At The Light

It isn't a hallowed light that shows us the inner world of people. Its so common and accessible that we would even miss it in our routine. The traffic light, my friend, can show you a world you had never seen.

The following (stereo)types are common at a signal-
The Optimist -  The guy who believes that the light will remain green till he crosses it
The Pessimist - Duh!
The Cool guy - The guy who starts his bike 5 secs after the light turns green

The Hunk - The guy who uses the signal as an opportunity to flex his triceps on the bike handle
The Dweeb - The guy who thinks of joining the gym after seeing this.
The Fan - The guy who surveys the signal for signs of action, in fan motion (L to R, Return Center, R to L, Return Center)

The Couple - The two people who can't keep their hands off each other at a signal
The Voyeur - Dozens who can't keep their eyes off them

The Neck - The girl with a bent neck from the long phone conversations last night
The Guile - The guy dating this girl; has his neck straight though

The Enthusiast - The guy who will not miss an inch of free space to move in
The Laggard - The guy who will only feel alive when dozens of people honk at him

The Preener - The girl in a sleeveless top on a winter morning
The Recluse - The girl who is so completely wrapped that you wonder if she's as hideous unwrapped

The Bender - The guy who will not give alms to beggars, but will bend his head in remorse
The Clinker - The guy who will drop pennies from good height to achieve his moniker

The Texter - The girl who will stop at every signal to message her location via 'assisted' GPS
The Jiver - The guy who begins to unconditionally bob his head to the music in his earphones

The Surprise - The dog in the back seat that springs out to 'shiver me timbers'
The Joy - The little kid in the car who looks out the window and smiles at you
...

Song

I’ve always loved..limited as my  time here will be. But yet there prevails, a hope against hope. To survive this night and hear your voice upon arising tomorrow, to feel its silken beauty like I keep imagining it, to rise and fall in its variations like the waves of emotions I’ve dreamt of..

And yet hope fights hope..and glass dreams shatter on hard ground realities, shattering into gazillion fragments. Just to make it impossible to put them back together, even if with a strong will and an affectionate heart..

So let it be..let these hours pass by in futility of unheard songs in unadulterated voices that beam in an unseen delight. Just delight. Only because they are singing life’s song. Let this be the last of words. Let them reverberate for eternity after I’m gone. Our song.

…

The recipe for hurt

 

The recipe for hurt is a unique one. Its not unlike a stew. It has elements that add to flavor, that add to pungency, that add to aroma, and to texture. That's pain for you - a rich and concocted stew of multiple elements. Its unique in that every one brews theirs quite elaborately and quite differently. It takes each a different ladle to stir this stew, though the hands that stir, almost always, are those of fate. Or is it?

We have different ways of dealing with pain. In intense pain, we are ideally sinking; uncontrollably so. We clutch at a single hay strand floating on water like it would save our lives. That one song on repeat loop, that one book that resonates in you, that one movie that you watch over and over till it no longer helps. Road trips, pub visits, smoke sessions, weed - every possible path is taken that will diverge you from the one you're destined to walk on. It's the path you will walk on nevertheless.

And then there's the muse. The ever-effusive and ever-elusive muse. Its respondent and reclusive, sharp and shy, termagant and teary, inaccessible and inconsolable. We chase it in mystic hours, awaiting the right hour to strike when the wandering mind will collide gently with the meandering muse. It seldom occurs. There's hardly such a collision when we seek it.

And then it happens. That one hour so much like every other hour before it. And yet, this hour is exclusive. It is when this fated collision finally occurs. And quite unlike your preparations and expectations of the deemed hour, you're blinded by the moment. There's an unprecedented light that overshadows your vision, a resonating echo that blocks out your own voice speaking to you, a hundred prick points all over you that hinder the warm touch of the glow emanating from the collision. The muse has struck!

It is said that one can never write without pain. And if it is written, it will remain at best, on par with the average writings of the uninspired mind. Evolution has been eliminating the weak from the strong. Features that were antagonistic to survival led to entire species getting wiped out. But of all the things that could be eliminated, why has pain remained? Why is it that the root cause of all suffering, in whatever form it may occur, continues to survive? Why hasn't evolution obliterated the weak, crying masses in one fell swoop?

We need pain. It has been the only pheromone actively seeking to draw out the muse, and seductively well at that. And this muse brings out the colors that have shone resplendent on canvases across the world, across centuries; the words that have reverberated in a million hearts in poems and stories that touch the human soul. It doesn't merely stop at that- it clouds, it moves, it crumbles, it moulds, it stirs the soul.

And therein lies the recipe for hurt.

The proverbial stew that stirs itself..
...

Sands of time

 


Each day I sit on the beach of tomorrow. Each hour, I write your name upon its sands. Ever so often, tides of today gush onto the shore, and my writing is rendered meaningless again. And yet, I persist; I write again, hoping that this time the waves would a little kinder than the last I could remember. I write again, hoping that this time, my writing is just deep enough to survive beyond the first wave.
I wonder sometimes, if it isn't the waves being evil. Maybe it is just their curiosity. Maybe they come close so that they can read your name, but somehow cannot slow their steps. Today has that one defect that stands out among others - curiosity. It seems curious to know if the name I wrote now is the same as the one I wrote the day before, and the day before that. I wonder if it remembers. It must know, for otherwise, your name written on arid sand wouldn't glow moistly from the tears ‘today’ shed.
Or perhaps, I'm sitting on the wrong sands. For how often has it been (in the last couple of years that you’ve known me), that I've made the right choice? I imagine that there must be other sands that I can write on. Sands that would not bother when your name is written, that would not take the pain to erase it, that would not leave a little salt of memories each time it did. But I do not seek them, my love. For they do not know me. Nor can they comprehend why I persist on this path that is verily breaking me inside. Only tomorrow will know, for it will exact the cost for this persistence when the time is right.
Once more I write your name upon these sands, once more a wave washes my effort clear, I smile with gained wisdom and yet prepare to write your name again..
…

Entwine

 

Each waking moment and each unconscious pattern that manifests itself is a reminder of the beauty we house in ourselves. And where have I found greater beauty than your soul? It is this ephemeral, formless beauty that drives and motivates, loves and angers, cares and hurts, cuddles and violates, gives and makes love with my own soul. Every waking moment is a dream because you're in my life. Every unconscious pattern is a reality because I'm living my dream each day through us. I am unfazed by what another will be or already is in possession of, for nothing can compare to having you. To consume every inch of your body like it were my own, to love each wave of your mind like a turbulent sea, to entwine in your soul like our bodies do, so often in boundless time-spaces. This is my dream, my reality.

…