A Lonely Whisper

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Listen to my lullaby,
Far away into the night,
Floating in the sweet chill,
Caught by the frost of time.
Wandering its way through dark lanes,
Turning souls in its wake,
A gypsy of ink and blood,
Burning with a marvelous ache.

It spills and rushes
Into crevices and craters
Filling smoky bubbles with vicious ink,
Pulsating auburn at the brink,
Diffusing lazily into the air
A whiff of my pain,
Searching the skies,
For a parched, thirsty rain.

I wrote this for you,
For loved memories and sour lies,
For lost times and heavy sighs,
I wrote this for me,
For sliced veins and edged feet,
For lonely times and melting heat.

This sparkling pool of salty tears,
Turns into strings and words,
Madness the key to this closed door,
Behind which lies the store,
Of purple scars and blue bruises,
Picked deep by scalding knives,
Torn apart by sharp tongues,
Made
Of a withered lullaby.

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A Shackled Sunrise

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I feel weak today. Strangled. The other days pass; this one is stuck, like a rotting corpse under a bombed shack.

I have thought about it, a lot. That is all I seem to be doing nowadays. It feels like I have been pulled into a time warp. No sense of passage, no sense of space. I must have been staring at this wall for three, four hours maybe now, and it has changed, growing on me, around the edges of my blurry vision. It shall consume me.

This wall is a strange thing, almost like a person, pale and flaking, scars of lost souls etched onto its wrinkled face. I wish I could splash my tumult on this withered being, scratching away at it till my skin gave away and my fingers bled crimson, feeding on its cries, cleansing myself. I really wish I could.

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But I have no stories to tell. Not out loud, at least. It is all in my head, churning and turning, a shifting mass of grey, a tangled mess I made for myself. Contrary to what anyone might say, this is comforting, this sense of finality. It is a warm haven in the constant noise of expectations and dreams.

At this moment, I am not weighed down by anything, no burdens, nothing to fulfill except that one pure goal. It is calm, but it hurts. The kind of pain that cannot be cured by makeshift remedies and solemn promises.

If only I could tell someone. If only I could unravel my mind and pour forth into another being, willing to soak all the darkness in, pulling the curtains away if there is any light left in this unforgiving world. I could have saved myself, perhaps.

No.

What has talking ever done except add a few more inconsequential syllables to latent conversations, feeding fake fires of concern? Everyone has their time and everyone has to deal with it.

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I can’t, not anymore.

I am tired.

Tired of putting up that façade every time I walk out.

Tired of laughing as if the sunshine graced me.

Tired of getting out of bed every single day.

Tired of pretending.

I am tired.

I wonder, would the world be a simpler place if we had no desires?

But what a world would that be, then.

Happier? Perhaps.

Worth living? Probably not.

Is it worth living right now, though?

I know my answer.

I hope this settles the dust.

I hope my mess becomes one with this dust.

(I do not mean to advocate or glorify suicide or self-harm through this piece, in any manner. If you feel sad or isolated, reach out to someone you trust, someone you can talk to. There are online forums which maintain anonymity too.

One can check out https://www.7cups.com/.

Seek professional help, there is no shame in it.)

A Soliloquy of Colours

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It is blue here, deep, edging on black. I look at my hands, thin and wrinkled, shaking. The water trickles slowly through the tap, forming ripples in the stagnant water. The sound haunts me. Drop after drop, banging like drums in my head, refusing to stop no matter what. Drenched in the cold, I sit and stare.

I can hear the hiss of the cameras flashing outside, the self-appointed judges of moral code crying out red chants of blasphemy. I walk out of the bathroom. The curtains have been closed, leaving the room sprinkled with the vestiges of a soft sun. I peep through the broken glass. Chaos guides this crowd, who claim to be united, but would be at each other’s throats as soon as a little thorn threatens their inflated egos.

A stone crashes into the house, shattering the glass into tiny edged crystals. Third one today. I had always thought that the glass was strong. I now realize good times are not the perfect judges of adversity. I walk back and slump down on the sofa. It is strange how people can twist the truth to mould and soothe their own trivial realities, how seamlessly their minds can wrap around their mistakes, transforming it into a self-glorifying truth.

My eyes catch sight of a photograph, old and ruffled in the frame, a frozen tear of time. I pull it out. It is fragile, torn at the edges, and it smells of memories. Lost, faded memories. A boy looks happy, all smiles and joy, ignorant of the vicious whirlpools life is going to plunge him into.

They say life is but a journey, and every sunrise is preceded by a dreary night. But what if it’s not a day, but a season, a cold, grey winter? Reckless, unending. The leaves fall and the spring doesn’t greet. Isn’t that a fair possibility? The edges are not smooth and rounded. They are sharp, jagged, waiting for someone to falter and bleed. I have been cut, deep and purple, and I do not want to wait for the light.

I walk towards the terrace. The sky is slightly clouded. I walk over to the ledge and prop myself on the thin, rough surface. I stumble, balance again. A cool breeze strokes my face. I feel myself giving away.

Police personnel enter the house sometime later.

It’s Blue.

And Black.

And Red.

I just wanted my freedom.

Unsung Fantasies

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The final entry.

I wake up in a strange place today, as on many other days. A clock ticks with a hollow sound, indicating the early hours of the morning. The room is in shambles, seeming more so because of morning’s denial. It feels as if someone decided to gather all the broken things in the world and call it home. That does explain why I am here. I hear dishes clattering somewhere near. I pick up the money, dress hastily and leave.

A cold draft hits me as soon as I step out, along with realization. I have no warm clothes on. In my profession, time and space are very mysterious concepts. You just float from one point to the other, and you have to find your peace in the chaos. When Shakespeare expressed how the pace of time differs for different people, he couldn’t have stated it better.

I am not going to my apparent home, not just yet. The sky is cloudy, densely so, ensconcing the city in a shadowy blanket. I love the grey streets, buildings, shacks. Grey is my favourite colour. Not because of the intrinsic darkness in my life, or my muses. It’s just the soft feel of it, almost like a touch. It reminds you that nothing in the world is purely good or evil, that it never is solely black or white. The idea is soothing, because you have come to terms with certain realities then. When that happens, you begin to see people for what they are and not what they seem.

I walk through the cobbled alleys, looking at the little huts and flats. People are already out, gathering water for their daily chores, shouting at their children. Stray dogs bark at me, a threat to their territory. People do not dare look at me directly, instead stealing looks out of the corner of their eyes, judging me silently, applying their twisted sense of morality to my fragile existence. It is so common now that I don’t even impart any attention to it, but it burns me within. I have greater prejudices to deal with, though.

My phone rings. Sometimes, I want to destroy this extension and fly off to somewhere unknown,

where I sleep in peace,

where I dream of stars,

where I walk on waves,

where I soak the sun,

where I feel the rain,

where I love.

There is no place for life here.

I have another job to fulfil today, the caller states.  It is the usual. I have to feed another misplaced male ego, so that he can boast of his charm and appeal before an audience which already knows of the superficiality of the business. Later, I will have to fuel his insecurities with falsified promises and sugar-coated compliments.

It appalls me how no one seems to blink an eye towards the fact that it is he who has the lowest sense of self-worth and I who do an honest day’s work. I h ave long understood how stupid people are with their interpretations of money, power and class. Be as it may, work has its flaws, and I have to deal with it.

Sometimes, you are not sure of certain things. I reach the bridge which suspends over the river. There have been several occasions when I have considered the final leap, ending it all, finding my calm. I feel I am not brave enough, or I just may have found a way, understood grey. Here, now, I just feel the wind, chilly and numbing, and breathe deeply. It’s just another day, another normal day.

I finally decide to go back to my home, a dinghy little room in a forgotten building on a side-street. Before someone finds this piece, I might have already ceased to exist. But that doesn’t bother me, because my existence, as that of so many others, has never been acknowledged.

We exist as filth and dirt in the minds of the keepers of society.

We exist as derogatory stains on this civilized system.

We exist as juicy meat for perverted white-clad servants.

We exist as the forgotten ghosts of the sub-conscious.

 

It’s another day, another strange place, another set of eyes.

A Curtain of Smoke

This is her tale of love, loss, deception, and desperation.

This is her journey through the depths of the nine circles.

This is her encounter with the devil of her life.

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An angel of dreams

Swinging in a flourish of stars

Swept me off my feet a fine day

One whisper at a time 

All little things and slow kisses

The meaning of life,

The homely wishes.

 

I see those little protrusions now

And what all the temptation was about

What those eyes lured me into

What they made me say and do.

 

He soars flapping those evil wings,

Clawing into my head,

Digging out little pieces of flesh,

Bathing in the leaking crimson.

He walks with a soft gait,

Baring his teeth, rotten, sick,

He pins me on the executioner’s block,

And stabs me dry with his diabolical spear.

Blood curdles and gurgles out of me,

Splashing on the sea of pain,

Mingling, swirling,

And I don’t feel it anymore.

 

I am reserved for hell

Temptation, perhaps.

I see him, I see him still

That smile, those teeth,

The bloody spear, the omen ill,

He’s here.

 

He walks with his patience,

And then loses it all at once

As one world collapses into another,

I lose my voice in this pyre of ash

Where infernal sins adorn vernal suns

Where words stagger into abysses of hurt

Where gazes rip my soul into weak, little pieces

Too fragile to be gathered, 

Too tough to be moulded,

Too dark to be coloured.

 

I can’t rise now

Neither can I drown

Just gasp for air 

Every day, every minute, every second

Wishing, wishing for the smoke

To melt my skin

To take me far away

In a wisp of mist

On a shooting star.

 

(I do not own any of the pictures used in this post.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Obscured

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I can feel it
Deep down inside
It is all a blur.

A blur of imagination
Of flooded gates,
Of lost moments.

But what it leaves
Is a feeling, a tingle?
A burnished inkling in my heart, waiting to be sparked
By the tortured wand of time.

Gaining ground in the dark alleys
An unknown laughter
Creeping along the shadowy cells
Murmuring through the silence.

It holds me prisoner.
I am but just that,
A prisoner of my own mind
A shackled slave of my own thoughts
And I don’t want to break free.

A Misty Muse

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Roaming around the place was a daily ritual for him. The sunshine, the greenery, the sparkling river, held a romance of sorts. He could see the people there, lost in their own thoughts, lost in their lives, lost, and trying to find themselves. The one thing that intrigued him was that they were almost always alone. That was the irony. A place full of cliches from the world, and yet, lost souls knew no way out.

It was a particularly chilly day. He had worn his withered brown jacket, as always. He could see a couple today, young and gentle. They stood staring at the dazzling water, talking to each other. The only curse was the intrinsic nature of this place. They were talking to each other, but a silence captivated their minds and hearts. A silence too deep to be ignored. It is sad how we explore masks as a means to protect the ones we love or the ones we think we do.

A cool breeze touched his cheeks. The mild fragrance of roses hung in the air. Sometimes, he could smell things others couldn’t. He could clearly feel the hot breath of freshly mown grass at times, of a steaming coffee brew, of an old parchment at others. He had a strange sensation then. His vision reflected a clear stream, but he was transported to another place, a figment of his fertile imagination, a phantom. It was a place he felt close to. He could almost feel the tender touch of the elements, reaching his nerves, entrancing them.

He always carried a book with him to this open haven of his. It made him feel safe, not of the physical, but of things unknown. It gave him a power nothing else could. It was a higher form of interaction, mingled with the beauty of invisibility. It was like a warm hug in times of despair, and he could not remember the last time he was happy. He could not live without it.

He contemplated going back, but where would he go?

Right then, a little girl passed by with her mother.

“Momma, look! There’s the man with the brown jacket Granny was telling us about!”

There was apprehension in her mother’s eyes. “There’s no one, dear! You need to give your mind some rest. Sleep early.”

“No, momma, I’m not making it up! Please, Momma, believe me.”

For once, she did. Composing herself, though, “Granny’s ghost stories are for entertainment, my love. They are not real. Ghosts do not exist,” her mother smiled.

The girl kept staring at the man in the withered brown jacket. That day, lore took on a deeper meaning for that tender mind, as the apparition of despair turned into mist.