Unsteady, this life,
Falling into the pages,
Between others stories,
Encouraged by mere words,
Finding neither the end or the beginning.
Unsteady, these dreams,
Built from dusk to dawn,
Unraveled thread by thread,
Forced into the misery of now.
Unsteady, Blaming none,
These dark inked fingers,
Washing the evidence of blood,
These bruises of defeat,
paying an ode to the carcass of memories.
Unsteady, Moving ahead,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.
I don’t forget the birthdays of people who actually do matter to me and I am slightly proud of it, but I almost did today owing to the million parallel thoughts in my head. In my search for some funny material for a birthday card I went through all my email conversations with him from a time when emailing about the happenings of your life was a cool thing to do. Long story short, I found this piece of advice I gave him for whatever life crisis he was going through during that phase. I guess my 19 year old self was truly 19 going on 60 ! 😀
This is a part of confession series, written in old sketchbooks/emails brought to life here.
It is funny how I’ve conveniently forgotten how it feels to be inadequate. I move around in loops in my life evidently and it’s that phase again where I stumble into life with wobbly legs and butter hands unable to hold on to my sense of confidence and questioning my existence.
This is a part of confession series, written in old sketch books bought to life here.
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.
In the end we all want to believe that we are at the drivers seat, directing our life to the best possible choices ;running on a fuel of our own volatile emotions. The need for that control is essential to keep reinventing yourself and so is a sense of purpose.
As Camus says “This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart. The absurd depends as much on man as on the world. For the moment it is all that links them together.”
This is a part of the Confession Series, written in old sketch books, revived to life here.