Yearning

Certitude
Light years away
Doubts
Uproot
Faith

Eyes
Discern the invisible
Melt
In tears

Love
Serenades in the distance
Hands
Ache
To reach

Guillotine
In hues of yearning
Decapitates
Dreams

Happiness

“Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it.”
From "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert 

This quotation above is not here for me to hail it, say how it has changed my life, and recommend everyone to adapt it as a concept for happiness; quite the contrary, it is in here for no other reason but  to be ridiculed. For here's a small fact, I'd never quote such a book as "Eat, Pray, Love" for any other reason but that. You might ask why I am that prejudiced, knowing that I never read the book, and I'll tell you that even if you can't quite judge a book by its cover, you can always get some sort of a bad notion about it acquired from many things: the name; the audience who favor that book; reading some excerpts from it; and at times- ironically- from how it has topped the "bestsellers"-Twilight for instance.
My belief in the fallacy of such a thing stems from my other personal beliefs, and my personal beliefs have always agreed with Charlotte Bronte's "Passion:

"Some have won a wild delight 

By daring wilder sorrow
Could  gain thy love tonight
I'd hazard death tomorrow "

  Happiness should not be but an offspring of coincidence, it should be effortless, it should have a flow to it and intoxication. If happiness was a result of hard work, search and seeking, it would regress from "magical" to "normal"; because then, happiness would be a most natural result to a group of factors summed up together. Happiness is happiness for no other reason but the element of surprise, take that away, and it would become banal.
  Of course happiness has degrees, the one I've just described is the last degree, the "absolute" one. Today, I am happy. My happiness comes somewhere in the first degrees. But it scares me all the same; and that is the part where my beliefs coincide with Bronte's.
   Happiness no matter how slight, has always been a bad omen for me; I always fear it. Life doesn't give something without taking another away, and I'd keep on wondering, what is in store for me. I am always cautious with happiness, and I always build boundaries around it, so that it would never be "absolute"; for what then would be imminent but strangling pain?   For here's another thing I believe in, feelings are like pendulums, if you hold a stable one, fling it to the right, leave it, it would never go back to its rest position, it would be flung back to the left.
   At times, like today, I try to shake all that off, and keep on telling myself that I have already had my share of "strangling pain" getting nothing in return, so who knows, perhaps it might last a bit this time, and perhaps it won't end in disaster.But  I know no fates to tell, and leave that for the days.
 I only would like to say, that even if it was only today, I am thankful for it. 

Few Things...

I've had this blog since I was 14 and I turn 17 in three months.
It means it's been 3 years since I started taking writing seriously.
I wrote my first short story when I was seven.
And that means ten years separate me from the beginning.
I've written about 150 stuff ranging from prose to poetry to short stories
Except for very few things, I hate all of them.
"Why"' might cross your mind.
It's simply because they've been written with a person I've always hated.
That is me.
I actually have an image of what I want to be.
I  wanna start transforming to her
I have always wanted it.
But beloved inertia always pulls me to the self I hate
That is myself.
How can you break the bonds ?
How can I uproot me from me?
But then, Enough questions...
Let me start acting.


A Few Resolutions:
I'll never share myself with another
I'll never forget that closeness has its limits
I'll never forget that bonds can be too dangerous.
I'll never quit reading again for long periods of times.
I've always known how tricky minutes can be
Now, I'll start treating them for what they are
I'll find an hour for writing everyday.

A Restart

Tuck me into the unknown and let go
I will be reborn into the innocence of the ignorant
Or obliterate the three thousand yesterdays
Weighing me down with crudeness
And then
With the blankness of those who never were
I shall sing.

Songs of Falling

A marionette

Tries to move without the strings

She cuts them
 And falls. 

The rain is beating

The thunder growls

The sun is fading

The shutters closed

The tree is fragile

The wind is strong

The birds are singing

Of the forlorn

Down down

The branches fall

A child

Goes in circles

With eyes closed

He trips over the stars

And falls

Wanderer

Wanderer, 

     Ask me not to describe, for everything lies so beyond the grasp of words. Let me unfold myself here in those layers of the unnameable and get lost once again. Leave me, but don't forget.

Never, wanderer.

The Minutes

   “How many cups of coffee do you now drink?”

    The tooth brush freezes in my hand for a second. I force it back into my mouth, get it out, rinse my mouth and reply, “Six, seven, eight…don’t really know. Why do you ask?” I get out of the bathroom.

    “Nothing just wanted to know.”

     I close the door behind me and advance to the living room. You have already gone there, seated yourself, in the brown arm chair, beside the open window. You hesitate for a second before taking the newspaper. You take it, let it drop, and smile. Curiosity was not filling me, you told me all the same: “It’s funny. You used to hate coffee back then.”

     ‘Back then’ hangs in the air. I ponder upon it. When was ‘back then’? You cut through my thoughts, “It’s very different now,” you say.

     “It’s very different now,” I echo.

      You jump from your seat, throw the newspaper and go. “Nothing worth reading about”, you muttered. I occupy your brown arm chair, beside the window. I pick the newspaper from the ground, and read. Later, I get bored and realize that nothing is worth reading about.

      I go to the kitchen and pour myself water. I look at the walls, as old as you and me, and ponder again on “back then.” I spill the water. I get out of the kitchen without clearing the mess I made. I go back to the living room, curl myself on the sofa. It’s getting cold. Winter must be impending. I close the window. I forget what I was thinking, but I don’t care. I’ll think something new. I think and think. I think and cry. Thinking makes me cry. I stop thinking and I pace the room. But memories flood me.

     “Back then” is fixed at a point in time. Every day, the distance between it and me widens. It creates a gap, a huge gap, and everything is sucked in.

    You come out of the room, the one at the end of the corridor. You don’t see me and it makes no difference. It’s not me you got out for.

     Between me and back then, there is a billion or so minutes, forever divided between two pairs of eyes. Two pairs of eyes see different things. And then, the past is lost, in between. It doesn’t scare me that now will also eventually turn into another “back then.” I don’t care for now. But the minutes, they hold me captive.

      You, wherever you are, so attached to me I cannot bear you, so faraway I miss you, have you ever thought of it? For the minutes do hold us captive. Years will pass through our entities, broken into minutes, and we’ll live, in them, never getting out, hoping we did. And we’ll live them, together, but away. It will kill us, but we’ll draw a feeble pretense of life. Now, we are only rehearsing.

     You get out. “You have spilled water in the kitchen?” you say.

    "Yes. I’ll go clean it.”

    “It’s okay, I already did so.”

    And you go away.

    You, whomever you are, do you still love me?