Confessions : Of Dreams

Standard

One of the reasons I dream of Travel is the same reason why I don’t bother to make ever lasting connections. This little confession of mine has sort of formed who I am today, a vague image of my dreams.

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series. written in old sketch books as reflections of my past bought to life here.

 

 

Advertisements

Findings

Standard

“The living don’t wait to die alphabetically, nor do the dead want to be arranged in an order”, I penned down, half amused by this discovery of mine. I sat beside a small obscure grave marker , hidden behind the grand gravestone of another famous person. My headache didn’t show any signs of leaving me , nor did the weather look like it was going to let the bright sunshine seep into the grey Parisian sky.

“What are you searching for? ” He asked while finding himself a place beside me. Wearing a brown bowler hat and carrying a cane , he looked like he had walked out of  a  Rene Magritte painting albeit with a face and not an apple.

” I don’t know” I replied to the vague question with the most evasive phrase coined in English language.

” Nonsense! you obviously know what you are looking for, else your eyes wouldn’t be darting around like that of a madman seeking his sanity” he declared.

I laughed, a nervous laugh afraid as ever to say things out loud lest they become real and heavy with words that I possibly cannot take back. ” I guess I was looking for some alternative life altering mechanism over here” I said. “I guess I was searching for a person who died the same day as I was born” I continued. “I guess I was searching for an everlasting connection with the obscure in a way that I can never find otherwise”

“Hmmm” he grunted. “A bit lonely aren’t you?” he asked a few minutes later. ” No, not really, but sometimes I wish I had a legacy to carry or perhaps a cross to bear, so to speak. There is an innate satisfaction in knowing a piece about a stranger that could be polar opposite to who you are , but it also sets the roots for an identity that you have been running away from” I said.

“And what maybe that you are running away from?” he asked “These findings about myself.These words to be precise” I said without thinking.

“Clever one , you are, aren’t you” he patted my head in a avuncular manner and walked away into the labyrinth of gravestones, cane not making a sound, bowler hat not blowing away despite the storm brewing and wind hissing a warning.

“Insane might be a better word” I mumbled  to myself and went back to searching and not finding anything significant or at-least deluding myself about it.

Findings

Findings

Eulogy for what was mine.

Standard

I stumble upon these steps,
So far high ,
Falling to perch,
Running away to stay,
With nostalgia that peels rationality away.

They said ,
Time and again,
Falling in ,falling out of love ,
Was a risk I couldn’t take.

With images of my glories,
All hidden away ,
The skeletons in the closet ,
Displayed without shame.

Standing there,
Striped of illusions,
I seek that nothing ,
Not as a barter or a treasure .

Burying what’s mine ,
Never the hopes or dreams,
I dig a hollow in the sky,
To hide ,
My love for you,
That you nonchalantly give away.

A rivers sorrow

Standard

Sabarmati-Riverfront-in-Ahmedabad

Shedding no tears of grief,

Nor of reprieve,

Sitting there on the fringes of my existence,

Sipping your idealistic lies.

Travelling far and wide,

I breathe, I flow

With no qualms by my side.

Storing the floating images,

Of muddy, scarred, unreachable faces.

Making a path,

Not of wrath or destruction.

Arriving to known,

Unwelcomed like an inconvenience in my home.

Fitting me into moulds,

You tame me,

Imprisoned by these grey walls,

My identity is best unknown.

Lying dormant,

In these shackles of imposed towers,

Turning into snapshots of your whims,

Watched by the guards of your lair.

The blues of my beauty,

Shroud the reality,

Bleak and withered,

Willing to leave all that is mine.

I change, I burn.

Passing into a new phase,

Leaving the evidence behind

The corpses of your reminiscence

Showcasing your bellied mistakes

Hidden under what is rightfully mine.

With the turn of the sun,

I will be back ,

Holding no treason,

It isn’t death , I know ,

That your cries would fill me up , when I really go.