Goose skin; as my eyes ran through the terrain of your skin. I stumbled, the depression of your collar bone, a certain tinge of darkness, lead me upwards, where the temple met the tomb. I could feel your breath as it got heavier, the proximity was threatening yet consented. You were scared, I could see, vulnerable yet brave. The curls, that came running down, over your chest, unfathomable to my mind, but did make you feel less naked. The smothered blackness, to cover the sleepless nights, felt cold against your burning blush. However, chapped and pale from those sorry sticks that you breath in everyday, hidden under the red did work in your favour that day. I was drawn closer, till my naked hands were against your bare body and as my fingers moved over the tenderness, I could read stories of the scars that were left behind. For the very first time, I read pain more than I felt it. My tips ran through many more tales of abandoned love, the irony in these tales was that they left you caged, leaving me to the realisation, that you longed for freedom. But was ready to give you that? Could I be brave enough? Or was I scared? Because if I did, your freedom, would leave me caged.
Silence, was all I heard as I lay numb on my bed, the harder I tried to fight it, the more it deafened me. I was left, pained by this silence; the screams of my own kind, frightened by the songs, of the banshee.
Walked the lonely streets, ashes and dust, void was all that could see. Men and society, and societies of men, laws; they created this bourgeoisie. Disturbed, i found myself, by the human attempt to maintain the peace; hoax. I saw remains of what was whole once; only debris.
Strange, that I’m writing about it, again deceived by what they said, “A pen is mightier than a sword”, relentless I feel. For I know, if the said were true, my pen would not run though this paper, dreaming of the world I thought I knew.
Is it okay if I wear my worn out white shoes every day? Is it okay if I stay awake all night? Is it okay if I tell you that your poetry is beautiful at 5 AM in the morning? Is it okay if I want to light up another sorry stick even if I don’t want to? Is it okay if my hair is a curly mess and my shirts remain creased? Is it okay for me to feel warm in the cold? Is it okay if I just stand around in a club pretending to drink? Is it okay if my hands are covered in charcoal or paint? Is it okay if all I want to do is be under the sheets with you? Is it okay if I talk too much or not at all? Is it okay if my lips are chapped when I kiss you? Is it okay for me to even want to kiss you? Is it okay for me to think that I do? Is it okay for me to search for you in other people? Was it okay for me to feel bad when you ignored me and I knew that you were? Was it okay for me to let my ego step in so I didn’t feel too bad? Was it okay for me to just look at you when you were high or when you fought away with your boyfriend over the phone? Was okay for me to be me?
Is it okay if you just let me ask?
And I will not need an answer.
Her scraped knees were made to crash.
Her burned lungs; turned to ash.
The colors faded; with every kiss.
Every fall; felt like bliss.
Damp bed; the sheets of white.
Every wrong to her, felt so right.
Did you feel her ache,
With every word she spoke?
Did you see the pain,
In every line she wrote?
Did she tell you, about her mistake?
About when she left everything at stake?
How could you have?
Didn’t you know, she pretended well!
Her smile and laughter were only just a shell.
How could she have?
For you only loved her, when she was gone.
She was left unloved, unattended;
Scarred and bruised
“I’m mad to the point that I am the creator of my own catastrophe!” ,I said.
“How?”, asked she.
“I let myself to believe or to see things that are not meant to be seen or to be believed in. I let myself to see the light in the darkness that blinds me to an extent that I don’t hear the rhythm of colors; the pitch of red, and the lows of blues end up becoming the same to me. I don’t see the waves of sound anymore, the blend of notes cease to happen and they end up breaking me, they etch on me and I’m not the same again. I am born a different person, not anything like who I was, not anything like who you expected me to be. I am like the Phoenix out of the ashes. I let myself walk over the fire of love and the water of hatred. I let the tranquility of silence deafen me. I am no more the same human anymore. I create the destruction of my former self, the destruction to my soul. I let the universe take me whole and turn me into dust. Hence, I create my own catastrophe.”
Three years, just passed by in a glimpse. I still remember how it all started. The same seat, that I found myself sitting on today, the same classroom, the same professor; just a different day and a different speech. The line that I remember him saying the first day still resonates at the back of my head, “You all are not school kids anymore…” This time, however, I catch on to something rather more etching, “Life starts from here…”
I see the smiles on everyone’s face, which I thought to be ironical; everyone was sad. I too feel like a hypocrite, conveying my experience as though that day, the speech, meant something to me. But to be honest, I found the whole scenario to be phony, the students behaving in ways as if they would even remember any word of the speech, nodding their heads like puppets to every statement of the professor. I hear someone behind me saying as to how he was overjoyed at the thought of leaving and was sad at the same time. Being the sceptic I was, I wondered how one could feel so many emotions at the same time whereas all I felt was baffled; baffled at the thought of how time turns so fast, seemed like it was just yesterday I took admissions.
Finally, the speech ended. The phony smiles on everyone’s faces made me cringe, for they did not in any way mean the expressions they portrayed. “Do remember us!” “Drop by sometime!” I heard the teachers say, to which again, I thought how many of the lot would actually remember them ten years down the line and how many would actually drop by. Everyone said they would. I thought to myself, how many of them actually meant it. Intuition told me, “None…”. None would, being all engrossed in their humdrum affairs of life. None would remember this day, none would think about the first day or the last of college, people will have forgotten how it was like to sit on the respective seats during the speech, they will have forgotten who sat next to them and the conversations they had, teachers will have forgotten our names or the grades we had but life will still go on as it always does.
I believe things end, music stops, coffee cools down, lovers become strangers, people forget, cigarettes burn out but life? It goes on. Life goes on…
A drop on my palm, as I hear the rain rush towards me. The horizon looked foggy; a strange sense of contentment filling my veins, I found myself standing alone as the drops sent chills down my spine. Drenched in my thoughts, I wondered how carelessly the drops fell from the sky, high above, higher than my thoughts could fathom. I wondered how, these drops of rain, without any fear or the knowledge of how hard they would hit the ground, just fell. The sensation of the drops hitting my bare face was profound. It made me think, why my fellow humans were trying so hard just to hide from the rain, while I could not find myself to deny these simple pleasures of life.