Confessions : Of Uncertainty

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The whirlpool of “what ifs” is terrible. Running around in circles of uncertainty can make even the most confident person falter their step. I’m not sure when I wrote this little piece, for I have moved far too many times to far too distant places, dreamed of it even. But now that I re-read it, the timing seems apt and a love far too real gets left behind again.

 

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confessions Series. Written and forgotten in old sketchbooks, bought to life again here.

Confessions: Of Reason

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They say old habits die hard. I say the only reason old habits/people/things stick around because we reason with ourselves that the murky history is essential, because who are we if not for our pasts ?

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series , little figments of writings scribbled down in old sketchbooks bought to life here.

 

The Dance

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I’ve been meaning to learn to dance for about a year now, and I somehow never get to it( largely because of my two left feet and klutzy-ness) So while I was working on some illustrations with a Nat Cole song playing in the background I stumbled across this in my old sketchbook. Maybe I did learn to dance around and with words.

take two steps towards honesty
sway my hips abandoning all,
Slip and slide and eventually lie.

YOU,

take the lead,
moving and gathering me in your arms,
walking back,
breaking away from the buzz,
needing a pause.

WE

moved well,
when the beats played fast.
took the floor by a storm.
Stopped only when,
both of us faltered and fell down.

THEY,

Whistled and hooted when we started,
gave us space while showing us off,
mocked our eagerness behind our backs.
were eventually wrongly right,
about our lasts.

Open and Shut

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Here, is where you shouldn’t be.

Sneaking upon my senses,

Clouding yourself with my vagueness,

Withholding all your pristine thoughts.

 

You don’t share here,

In this one-way street,

I need you to leave,

Before you witness me bleed.

 

I can’t see you here,

Flaunting that ugly smile,

Overwriting my fears with your witty thoughts.

 

I shut my eyes to make you disappear,

Your shadows remain,

Snaking through the voids,

That I had no knowledge of.

 

I need you to go,

I need you to close everything,

Just,

Leaving the door of memories ajar.

 

Barter

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She said “I keep drifting in and out of spaces. It keeps things from getting stagnant.”

He said ” Don’t you like to drown yourself into the intricacies? ”

She said ” I simply accept the fact like water is water and then I plunge to discover, to be bedazzled”

He said “So it isn’t about patterns but it is about movement of them?”
She said “Your assumptions are so fulfilling, they are like a leap of faith to see God”
He said “Don’t you have that one moment which you identified only with hope in your actual life ?”
She said “No. You just like to look for the nuances in the ordinary.”
Words exchanged is the only barter that seems valid, otherwise it all vanishes into clouds of uncertainty. Obscure,abstract and distinct only in the most distant way. But then again uncertainties are factors which find the existence of mind, so why ponder!
Silence on the other hand makes you a person that you wouldn’t want to live with. It’s the spotlight you evade to be content in your own darkness. It’s what creeps into your thoughts and even dreams and destroys all illusions. It is your sole companion, the last resort  even before you begin the adventure.
She could have said that she missed him, but that would have been a well-practiced lie that she used often to along with people. Silences are refreshing, so much so that she hadn’t even realized its existence.

WORD

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I never understood or underestimated them until yesterday when I had a conversation with the known stranger.When you think words are overrated in silence, they act as the tiny window to a giant fortress .You don’t have to rely on them for filling in gaps of silence but let them be a reason for a conversation in silence .To me they are sometimes a superfluous cover to a shallow depths ,and sometimes the undercurrents itself .But in the end  words are perhaps  almost a poetic responsibility ,that I can never imagine kicking away .True or not , the words cage me , but I guess I’m a weird happy prisoner.