A drop of kindness
falls.
Washes away mauling tire tracks
off an oft used road.
A drop of humility
floats.
Lifts the rusting anchor
of a wrecked yacht.
A drop of anger
plunges.
Pierces the best made armor
of children and soldiers.
A drop of distance
melts.
Bridges contempt bred
'tween familiar hearts.
A drop of depression
fogs.
Obscures flight paths
and flights of fancy alike.
A drop of happiness
shines.
Lights up dark nooks and crannies
and a hunger for more.
A drop of calm
settles.
Murmurs like autumn leaves
lying on sleepy, lush green.
A drop of love
numbs.
Anesthetic to cuts and aches
and the pain it brings.
A drop of rain
nurtures.
Sapling and floods, my moods
and fresh puddles of mud.
A drop of water
quenches.
More than thirst and perhaps more
a dire need to cry.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Friday, January 07, 2011
Funnily Enough
Funny things have been happening in my world. Or perhaps it is better to say that the world - my world - has taken on a funny hue all of its own. It changes faster than I can make up my mind. And yet - strangely - it is supposed to be my world. But the funniest part of all this is that I cannot seem to stop laughing at it. Sometimes I feel like the Joker, with the permanent smirk on my face. And if you are anywhere close to knowing this arch nemesis of the Dark Knight, you'll know that it cannot be a good feeling.
I cannot quite put a finger on what is it that is so funny. But let me try. Suddenly friends are drying up. People with whom one day, one shared soggy, wet tit-bits of one's mundane life have found better things to do. Or perhaps they have just grown off me as if I was a childhood doll that they used to play with. How does that make me feel? Much like Woody I'd say, lost in an alien orphanage, away from his Andy. Even this would have been tolerable, if people had not become rude - maybe they are just busy I tell myself or maybe they all got secretly married (both are not exactly the same thing, even if you wish they were). But busier than me? Seriously! Even I do not have any idea about how busy I am. But it gets even better. Childhood irks - folks I had silently vowed never to confide in or talk a sensible word to - are turning out to be compassionate listeners. How weird is that!
Let's talk about work now. Inspiration is running low - no, in fact it has evaporated, leaving salty desolate remains of ordinary ideas in plenty. If I was Gandhi I'd be happy with the salt, but I am no where near as historic. I am actually cheating here when I complain about not having any inspiration - it is something else I lack. Maybe as I recently heard someone complaining, there is no spark. On second or third-fourth-fifth thoughts there are sparks too but of the wrong kind. It is difficult making a life out of creating and helping others create. Create what, you may ask. Creating the myth of being able to create while this life spins out of our hand.
From yoga to salsa to calisthenics on a creaking metal bed to chicken biryani - it has not been a particularly bad life so far. Yet I get the feeling every once in a while that something I was meant to do is passing me by. What was I meant to do - how do I know it is not exactly what I am doing right now? How do I know I was not meant to be an angsty, starry eyed, romantic all my life? Or even whether I am one right now or not? Frankly, I am unable reason about love these days - or write about it. Funny isn't it, especially when this blog has been witness to some pretty bizarre lovesick writing in the past.
Funnier still is being in a place which turned one's life inside out (or was it upside down?). No, its not the being there that is funny - it is being there again and not feeling anything except a vague void that one cannot quite relate to. A haircut, a silhouette, an unsymmetrical neckline, a philosophy. I am not exactly sure what I miss or even whether I do miss something from a past I do not quite remember. Sunsets are still beautiful, still orange, still dripping with calm melancholy.
I have developed this amazing ability to forget. Forget unpleasant times - unwanted words - unanswered questions - unexpected rudeness - uncried tears. Strange and unsettling, this new found power is. Gives me a Yoda-like sense of calm. Calm. I am starting to fear it now - perhaps something in me goes to sleep every time I forget something. Or perhaps something goes quiet. It is not funny when I cannot recall what made you upset last night or when was the last time I cried. It is scary when I cannot recall when was the last time we had a fight or when was the last time I had a laugh. Hmmm... perhaps I am being melodramatic here. Maybe I can become a soap-opera writer next. That would be funny too.
Somehow, writing with a dimly lit bulb lighting the hall, sitting on this table, unsaid anger floating in the air mixed with a heavy sigh of disappointed expectations, seems to be second nature now. Even though I know I do not write as often these days. At least my tooth is not aching. That I can guarantee, is not funny.
I am almost done now. With this one at least. Perhaps with the next one too. I have one request though. When it is over, please laugh.
I cannot quite put a finger on what is it that is so funny. But let me try. Suddenly friends are drying up. People with whom one day, one shared soggy, wet tit-bits of one's mundane life have found better things to do. Or perhaps they have just grown off me as if I was a childhood doll that they used to play with. How does that make me feel? Much like Woody I'd say, lost in an alien orphanage, away from his Andy. Even this would have been tolerable, if people had not become rude - maybe they are just busy I tell myself or maybe they all got secretly married (both are not exactly the same thing, even if you wish they were). But busier than me? Seriously! Even I do not have any idea about how busy I am. But it gets even better. Childhood irks - folks I had silently vowed never to confide in or talk a sensible word to - are turning out to be compassionate listeners. How weird is that!
Let's talk about work now. Inspiration is running low - no, in fact it has evaporated, leaving salty desolate remains of ordinary ideas in plenty. If I was Gandhi I'd be happy with the salt, but I am no where near as historic. I am actually cheating here when I complain about not having any inspiration - it is something else I lack. Maybe as I recently heard someone complaining, there is no spark. On second or third-fourth-fifth thoughts there are sparks too but of the wrong kind. It is difficult making a life out of creating and helping others create. Create what, you may ask. Creating the myth of being able to create while this life spins out of our hand.
From yoga to salsa to calisthenics on a creaking metal bed to chicken biryani - it has not been a particularly bad life so far. Yet I get the feeling every once in a while that something I was meant to do is passing me by. What was I meant to do - how do I know it is not exactly what I am doing right now? How do I know I was not meant to be an angsty, starry eyed, romantic all my life? Or even whether I am one right now or not? Frankly, I am unable reason about love these days - or write about it. Funny isn't it, especially when this blog has been witness to some pretty bizarre lovesick writing in the past.
Funnier still is being in a place which turned one's life inside out (or was it upside down?). No, its not the being there that is funny - it is being there again and not feeling anything except a vague void that one cannot quite relate to. A haircut, a silhouette, an unsymmetrical neckline, a philosophy. I am not exactly sure what I miss or even whether I do miss something from a past I do not quite remember. Sunsets are still beautiful, still orange, still dripping with calm melancholy.
I have developed this amazing ability to forget. Forget unpleasant times - unwanted words - unanswered questions - unexpected rudeness - uncried tears. Strange and unsettling, this new found power is. Gives me a Yoda-like sense of calm. Calm. I am starting to fear it now - perhaps something in me goes to sleep every time I forget something. Or perhaps something goes quiet. It is not funny when I cannot recall what made you upset last night or when was the last time I cried. It is scary when I cannot recall when was the last time we had a fight or when was the last time I had a laugh. Hmmm... perhaps I am being melodramatic here. Maybe I can become a soap-opera writer next. That would be funny too.
Somehow, writing with a dimly lit bulb lighting the hall, sitting on this table, unsaid anger floating in the air mixed with a heavy sigh of disappointed expectations, seems to be second nature now. Even though I know I do not write as often these days. At least my tooth is not aching. That I can guarantee, is not funny.
I am almost done now. With this one at least. Perhaps with the next one too. I have one request though. When it is over, please laugh.
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