Afraid.

I pick the pen to write,
my fingers run over the keyboards,
I go back in time, jumping years back, to the
the first moment I saw you, and retrace myself - to the present.
I am keeping drafts of letters, saved in my archives, reading and rereading every word,
am I sincere? Are any of those words true?
Should I send you those or let the words drown me?

Contents of my pages.

Everyone tells me, "it's gonna be fine",
but they have no answer.
Everyone tells me, "give it time",
but they have got no answer.
I've got advices on how everything has a tag,
on who deserves what and where should I draw a line,
on how should you be and what I shouldn't do.
I don't blame them, they are not here.
They didn't see us, they won't understand.
But you did, you said, you felt and stayed.
But now what?
I should keep hoping, that's all I can do,
but my friend, my love, I am weak.
I cannot even hope, without you.
They don't have any answers,
and I am running out of questions.

Effort.

My kingdom is on fire as I drown in Irish whisky,
Looking at our old photographs,
reading our old letters and my diary.
Every ounce that I spared, thinking or just flowing, they were true, I never preached,
but those were pure, under the solemn vows I made to gods I never believed,
I tried, I am trying.

But you, you left, walked away, left me
in a trail of my own disgust and in doubt
of my efforts, words, promises, love.

It's 3.42 AM, and I am still waiting, hoping
with my breath held in anticipation and wish.

And for what?

Just so you can forgive me.

My kingdom burns to the ground,
and I can't even laugh.

Judgement.

Time will ask you questions,
on the eve of your promises unmade,
as it will ask me questions.
Under the solemn vow, we will be tried,
judged, and sentenced, the gavel will fall,
and we will be condemned.

You always knew the truth, aware of
the secrets, you saw and were afraid.
Of my testament and writ, my promises, I was true, you were my responsibility, you were afraid.

So when time comes and asks me questions, ready with the pen to sign my sentence, I will ask you this, my love -

Why were you afraid?

North Star Lost.

25th july, 2018.

As of late, I have found myself troubling with stuff that does not or should not concern me, and a whole lot of that has now disturbed my compass, my true north.

I believe everyone has a true north, even the most lost person has a north to which he or she really belongs and whether normal people like us (I am being gracious) can see that or not is of no consequence whatsoever.

My own compass, made of all sense and sensibilities, of all empathy and apathy alike, has always been loyal to me, I never had lost my way before. I might have taken a detour or two, took the more scenic routes every now and then, but in recent times, I seem to have lost my way, my compass has been spinning out of control. So much so, that it indeed has affected my very own nature, the one I thought describes me best. For me, at present there's no up, down, right, left, black, white.. nothing. It's just a dead center with threads leading everywhere which is chaotic, if I had to put it mildly. All of this has really upset the basic order which leads my days and is an extension of me in its own entirety.

Yes, indeed this all sounds like a complain, and to an extent it is one, I am not denying that. But then again, Zeno is gone a long time ago and there's nothing to do really. So till I find my true north, my pullback, this might become a problem, and a one that I cannot or maybe do not want to afford right now.

Right now, it's just a road to nowhere. To no one.

R. 

Move.

24th June, 2018.

It's quite an interesting notion I have about myself in the purview of human relationship. As I have talked about it many times, one only needs to go back to the older rants on this site, so I don't have to repeat myself again, it is a tedious habit after all.

When I say interesting, sometimes I do find myself in odd and at times extremely tricky situations where I do not know how to approach a certain aspect or whether should I even approach it or not. My past experiences had taught me that mostly it is a gamble, the response that I exert may or may not work as I expect. The question still hangs and at times I have an answer to it, I take the chances.

For example, in the current state of affairs, I am at the liberty to just walk away for good, leaving things as they are and not look back, but at the same time I find this option not only disloyal, it will have far reaching consequences which will bear more harm than good. And although I am not the one who will be affected much, I will be responsible for a lot of things. What I am witnessing is just pathetic by nature and harrowing by design. I can help, maybe I can, the dilemma here is whether I should or should not. Because at the moment both seems to be a bad idea which will multiply in an immense speed. Now maybe I am just taking it lightly because I am not the one in the eye of storm, I know how it feels like and I have an idea as to how will it pan out.

I guess, at this moment, it is better to let the design run its course, let it tire itself out and fall. I can pick the pieces later on.

Sort of story..

It was one of those nights, all over again. For him, it was one of those nights. He believed that there are two types of nights a person can have, one is the everyday monotony, the usual ones with the same repetitious progression where he'd be a normal person and trudge through the movement of time either reading something or glare back at the phone screen, aimlessly scrolling up and down, absently clicking on something not even noticing what is on the screen until sleep is considerate enough to arrive. The second one is one of those nights - the vague one.

Kolkata gets really quiet, really fast. It's 11.30 at night and already the locality around his PG has fallen silent, or almost silent, excluding the incessant chirping of the crickets.. 'stridulating', it is called, he had read it somewhere once. A pack of dogs bark somewhere, letting the others know of their turf and their dominance, somewhere someone unfortunate enough was making his way home at this late and ungodly hour, ringing the bell on his bicycle in sheer frustration. For the unaccustomed, days and nights of the city of joy are bipolar.

This would be his 10th or 11th cigarette now, he had lost count, and as a matter of fact he had lost the sense of time too. The orange street light unsuccessfullyy tries to illuminate his room, obstructed by a flailing cheap curtain, creating a strange shadowy, noir like essence. One can actually hope for a sharp scream from the corner of the damp alley and a whole hard-boiled sequence of a cheap detective novel. He fiddles a burning cigarette in one hand and his pen in the other one, which has led to small inked poke marks on his palm. A single A4 paper lays in front of him, tired and waiting, either to be torn apart or be scarred with whatever his patron feels like. Already a number of his own had been crumpled and thrown, some in the waste bin, most on the floor. They both exhale an exhausted breath, one with smoke, other with the weight of being a blank surface.

Stubbing out the cigarette, he makes up his mind. How difficult can it be?

Leaning dangerously over the paper as if trying to drown himself in the ink, he writes -

"Dear Mahamaya,
It is one of those nights...".

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So I wrote this.. if anyone reads this, I would like to have an honest opinion..

Regards.