down to two squares.
White or black, not important.
Checkmate.
But why? How?

Men should have remained monkeys.
The brain is not a blessing.

Stark.

The curse gets worse.
The patience, like penance.

The wait for the knell.
He knows, very well.

It's all synonymous, now.
Death, despair, desire-less-ness.
It gets simpler somehow.
Internal processes.

The bull's eye blurs.
A blessing.

The Synopsis.

Old songs from a long forgotten city
Playing in the vicinity.

The memories of worn-out winters
Frequenting cerebral borders.

And then, a crisp moment
Brittle in its essence.
Wipes out the rest.

The lop-sided walk, going forth and back.
Feet carved out of the familiar track.

Deep in thought, deep in pockets
Moist eye-lids, painful sockets.

And then, a whiff.
The inherent gift.
Constancy of conflict.

Pointless exceptions to the rules they make
Living an existence that's utterly fake

The big picture, I remember,
The universe, I surrender.

And then, comes the calm after the storm;
The despair they fight, becomes the norm.
Two arms embrace the forlorn.

I Smirk.

The blue cotton threads,
Weaving in and out;
Breathing in and out,
The cold, wet, winter breeze;
A reminder of what that was.
Few, that brought smiles.
Fewer, that had hurt.
A testimony to what is,
And to the anticipation
Of what will be.

At the dark ends
Of the brightly-lit tunnels,
I smirk.

30 Minutes. Over the Phone.

Give me a drug.
Instead of the hug.
No, don't shrug.
Don't look smug.

Here I am.
In the traffic jam.
The eternal exam,
Of things I damn.

My heart beats,
My lung breathes;
My head seethes,
At mysterious myths.

The tug of war
With me, at par;
With things I bar,
With things too far.

The seasons change;
The entire range.
The moods, strange.
An exceptional exchange.

My point of view:
How nothing is true.
But when it comes to you,
Everything is new.

My helpless ear,
My infrequent fear;
That people near
Have to bear.

I would
If I could
But I should
Stop.

The Corner Seat.

[Recovered from my notes during the days of information-hunting for a stupid serial; September 2010.]

In the corner seat of the bus,
The last seat on the left;
Black tattered leathers,
Altogether unkempt.

The leaves outside are swaying;
Or is it just my vision?
For I am drenched in sweat,
Weather's own indetification.

The black ink draws patterns
With each mineral droplet
Even nonsense makes sense
It doesn't matter, yet.

The mind is an expert pendulum
Reels of memory and real
Oscillating in rough rounds
The loop like Devil's deal.

Sanity, aren't you insane?
Stability, you unstable?
When the daydream is replayed
As slumber's vivid fable?

Now the bus starts moving,
The engine engineers noise,
The rush of air beside,
Faking Nature wind-wise.

The driver honks the horn
In a relentless melody;
How easy it is to conjure
A rhythm in cacophony!

The window of the car beside
Betrays a boy of five
Sparkling eyes and sparkling teeth;
Is childhood really naive?

The head heavy with sleep
Weighs down on the eyes;
Magnified, and amplified,
The sound pays the price.

The cellphone vibrates against the thigh.
And I know who's calling up.
I close my eyes and still the world.
And let the voice fill up.

Thinking Aloud.

This is what follows, once I've started.

History repeats itself.

Not necessarily.

But the machine always flunks.

When it becomes necessary.

Rhymes, I'm bored of

Statistics, mundane

Truth, sans absolution

Makes things meaningless.

The adventure must go on.

Since that's the rule, they say

But rules, who is fond of?

Brains with no matter gray.

Design the divine

Praise the pristine

Define the line

But,

Keep track of time.

The days roll out

Drop by drop

And all we do is

Talk and talk.

The trouble with us, is

We think we are wise

And every mocking moment

Makes us pay the price.

Confidence? No complaints.

We were talking of paints

Or were we just pretending

To cover the time we're killing?

Oh, forgive my brain, my heart

It's burden plays no part

Gibberish is tax-free

Greatness, temporary.

Yet, I contradict

Evolve, a better word

Fickle, a worse one,

Where is the third?

Is that the waiting crowd?

Ask them to wait for me.

Till my conscience proud

Allows me to to be

What I do not want,

And what I claim to hate

Till I've set the records

"Normal" and "straight".

The Excuse of a Response

And as usual, I would not agree;
Point out, this is temporary,
Metals inside last lesser
Than the metals outside, ever.
Escapism, I'd endorse, if
I knew the why behind grief,
And as you say, yourself,
The trick is to delve.
Stop the music, if silence
Feels too silent hence.

Sounds and sights,
Wants and desires,
Code words and proverbs,
Things the mind loves.
But then, what do I say?
My own words sway,
Temporary, I repeat
And console every heart beat
That I always have a plan
That words cannot span
Stretching into infinity, and then,
Nothing-ness.
Nothing else.
Excuses, again.
I always need them.

Zzeet-Zzat-Bump.

Zzeet-zzaat-bump.

Brownian motion.

Incoherent collision.

Each with each other.

And the walls of the skull.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Echoing every touch.

The suffocation as such;

The din of distraction defeaning,

The brain bows in burden.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Blocking and unblocking.

The feeling of losing,

The track of all tracks.

Inter-over-lapping.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

All day, all night,

Can I have a respite?

A little unlimited time,

Wrenched out of schedules?

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Now, the sound hurts.

Now, the heart burns.

Now, this is my threshold

Now, there is no next.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Brownian motion.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Synchronisation.

Zzeet-Zzat-bump.

“Sound the bugle now”

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Harmony has set in.

Lovely Twenty-Four.

Diwali eve. Saw this lady, not-so-well-to-do, if you know what I mean. Her entire head was bandaged. I imagine she has a family. A son, or two, and a husband. Will they burn crackers, I wonder.
A winter afternoon. A sun, blood red. No, it's not exactly a setting sun. It was glaring bright enough. But it was red. And I stared into it till it became blue, due to some-god-knows-what phenomenon that always happens when you stare into the sun. After a while, I look at the sun again, but this time, not exactly at it. I see it's reflection, doubled in size, on the glass panes of a huge building.
I didn't take it out. It was in my bag. The camera, I mean.
A morning, that starts with a hangover. And a confusion about what happened last. Amidst all the confusion, there is one thing constant. I'm looking for the cellphone.
A night, that follows a wish-this-lasted-forever-evening. Happily drunk. Top-of-the-world. Or no, wait, the world stopped existing. Careless behavior, as a result.
Thank you life, for all the variety.
Only if you could get my head rid of migraine, I could have worked tonight. And paid you back for the last twenty-four hours.

Someone said this to me and Sayak, today.
"Why are you both walking like old men? Slowly, pausing after every step, as if you're contemplating every step?"
I did not reply aloud.
I was not contemplating every step.

The Door.

One.

He walked out of the apartment. He was determined not to turn back.

But, he knew, from habit, that she would come to the door, and call him back again.

So, he closed the door behind him, and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

She would need to go back to get her keys, or maybe she won’t. She would know that he was gone.

He heard her approaching footsteps, as he turned the key in the lock.

He shoved the keys back into his pocket, and took a hasty step forward. Just one step.

Her footsteps had silenced. He stopped.

He was determined not to turn around.

He couldn’t move.

He was tempted to peep in through the key-hole.

But, no, he won’t turn around. He stood there. He waited for the sound of her footsteps. Forward or backward, in any direction, would do.

But there was no sound.

The two of them stood few feet away from each other, separated by the teak-paneled door.

No one moved.

Two.

She was stunned. Shocked.

“Get out”, she ordered, her voice trembling with anger.

He hated her, but his body always obeyed her. He hated his body for that.

His knees stretched, his feet gripped the floor, and one by one, they led him out of the room, across the corridor, to the door.

He turned the door-knob and stepped out. He stood there, with his back facing the door wide open.

She came, silently.

She swung the door shut, with a loud thump.

He spiraled back and thrust both his hands on the teak panels. He banged his head on the wood.

He screwed shut his eyes, and tried to listen to her footsteps.

Instead, he heard a scraping sound against the wood. The sound travelled downwards, as his cheek traced the sound.

Then, the sound of her sobs.

He didn’t want to say anything.

He always hated talking.

His nails scratched against the teak and he slumped down on the floor of the dirty hallway.

He wasn’t the one who cared about cleanliness.

Three.

It was early morning. He ran up the stairs. He never took the elevator when he was in a hurry. In spite of his self-claimed tech-dependence, he always trusted his limbs more than anything else.

Panting, he reached the second floor.

He never pressed the door-bell, either.

He was about to call on her phone, from his cellphone, when he saw it.

The door was already open. Wide open.

He called out her name. He couldn’t explain the loud thumping in his heart, whether it was fear or the breathlessness from running.

Trying to hold himself together, he staggered into the rooms, one by one.

She was nowhere.

A fresh sticky note lay on the refrigerator.

He didn’t notice it, amongst all the paper stuck on it.

He leaned his head the fridge, and heaved a heavy sigh. He called out her name again.

She was nowhere.

There was a sound. It was her ringtone. He found the phone ringing deep inside the bedcovers.

It was her father calling.

He answered the call.

No, he didn’t know where she was.

No, he had just come in.

Yes, the door was open. Wide open.

Yes, he would go to the police station.

No, not right now.

Okay, right now.

Yes, he would call them up as soon as possible.

Beep.

His feet carried him towards the teak-paneled door.

So, she was right.

She was always right.

One day, she would leave. And leave no trace behind.

But, she was wrong.

He wasn’t indifferent.