Inside, Memories

Changing light

2010-07-10T07:40:00.001+08:00

This light is not of the morning.

Warm, dull hues fall on this majestic tree. The bright leaves turn to olive. The grand trunk bathes, in what seems to be, the last trickles of light for the day. Waltzing dark shadows of little leaves caressing it to slumber.

There is the distant chirp of a lone bird.

But the day has just begun.

The lone chirp turns into a cacophony of chirping.

The shadows of little leaves disappear into oblivion. The grand trunk is washed with streaming light from the parting clouds. The olive leaves turn a grass green. Flares of white and yellow light dwarf this once majestic tree.

This light is of the morning now.

Sound

2010-01-14T15:34:00.004+08:00

On the other side of the window, there was no sound. No sound of the city coming to life. No beep beeps of the distant horns. No humming of the traffic. No clanking of metal against metal. No muffled voices.

There was only light. Changing light. Patterns forming and disrupting. Flickering flashes. Orange turning yellow turning white. Tightening pupils. Clinging crows feet. Not there yet, but desperately trying to make a mark.

Fingers touched the thick window. A light misty vapour outlining the fingers. Trailing fingers down the dark glass. Smudges. A heavy sigh. The steam forms and with it a new kaleidoscope to the city. Slowing transforming.

Linger.

It was time. To hear the sound.

Diving

2008-01-27T08:42:00.000+08:00

The movement all around him was silent and deafening. The only thing which made sense right now was the feeling of his pulse. It was his only constant from his other world. His older life.

Bubbles floated past him. Each one containing a universe of joy and lies. All of them reaching out. Some for him, to bring him back. And some for air. And a few, just a few, clung to him. And continued the journey with him.

He waited for something to happen. For a sign. Anything.

He saw her in his minds eye. Her beautiful lips, moving slowly. Then there was music. And he was lost in her hair. On his face. Sometimes, tickling his eyelids. And the wind. Powerful and cool. Flares of sunshine coming through.

How much time did he have left? That didn’t matter. Only now did.

Plummet

2008-01-13T01:16:00.000+08:00

She welcomed him back with open arms.

* * *

But this was a different side of her that he was going to see.

The scratches on the surface would give away to deeper scars. To scars of torture, twinge and torment. To the past that he knew about, but had not felt, not seen. Whether he had been reluctant to look beyond, or she had been to open up more – they were not sure. But now was the time.

Unexpected but overdue.

He had to see how she came to where she was today. The path that was taken, and left behind. The bygones that would never be bygone. Reality.

She was ready to bite. And he, to be bitten.

* * *

She welcomed him back with open arms. After all, he was coming back.

Conundrum

2008-01-09T00:24:00.000+08:00

The leaves crunched as he stepped into the frame. Brittle, brown, bruised. The circular flare blinded him from the side. Shining, shimmering, severe.

He wondered if he was alone. The echoes played tricks on his mind. Were they ricochets from now, or from the past? There was a presence that he couldn’t describe. Amidst the desolation it still seemed like everything was how it was. But not there.

He stepped forward, hesitatingly. And saw the flashes. Every leaf that crunched was a memory brought back. He crunched them, one by one. Till every one of them had crumbled and mingled with each other. This was the mother of all jigsaw puzzles. And this was the only way to put it back together.

Influx

2008-01-07T17:00:00.000+08:00

For a moment
A whore
Feels romance

For a moment
The music
Is silent

For a moment
The night
Creates shadows

For a moment
It all
Makes sense

Then
That moment
Is over

Peccadillo

2006-12-25T19:10:00.000+08:00

This city intoxicates me.

Its walls wrap me up in their poisonous embrace, pushing me in deeper. She indulges my memories of sins long forgotten.

I am in a part of this city I have never been in before. Yet its familiarity grasps me. It isn’t the people. Not even the smell. It is just a feeling. A feeling from years ago, bringing back departed encounters. Like bumping into what should be a ghost that should not be.

Bodies brush past me. A skirmish just to keep heading in one direction. On one path. But there is no one path in this city. It is a series of mazes interlocked and intertwined in each other. Feeding of each others complexities to create this cacophony of crazy confusion.

Today, I try to disguise myself in this return to her lair. I try to get lost in the labyrinths of her being. To not be recognized and to not remember. But something pulls me back to her. Even though it shouldn’t.

Something in her intoxicates me and pushes me deeper.

The answer eludes me. The question is why.

Done

2006-11-06T07:36:00.000+08:00

The words you wrote just before these, will not be seen by anyone. Ever.

They are gone. Destroyed.

Repeat performance

2006-10-05T07:59:00.000+08:00

The whispering wispy clouds
Whispered
And clouded the moon

Like cigarette smoke
Rising, encircling and going
Its own way

The symbolic symphonic synchronized dance
Around the moon
Was a sight to behold

Because
It was happening fast
And repeating itself

9-2-1

2006-10-01T17:50:00.000+08:00

Yes. You have come to the right place. Not the same place, though it looks pretty much the same. The familiar comforting background still warmly welcomes you. The look and feel still mellow you down and take you on a journey. But the journey has changed.

Every journey brings out of it a new you. Even if you go back to the same place again. It is this new you that travels again and changes a place. In this continuous symphony of being changed and changing, you become you.

* * *

Nine.

I have traveled nine cities in the last month. I have lived the proverbial nine lives. Each one different than the first. And me? Each time different than the previous. I have metamorphosed my being across continents and oceans. Leaving a little bit of myself, everywhere I have gone. In return, taking a little bit for myself to fill up the spaces I have emptied.

It is the little things in these times that make the big difference. The train that you couldn’t make it in time for, the rain that splattered down changing your plans again and again, the small town with a big appetite, the big apple with a bite taken out of it, the gorgeous cityscape turning into a beautiful landscape, the things about some cities that never change, the town that you never thought that you would see, the quiet river that you sit by and contemplate, a friend you thought you would never make, the perfectly comfortable start to a long journey, different types of buses, trains and planes, and at the end of every journey, a smiling face. Even though you are not home. And then the simple and perfect joy of coming back home.

* * *

The eating of the cuisine of one country, in a second country, with a person from a third country, when you are from a fourth country. Twice in a week!

Where are the boundaries in this world? What are these boundaries made of? Nothing separates us anymore. Not borders, not nationalities, not seas and not even languages. It is one world. Beating and moving.

All nine cities connected through the intangible. Through words and feelings and being. Through us.

The loop of the 9 slowly unfurling, removing the boundary that it drew, removing the physical connection that it made and turning into a 1.

One.

* * *

Yes. You have come to the right place. Not the same place, though it looks pretty much the same. The familiar comforting background still warmly welcomes you. The look and feel still mellow you down and take you on a journey. But the journey has changed.

Every journey brings out of it a new you. Even if you go back to the same place again. It is this new you that travels again and changes a place. In this continuous symphony of being changed and changing, you become you.

You become one.

Manipulated

2006-09-29T03:16:00.000+08:00

When I walked into this dream for the first time, it didn’t seem like a dream. Everything seemed the way it was supposed to be. Nothing was out of place. It all fell in together. Except for her. She made it dreamlike.

The way the light fell, you could tell it was manipulated. Soft. Glowing. Highlighting. Shining, but not bright enough to make you look away. It drew me in. Softly but surely.

Now, there you go, wondering. How can light be manipulated? That is because dreams are a manipulation of the reality that we might want to see. Not wish for. But maybe, just want to see. To see what it might look like. It is a safe place after all. What’s the worst that can happen? You can wake up.

But I was not waking up this time. This was real. Or so it seemed.

To draw the circle complete – the shutter opened and closed. Click.

The dream of the viewfinder was over. It had all come to be. The frame had been frozen, the way I wanted it to be. The photograph was a dream. And it had been created. Manipulated.

The terrace

2006-08-31T06:19:00.000+08:00

I have never meant
to see this
or the way
it would be

You know
the reason
is you

I know
the reason
is you

But
why won't we
say it

Why don't
we see beyond
what we want
to see

Where are we
going to go
from here
if we don't know
where we are

The great wide open
is waiting
but
we don't think
it is there

Because
we are looking
for it
through
a key hole

And the key
lies in
the truth
that
we shy from

The truth
that is hidden
behind
these words

Where
do we
go
from here

Homecoming

2006-07-19T08:25:00.000+08:00

Today, in the morning, the colours seemed brighter than they usually are. The green was deeper and more profound. The black was darker and more inviting. The white was brighter and more calming.

There was something in the air which said it was going to be a great day. No, not a feeling. It was just there. Right there.

And then it happened.

A lone leaf fell to the ground. Floating, floating, floating, till it was suddenly pulled down. And bang. It hit the ground without a sound. But created ripples among the other leaves, making space for itself. Disappearing into the sea of leaves on the pathway.

Then it was clear. Before the rain started trickling down.

Invisible at first, you could only feel it on your skin. You could feel the leaves sighing together in union. Fluttering, dancing and celebrating its arrival. Waiting for it to sweep them off their feet and float them into another world. Another time.

She was back.

All is all

2006-06-30T12:32:00.000+08:00

"Is that all you wanted to say?"

"Yes, that and some more. But for now, only that."

Idle thoughts on a Tuesday afternoon

2006-05-14T10:11:00.000+08:00

I want to get away
From the madness
And meaninglessness
Of this materialistic
Monotony

*

Sometimes
I think
I should have chosen
The life
That he has

*

Maybe
I will
Like him
A second time
Round

*

I find
Myself
Asking
The same questions
Today

*

Only
That I am asking them
Too early
But is there a thing
As too early

*

What was it
That they say
Better late than never
Don’t quite agree
With that really

*

The thought
Has crossed
My mind now
Why should I
Let it pass

*

There is
So much left to do
So much left to see
And today
Is not enough

Spoken understood and unwritten

2006-05-10T23:11:00.000+08:00

It does not matter how we arrived here. What matters is that we did. And it happened on a song. We were not going to, but then it all changed. But that is not the surprising thing.

What is, is that it happened on a song. Literally. And figuratively of course. But literally.

And it happened not once but twice.

Too much to take? Maybe.

* * *

Sometimes, you just have to let go of yourself. If you don’t, it won’t happen. And you will never know. What you need to know. What you need to feel. What you need to do.

Release your inhibitions.

Second charade

2006-04-02T03:24:00.000+08:00

What a false front all of them are putting up. Do any of them even think that they are being real? Maybe they do. And that is the funny part about it. There is so much pretense in this tonight. How does it matter to any of us? We are just mere mortals creating moments that have no meaning. Creating a tonight which will never matter. Are we even having fun? Maybe we are. But does it matter? Does anything matter right now? He is going to sleep with her for what it is worth. She is going to make love to him in the hope of a new tomorrow. But what is the reality? Love or sex? No one knows. But this night will end in something more than the usual. And that will be a moment that will haunt them for a long time to come. Right now they can stop it from happening but they are not going to. Because they want it to happen. And it will happen. Not because it is meant to happen but because it is bound to happen. But what does it matter anyway. Let me finish my drink and enjoy the rest of the night.

I’ve traveled

2006-03-30T07:50:00.000+08:00

I have stopped existing in your world.

I mean, I do exist but only just about. It is not a struggle for life or anything like that. I have just blended in and am now in a dark forgotten corner. The rage has simmered to memory. And I just lie there. And watch.

* * *

I have started shining in a new world.

I mean, I was always there but as someone else. It is something like your world but nothing like it. I have just blended in and am now in the spotlight. The novelty has set fire to a passion. And I just go out. And create.

Uncertainly unwilling

2006-03-26T23:24:00.000+08:00

If only
For a moment
She hesitated
When he looked her
In the eye

It was
This moment
That came back
To him
When she died

* * *

Figuratively speaking, of course. She was still alive. But not his anymore. That was when he thought back to that one moment of hesitation, of doubt. Of the doubt that lingered in everything, even if it did not creep up and show itself.

* * *

It was
This hesitation
That killed
The innocence
They had created

* * *

The world that was built upon the fragile illusions of the absence of reality. Of course it had to all break down someday. But not crumble like this. Not with deceit.

* * *

But everything does not end the way it is supposed to. Or so they would have him believe.

Moment vs. Moment

2006-03-09T07:42:00.000+08:00

“It was my moment versus yours.”

“Why does it have to be one against the other? We were both there weren’t we?”

“Physically yes, but there is more to it than that.”

“I am sure there is, but what the hell do you mean by your moment versus mine?”

“Well, I am sure it did not mean the same thing to you as it did to me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because we take out different memories from different moments. You are a sentimental romantic and I am a practical yet sensitive poet.”

“Oh, so the poet speaks!”

“No need to get sarcastic. I am just trying to answer your question.”

“So why don’t you compose a poem to explain it to me.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I am sure you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t have the inspiration.”

“Haha. Do you think everything I write is inspired?”

“It isn’t?”

“No. Sometimes it’s just some bullshit string of words that I put together in the name of art. Let others ponder the mystery and wonders of my writing just by making it so different from what they have read before, and it comes out shining as a brilliant piece of literature. Of course there are other times when I put my heart and soul into writing something and everyone seems to misread what I have been writing about – taking out their own meanings, which ruin the very purpose of my writing. Anyway, that does not matter. That is why I say it is my moment versus yours.”

“But I am sure it does not happen all the time. There must be times when people spot the bullshit and feel the passion.”

“Feel the passion. Hah. Yes, there are times when that happens.”

“And those are the times you feel connected to your readers.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Then how is it your moment versus theirs.”

“But they don’t get the exact same feeling.”

“But they get the gist of it?”

“Yes, they do.”

“Then can’t there be times when the moment is the same for us.”

“I thought I was the practical one, but then again, this is a very romantic point of view.”

“Leave romance out of it and answer the question.”

“No. There is always a difference in the moment.”

“Stop being stubborn.”

“Okay. Okay. So there can be sometimes when the moment is same but that is very rare. Different things mean different things to different people. Like the last sentence, that was alliteration to me, a confusing sentence to you, using the word “different” too many times to someone else, clichéd to another, nonsense to another and so forth. If one simple sentence can change things then how can you expect moments to be the same?”

“Stop trying to confuse me.”

“Exactly. You are confused while I am marveling at my alliteration.”

“Words and moments are very different things.”

“Are you trying to confuse me now?”

“No I am not.”

“Then let’s go get a cup of coffee and continue this there.”

“Let’s. Maybe we will create another moment.”

“Maybe it will be the same.”

“It will.”

a doubtful interrogation of an uncertain problem

2006-02-25T12:39:00.000+08:00

how
did your life
change

why
are you
now

where
i was
then

who
haunts you
today

what
do you
think of

when
she looks
at you

Between the lines

2006-02-15T19:12:00.000+08:00

When it started, it was not a beginning. It was picking up the pieces that someone else had left behind. It was a start but not a beginning. It is very important that you understand that properly, that is why I am starting by telling you this.

There it was, a trail left behind from before. The pieces in no particular order. They were not even pieces, they were crumbs. There was no way of putting them back together. Then why did I bother to trace them and collect them? What would I do with them?

I didn’t know.

And because I didn’t know, something told me that I should pick them up and keep them away. For the future. To read something into the past. To make everything come together. To take this shattered start into a beginning. A beginning that was about to begin but could not because it was not meant to be. Not today. Not now.

In the middle of this celestial complication of starting and beginning, was what I was looking for. Neatly placed between the crumbs.

It was a space.

But as the crumbs were cleared away the space was no longer the space that was the beginning. And within that space lay the answer. It was all in the shape. The shape that defined the shape of things to come. And that was lost forever. All because something told me that I should pick up the crumbs and keep them away. For the future. To read something into the past. But it was all there.

And now it was not. It was gone. And that was the end of another beginning.

Further than away from the past

2006-01-30T19:45:00.000+08:00

I travel through your soul
I unravel mysteries that don’t yet exist
I contradict the very purpose I was born for
I move without moving
I see more than my eyes can feel
I become what I am not meant to

For I swim into your soul
When you look at me
Even that one fleeting moment
Is enough to tear you apart
Into a million pieces
So that I can go beyond

Note: This is a collaborative piece with another artist. The words are mine, but the picture is not. Need your help to know how well they work together and what this conveys to you (emotions, feelings, thoughts, etc.) when put together.

Frozen facade

2006-01-17T07:17:00.000+08:00

What do you see in me? Why do you stare so longingly at this frozen moment?

I am resting. I have traveled many miles to reach this instant. This ordinary moment. Which no one has noticed but you. But I do not think you see it for what it is. For what lies beneath. For what flows beneath. You do not see me because I am just a blur in the background. I am the background. You see me only in the circumstance that I have trapped myself into.

There is a crack where I am held together. Even you have not noticed it. Just a small, tiny, little crack on the surface. It is tearing at the seam, threatening to burst the vein of my salvation open. And mark the end of this endless solitude.

But it won’t. It is held together by the anguish of my forlorn individuality. Which no one sees, but me.

No, not even you.

Among the ruins

2006-01-07T12:12:00.000+08:00

At the edge of the broken kingdom stands a new king. He surveys the ruins all alone. Ready to begin his new battle. His new crusade. His discovery.

Behind him, the sun rises in all its magnificence. He is silhouetted against the blood red sky, his figure imposing on the kingdom that lies ahead of him. The light falls gently on the broken kingdom, bursting through every broken doorway.

From behind the rubble the child watches him plot her uncharted future. She does not know it yet. Nor does he. For now she looks at him, while he sees the future.

The ruins are not the same anymore. The kingdom is coming to life. The king has returned.

Immaculate

2006-01-02T23:00:00.000+08:00

One small, fleeting moment later, and she was gone. Gone the same way she came. From the mist. Into the fog. Away from here.

But she had never made any promises to stay forever. She had never given any more than she had taken. But did she know that she had taken so much. So much more than those before her. And possibly so much more than those who were to come.

She had shown me places. Places I had seen before and places I had not. Places I had seen before, I had not seen the way she showed them to me. Places I had not were now my seven sins.

And the twelve nights that she took me through were pure enchantment. I cannot recall or relive every moment, because the experience was more than the physicality of it. Then it struck me. That in times like this, you need to smile when you look back.

And so I did.

Once again, for the last time

2005-12-24T10:38:00.000+08:00

Another moment
Another time
His boundary
Is just a line

Another meeting
Another glance
She said
It was romance

Another instant
Another journey
They set off
On a new discovery

The thread in this yarn

2005-12-20T18:30:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, change comforts you and is deliberate.

But this time, the change that came about in her life was not deliberate. It was fortuitous. Fortuitous that she had to move on; that she felt that she needed to move on.

But it was so good. It was meant to be forever.

The strangeness of the word ‘forever’ struck her as she penned down her thoughts. Was it a possibility? Was anything ‘forever’? The moments played back in her mind again and again; since the day the magic started. But each time it played, the reel changed ever so slightly. The story took that small little by lane and twisted itself through a new path. Each time, it landed up at the same place but the route it took changed over time.

And time was all that was left between them.

The past was altered in every memory and every moment. Nothing lasted ‘forever’. Because every time you turned on the memories, they were altered. There was another new version, another chain. And this time, when it all came together to the same point, she wondered whether it would have been any different if things were changed. If people were different. If she were not around, and the story unfolded on its own in someone else’s life. If there were another.

Probably.

But this was the story that had taken place. Or at least the version which existed today. The blasphemy of questioning it. How could he? Why did he? Distrust was the basest of emotions that could destroy this story. Or this version of it.

That is why it changed. Even if it was not deliberate.

Deafening tranquility

2005-11-29T07:18:00.000+08:00

Hush.

Do not speak to me in this lone moment of observation of deafening tranquility. It has been a long journey for me to reach this point. This point that will come and go, and not be noticed by anyone but me.

For this is the moment when everything is still. For an instant. And in this instant the decision that changes the world is taken. Because it could have gone another way. On another path. A path that we can only think and speculate about but will never get to see. What is done is done.

I am right here. Like I have been. Observing this din merge into harmony. Of everything seeming that it was supposed to be exactly this way. When it was not. It was not.

In another world, in another parallel universe this moment went the other way. On another path. On the path that we can only think and speculate about and will never get to see. But I can see it now. I can notice this point in time, which no one else can.

I can be in two places at the same time. It is in this moment of stillness that I travel from one universe to the other, to observe the paths fork and diverge into different directions. Into different lands. Into different worlds. I can see both of them at the same time, but only to a point. After which, I must choose. I must choose whether I am going to get carried away by seeing what could have been or float back to what is.

Hush. Let me decide.

Being with her

2005-11-26T14:40:00.000+08:00

She whispers to me
Ever so softly
Her tinkling
Adding music
To the wind

She sways towards me
Ever so boldly
Her chimes
A rhapsody
To the night

She flutters away from me
Ever so playfully
Her pealing
Adding festivity
To the moment

She rises over me
Ever so quietly
Her silence
A testament
To her exquisiteness

Shine

2005-11-24T20:04:00.000+08:00

I am the light
I am the one

Can you see my shadow
In your shadow
Can you see what I see
Through my blindness

The diamond in a teardrop
The sparkle in her eyes
The flare behind moment
The fire in his soul

The colour
In black and white

A momentary lapse of reason

2005-11-21T22:13:00.000+08:00

The smell of the crumpled paper came first. Then the sound. But only moments later. By then, my consciousness had been invaded. A mosquito made its way to my bare arm. My unforgiving palm came down on it. It died and was reborn a white hair. The white hair stood out, shining. Its reflection in the mirror was blinding. The entire room lit up and all you could see was the light. A doorway opened to darkness. I ran towards it and slipped in just as it was closing. The darkness melted into a river. I was carried by it as it gushed through the mountains. I landed in a lake in the middle of a volcano. Or what used to be a volcano. All the fishes were red, and hot. They glowed like embers of coal. There was a small fire by the river. The flames told me stories of the previous births of the offerings that roasted on it. As we bit into each of our offerings, we were transported into their future lives. We were friends in that life. All of us. Except for one. The one who had pretended to eat, but did not chew. He was an enemy in this life. He hid behind the ever changing forest. The trees turned to stone while he slept. He lay frozen in one of those stones. That way we could never get to him. There was no other way. We cut down the trees. The whole forest. For every tree we cut, another three grew. We were exhausted. We went back to the village and got drunk. This time the trees did not turn into stone. But the leaves vanished. Into thin air. They never came back. But he was gone. We thought that was the end. But it was not. It was only the beginning. We drifted. Each to his own. As I wandered many lands and created many stories for myself, I came upon a boy. He was blind in one eye. He led me to the wooden house. He called it the house of dreams. I went in through the back door. There was a long corridor with doors on both sides. The light was blue and green. It looked dangerous. At the end of the corridor there was a fat lady. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of her. She pushed me into a room. It opened up to the snow capped mountains. I tried to go back but there was a wall instead of a door. It was very cold. I started freezing. So I started running. As I ran I could feel the snow melting around me. But it was not melting. It was freezing. Into sheets of ice. I jumped onto one that was passing me by. And landed up in your room. Right behind you. Looking at you looking at the computer and reading this story. You wondered if I was really there. You looked back.

Piercing through

2005-11-19T22:59:00.000+08:00

Barbed wire
A broken relationship
Thorns pricking
Blemished shortcomings
Glimmering desires
Piercing through
And through

Glory

2005-11-15T22:44:00.000+08:00

I am in this country again.

This dream among a million dreams. This day among a thousand and one nights. This feeling among all these emotions. This poem among story tellers.

I meet her again.

This time among the overgrown weeds coated with morning dew. Spider webs hidden among flowers. Nectar dripping off thorns. The cracked and crumbling earth bearing the burden of my every movement. The choreographed birds appearing out of nowhere and disappearing into nothingness. The golden reflection of dawn in a puddle of water.

She greets me as if we were meeting for the first time.

Very soon, you reach the edge. It is not as far as you think it is. Often, it is just round the bend. And then, here you are. At the precipice. And nothing in front of you but a free fall. All the way down. All the way back. All the way.

It’s probably for the best anyway.

Genesis, again

2005-11-10T22:00:00.000+08:00

It starts now

A moment ago
We were here

A moment later
They were gone
Again

Two perspectives
Coming together
In a new
Light

The dawn
Whispering through
Towards us
And our
Dreams

The genesis
Of a moment
Born untaught
And captured
For eternity
And a second

And so it is

2005-11-07T19:23:00.000+08:00

The morning light was about to stream through the swaying branches.

As she closed her eyes, she remembered the same wind fluttering about her hair and stroking her face. The gentle moments of those mornings came back to her. The light softly playing on her eyes, till they got too harsh. The harshness bringing back to her how everything was not always what it seemed at first.

The morning mist was about to start clearing away for everyday life to take over.

As she opened her eyes, she felt the biting wind ruffling her hair and nipping at her face. The icy moments of those mornings came back to her. The light now clearing away the mist, till the ugliness showed. The ugliness bringing back to her how there were always two sides to everything.

The morning moments were about to become history once again.

As she turned around, the wind was flowing and moving to her movements. This was the moment and the morning was here. The light flooded her world, till everything was familiar. The familiarity was the same but the feeling was different.

The morning was here now. To stay.

Recline

2005-11-03T11:18:00.000+08:00

As the music dissolved into the muffled lights, I lay back. The curtain fluttered, creating psychedelic patterns against the yellow glow.

I was back again. Same place, same position. Things repeat themselves. But this wasn’t a déjà vu. It was a conscious choice. Sometimes, we want things to repeat themselves. To relive old memories. To taste a moment of the past again.

Another inexperienced latest spanking novel

2005-10-31T14:41:00.000+08:00

There is only a sheet of glass between me and the raging city. I am motionless, a part of this great skyline.

The silence inside brings out the paradoxes of the outside.

I can see what I hear.
I can hear what I touch.
I can touch what I feel.
I can feel what I smell.
I can smell when she speaks.
When she speaks to me.

She speaks to me in the most fragile of whispers. Whispers meant only for me. The wind crackling them up, as every syllable caresses my ears. She tells me of how she has waited for our union. How it has been so many years since we both saw the dream of this moment.

All this as I move through her, soaking up the experience of being in her. Life moves in a swirl around me, as I see everything that I had dreamt of. The sights and sounds of her, just as I had imagined.

Imagination is such a wonderful thing, when it comes to life.

Too much colour

2005-10-29T20:20:00.000+08:00

It’s too much to take in, in one go. The brilliant colours. The dazzling smiles. The expected unexpected.

But what stands out the most is the colour. The vibrancy of everything that you look at. Every tone, hue and texture. It even comes out the way I see it. In black and white. I can catch sight of the colours even though I can’t see them.

This is just one of the many contradictions that come to me today. In so many ways.

But then the moment overtakes me. It brings to me the feeling of being here now. Of not knowing what to do. Of not knowing why I am here. Of not knowing.

This is interesting. But I never expected it to be so.

Frozen in time

2005-10-26T07:17:00.000+08:00

We are all frozen in time.

This time before time. Where memories flash by, picture by picture. The puzzle comes together to form now. And now is when we go back. In a flash. We are back in time. Frozen once again. But in a different time. A different universe.

The greatest drama unfolds its arms to welcome you. To reel you in. Slowly at first, then all of a sudden. And you are there. You are frozen. You are here.

Everything else melts.

The dreaming tree

2005-10-23T22:37:00.000+08:00

Early morning, misty sunrise that can’t be seen. I am but a shadow, in your vision beyond. As you look for something more beautiful. The fields of gold lie beyond my soul. You won’t remember me tomorrow. I wouldn’t remember me, if I was not stuck with me. But I am.

Thousands drive past this rubble day by day. There is no place to stop. Even if there was, what would happen differently? Nothing.

But there is a boy. Who stares at me as he passes by. In his eyes, I see a story. Not his story, but the one he is going to write. I see his eyes frozen by the landscape, looking, not hearing a thing. Not even the traffic. He is not thinking of the story. He is dreaming of it. But he doesn’t know it.

So he captures what he sees, freezing it with a quick open-close of the shutter and carries on. Dreaming.

Drama (a 55 word poem)

2005-10-18T23:58:00.000+08:00

The plot thickens
After
The stage
Is set

The players improvise
When
They forget
Their lines

The backstage romance
Lingers
In characters
Who don’t

The makeup girl
Hides
Everything except
The eyes

The demanding director
Surveys
Always disappointed
With something

The critics
Gasp
Not understanding
The drama

The drama
Isn’t
In the script
You see

Note: Ever since the '55 word story' started, I have wondered what it would be like to attempt a '55 word poem'. I thought that 55 words in a poem have the potential to convey so much more than 55 words in a piece of prose. This is my first conscious attempt at a '55 word poem', and I don’t recall seeing any other attempt till now (maybe I haven’t looked enough). While I would like to see others take this on, I know it may not appeal to many. In case you plan to give it a go, do drop a link here and/or add the technorati tag below at the bottom of your attempt.

Tag: 55 word poem

Other 55 Word Poems
(will keep updating)
Abhishek Mehrotra
Aristocrat 1
Aristocrat 2
Ash 1
Ash 2
Ash 3
Billy
Brood Mode
Casablanca 1
Casablanca 2
Daniel
Deep
Erin Monahan 1
Erin Monahan 2
Extempore
Falstaff 1, 2 & 3
Garnet
Gilbert Koh
Gulnaz 1, 2 & 3
Humorix 1
Humorix 2
Humorix 3
Humorix 4
Humorix 5
Humorix 6
Martin
Mrudula
MysteryGal
Nasra
Pincushion
Prerona
Ram
Rama
Renee
Russell Ragsdale 1
Russell Ragsdale 2
Russell Ragsdale 3
Russell Ragsdale 4
Shubhodeep Pal
Sue Hardy-Dawson
The One
Wandering Dervish

Written About At (Thanks!)
DesiPundit
Poetisphere
The Blogging Poet
Tomorrow

Doomsday, overheard

2005-10-15T08:14:00.000+08:00

“It’s coming.” He could see the fear in the old man’s eyes as he said this to him.

“What’s coming?” He enquired.

“It. Is. Coming. IT.” The old man gritted his teeth and stressed on every word so that he would get it.

“Huh?” But he didn’t.

“This, this!” The old man said pointing to the sign he was carrying with him.

It read “Doomsday is HERE!”

He smiled, “Oh that.” And carried on.

As he walked away, he could hear the old man trying to call him back and tell him again and again about it. But he was spinning away. Back towards her with the coffee he was carrying for their usual weekend rendezvous.

She immediately started telling him, “This is the world’s way of warning us. The earth is angry with us.”

He looked at the newspaper article that she was pointing out. He shrugged and said, “They just cover more of this stuff in a more spectacular way than before, that’s all.”

“No, more of this has been happening of late.”

“Come on. It always used to happen. Read your history books.”

“I am telling you more of it has been happening in the last few years, months. More than I have seen before.”

“You have not seen it. You are only reading it. They are just writing more about it.”

“That is what you think. But more of it is happening. Here see this article.”

Curious, he looked at it. It outlined just that. How more of it was happening lately.

“Is this their idea of interesting weekend reading?”

He smiled. And picked up his coffee.

Wires at dawn

2005-10-11T20:56:00.000+08:00

The first thing that struck me that morning, was the dramatic sky with its hues of crimson and yellow. I had never seen anything like it before.

There was something in the air. There was magic in the sky.

But that was not what gripped me. The play of the silhouettes of the wires against the sky was what struck me the most. The sky was just a background today. A prop. The show stealer was the story that the wires had to tell. The way they were interwoven. How they delicately balanced each other. Their majestic and imposing presence.

The small buildings below looked on in awe at them.

Everything was still, like it was supposed to be.

Click.

Two lights

2005-10-09T23:39:00.000+08:00

A moment later, there will be no light. But you don’t know that.

At first, you can only see the light. Then, you can see a little bit around it. The warm glow of the reflections filter in, muffled. You remember home. And the lights. The memories stream in, in rays. You run your hand over the frosted glass and create patterns that let you look back into your past. The residue clings to your fingers, but you let it pass. What is more important, is getting a clear picture and seeing where the light is coming from.

But you can’t.

Your side has been wiped clean. The burden is on your hands. But glass has two sides. And you don’t have control of the other facade. You can only see what she wants you to see. For now.

A moment later, there will be no light. And she too, doesn’t know that.

Familiarity

2005-10-07T07:07:00.000+08:00

The first thing that strikes me as I enter this city is the familiarity of it. But I don’t live here. I just pass through from time to time. Yet, it is so familiar. Like some sort of a home coming. In a strange land. Where I don’t understand the language. But I feel the soul. I feel the beat. I feel it all – the roads, the neon signs, the street lights, the traffic. Till I can’t take it anymore.

Contrast that to not so long ago. Sleepless dawn in a strange room. Ruffling sheets. A blinking alarm clock that won’t go off. All the makings of insomnia. Makeshift dressing. Ready to discover what this new city has in store, with an early morning walk. Seeing beauty in the mundane. Watching the city wake up and get ready for the day. Till I can’t take it anymore.

Road signs

2005-10-02T18:06:00.000+08:00

“This way …” she said to me, as the gentle sounds of 2 am breezed by.

Was I being taken for a ride again? Was this another version of the past that I would have to relive? Maybe it was. But I didn’t know that now. So, I went ahead and followed her.

We were lost. But directions had ceased to matter. We were in a strange country. In a strange land. For the first time. Looking for a way. A way to see more. To discover the city. Through a travelers eyes.

“So, this is what they call the thrill of the unknown?” I subconsciously said to her.

She looked back and smiled, “Stop philosophizing, and take in the place.”

A lone car zoomed by. The redness in its tail lights lingered in the horizon, before reducing itself to nothing. The amber lamps cast our shadows. They looked like someone else’s. The shadows were playing tricks. They were plotting.

“Isn’t this where we came in the morning?”

“Yes. But it is different now.”

“Different? It is the same place.”

“Yes. But there were hundreds of people in the morning here. Now there is only us.”

“Now you’re philosophizing.”

Smiles. The small bag is opened. Styrofoam cups are freed off each other. The hip flask comes out. Gentle pouring. Backsides resting on the footpath. Drinks are sipped. The night is lovely.

The gentle sounds of 2 am breeze by. Along with the conversation.

Years later

2005-09-30T18:15:00.000+08:00

It was time.

Years had gone by. They had passed in instants. In little pieces. Bit by bit.

He stared outside. Through the translucent white material, that was cloaked in hues of gold, from the rays of the sun. The rays that were struggling to get in. But getting muffled. By the cloth lapping them up in fluid dance movements.

The years did not come back. The moments did not come back. But the feelings did. Because they were deep. They went beyond memories.

He thought back to those first moments. But they were also cloaked. In halos. Bright lights coming in the way of detailed memories. Just faces and smiles. The rest struggled. It was muffled by the light and the moments. It was the same moment played over and over again.

Bit by bit. The little pieces had their own meaning. The instants did not always have to add up to a whole. The years did not have to connect to each other.

It was time.

A photograph (and fifty five words)

2005-09-27T07:35:00.000+08:00

The flickering light danced and created shadows along the wall.

These five pieces had disappeared years ago. Each one carried a secret. Carefully etched, in the patterns that they held, on their surface.

One clue, led to another.

But, they were only clues.

The answer, lay in the lantern.

But, no one cared to look.

Fifty five words (and a photograph)

2005-09-25T18:50:00.000+08:00

Click.

Back then. She saw him photographing the beautiful sky. It was an orange dusk.

Click.

He saw her from the corner of his eye looking at him.

Click.

They smiled at each other. A moment was born.

Click.

A sea of memories raged through.

Click.

Cut to today. Another orange dusk. Coffee. Conversations. More.

Close

2005-09-22T23:22:00.000+08:00

And then you come to terms with it. That it has all been one, big, elaborate lie. The beginning was a lie, as was the ending.

Beautiful, isn’t it? It started with a lie and ended with a lie. Everything in between was a whirlwind. Everything in between was the truth. Everything in between was every moment that he wanted to live and relive. Everything in between will now be forgotten. Because of this moment. Because of this last lie.

They move closer to each other. Shifting perspectives. Making compromises. Feeling feelings.

As he looks on, he recalls those first moments. How they came about. And as he recalls it bit by bit, the story begins to blur, to edit itself into its own story. Into beginnings and endings. Everything in between is forgotten. Everything in between is frozen in another time. A parallel universe.

He remembers the contradiction of that final delicate harsh moment. How it defined them. Everything that meant anything all rolled into one.

His footsteps squelched of the rain that stopped five minutes ago. There was a feeling of mist in the air, but there was no mist. Just pregnant moments. The coffee had a drying effect as it swirled in his mouth. Something was about to happen.

Thousands of miles away a sad feeling crept in. It was not as easy as it had seemed. One lie had not led to another. It led to the truth. The only way to end it was another lie. Strange. That is not what they warn you about lying. But then, life is ironical.

You are back where you started. But not exactly.

Running through

2005-09-19T07:22:00.000+08:00

You run through the motions of everyday life, and let everything pass you by.

You don’t look into the details of the smaller things that are going on. The beauty that passes you by, every instant. The times when you wish you had your camera with you, because you saw something that you wanted to capture forever and look at it again and again. These are the times when you create memories.

You don’t need to capture every moment for later, she says. I think about it. No, I don’t need to capture every moment. But I want to capture this moment. For this is the moment that I not only want to remember, but I want to see. I sometimes want to see and then remember the moment. A memory is not always enough, you see.

How can I remember the clouds that embraced the mountain today? Will I remember it tomorrow? Yes. One week later? Maybe. A month later? Maybe not. A year later? I don’t think so. Will I remember it if I see it? Of course. Pity I didn’t have my camera with me though. This will be another lost moment that will fade away.

What does this picture mean to you? Nothing. Just a pretty play of colours and maybe some technical accomplishment with the lens. What does it mean to me? Much more. It captures the moment. It has nothing to do with the moment though. It just happened to be there and I happened to have my camera and I happened to see it so I happened to click it and not think anything about it till I saw it now, again.

Sometimes, pictures make memories for me.

Capacious

2005-09-15T19:19:00.000+08:00

The birth of an idea.
The beginning of creation.
An empty canvass.
That is all it takes.
To start a work of art.
In the simplest of ways.
In the most complicated of forms.
It comes out.
Because the mind is capacious.
So it creates.

Quartet

2005-09-13T07:43:00.000+08:00

You cross the moment, looking for that fleeting second chance. You catch his eyes and look to see if he feels the same way. They smile at you and move on, across the room. The room is a blur, the noises are muffled. He mingles. One by one. Till he reaches you. But he doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything. But you know, this is the moment. You are looking for that second chance. But there are no second chances honey. Not when you don’t take the first one. You blew it.

You miss the instant, because you were drowning in memories amiss. You see her searching you out in the crowd, drawing you. Your eyes twinkle, seeing her across the room. The path is clear, there is a sudden silence. She disconnects. Here and there. Till you reach her. But you don’t know what to say. She is waiting. Now you feel, maybe this is not the time. How can this be the time? It was never meant to be. Not before. Not now.

You catch it happening, when you were looking for something else. You see them connect, like they did before. No acknowledgement, just a connection, perfect and unpretentious. They move towards each other. Meeting others. On the way. Till they are together. It looks like they are silent. But there is so much going on beneath. You can see it, they were meant to be. You wonder if it was all a lie. About nothing having happened. Of course it did. It’s obvious.

You almost didn’t see it, because you could never see it happen. You see them notice each other for the first time. They linger, taking the moment in slowly. Meanwhile, the room is bustling with activity. They struggle to get to the other. But manage, eventually. Till they face each other. There is an awkward moment. They both try to speak but stop, waiting for the other. So, this is how they meet. This is how things happen. It comes out of nowhere. Just like that. Anytime.

The fire inside

2005-09-08T06:41:00.000+08:00

Early morning, or that is what the watch says. I am up a few hours earlier than usual. As my eyes try to focus on the outside of the window, I realise that it is still dark. Pitch dark. Traces of amber from outside stream into my eyesight. And the outside starts to form. It slowly takes shape into the familiar. Into what I saw last night, before I went to sleep. There is nothing new about it. As usual.

I go through my daily rituals with mechanical preciseness. The razor is sharp and unforgiving. One miss, and the blood appears and slowly spreads. The sting of a good after shave. Not numbing, no pleasure-in-the-pain. But a sting. A plain, simple, bee sting. Eyes close tight to make the pain disappear. Creating crow feet that tug at the ears. The pressure builds up and fades into the sting. It lingers for a few minutes.

One flick and the newspaper is in my hands. Forgotten heroes in the middle, the nouveau don the outside covers. The words eat into each other. Some headlines expected, some not. Some shocking, some trying to be but can't. Each one evaluated, before giving the rest of the story a miss. One headline passes by the other, like small towns on a long drive. The details are the rest of the journey. Like signposts waiting to be read, the rest to be experienced. It all sinks in.

Pitter patter. It's drizzling outside. The rain falls in slow motion before dawn. Have you ever noticed that? Drops hit the puddles on the ground, and then dissolve into them. Shoes make their way across the puddle. Giving them a new shape with each step. Spread contract spread contract. Ripples follow. But too small to be noticed. What is left behind, stays behind.

Droplets on the window play tricks with the night lights, as they prism their way through. Towards me. Greens, ambers and reds whizz by. Everydays are coming back to me. Slowly. Some drops trace their way towards what they are leaving behind, as the pace gets too much for them. Others hold their ground with resolve. The patterns created by this dance and movement mesmerize into a recipe for perfectly pointless philosophy.

The battered remains of yesterday have dissolved. Today is a new day. A new drama. And it starts unfolding this precise moment.

I feel it burn inside of me, sometimes. Sometimes it is mellow, sometimes it rages.

Real life approaches.

Renaissance

2005-09-06T19:42:00.000+08:00

Soggy memories
Soaked
In the rain

Seemingly simple
Secrets shared
Between us

Connections instantly
Created
When we met

Complete communion
Coming closer
After you left

Rife

2005-09-03T21:07:00.000+08:00

The shadows stretched across the grass like a warm liquid running through. As the clouds moved over the skies, the liquid of the shadows spread and turned the light to darkness. A gusty wind blew across the leaves that were lying about, untended. The air was rife with a feeling of contemplated casualness.

The skin on her bare shoulders glistened as the light came back on to it. It enveloped her in its embrace of shadows and reflections. The light played tricks on her skin and hair, making her look larger than life. Making her the foreground and the world her background. The air was rife with a feeling of sensual sentiments.

Then, she turned. In slow motion. As she turned, the rest of the clouds seemed to make way for her. They moved over, making the liquid of the shadows recede back into their original self. Light permeated through the grass. The leaves settled down as the wind moved away to another destination. The air was rife with a feeling of parallel possibilities.

In Sepia

2005-08-31T07:24:00.000+08:00

Blinded by the light, you move on, back towards where you begun your journey. The tunnel bursts into the world that you know and have seen before. Just barely. You are back to the familiar. The light.

The past few days flash back in sepia memories. A mélange of photographs that run through your brain in its own slide show culminating in now. And now, you look out and suddenly realise that there is no more colour. The past has blended into the present and you are looking out at the world in sepia. It hits you, how you see the world. In your own light. In your own sepia tones that blend the present with the past. Memories being created the very moment you live them. In sepia.

Message in a bottle

2005-08-29T07:38:00.000+08:00

Every road is not a path ...

2005-08-27T07:00:00.000+08:00

... but a path is the road you have chosen.

Sometimes you need to change your path and move on to a different road. A more exciting road. A more dangerous road. That is when you cut yourself loose. But you always want to take a little piece of today with you. A piece of now. So you hide it in between, hoping that it is your little secret. And no one will know the better. Except you.

Crazy Diamond

2005-08-24T01:11:00.000+08:00

There is a magic
In the air
That permeates
Through the very soul
Of your existence

There is a stillness
In the night
That floods
Your senses
Beyond your imagination

There is a madness
Inside of you
That overflows
In everything
That you create

There is a past
Behind you
That is overcrowded
With memories
That drain you out

The One

2005-08-19T09:32:00.000+08:00

The waves are not kind tonight. They crash against the rocks on the shore in desperate anger of the past that surrounds them. They want to crush everything that gets in their way. They lap up the night with the sounds of their embrace cloaking every bit of the shore. He can feel it as he stands on the edge, looking, staring, hearing, feeling the moment the sea meets the shore.

The night is calm tonight. It watches over the waves and the rocks and softly wraps itself around their world. It is the dam that holds these feelings together. Every caress against its walls makes it stronger. For it feeds on love. He can feel it come closer to him as he looks up into it and waits for the moon to appear from behind the clouds.

He leans on the edge of the precipice of the rocks and looks down at the waves and up at the night. His time has come. He has walked to the edge and there is no looking back. There are two roads. One to the left and the other to the right. They both lead to places he has not known or seen. They both tempt him with the unknown.

He looks back at the road he has created, shaped. Not taken. For this road was not taken, for it was not there before. He looks back at the road and hesitatingly takes one step towards it. It is the longing that pulls him back towards it. His hand reaches out and feels the dampness of the waft in the air. There is magic in this night.

He remembers. Bits of the journey come back to him. Flashbacks. Colour. Then black and white. They move faster and faster till they come to now. He is here. And this is now.

Two roads wait for him. He has to take one. He closes his eyes and the world revolves around him. It stops with the one road in front of him. He takes the first step towards it. And sees the emptiness that lies ahead. Smiling, he starts shaping the new road.

City Of Reflections

2005-08-14T08:24:00.000+08:00

You don’t see eye to eye in the city. Everything is a reflection. But not an ordinary reflection. A distorted one. And you need to look at these reflections to figure out what’s going on, going through and where it is going to take you.

No one looks you in the eye. They just pass by and go on. With their lives. Their own lives. And you should go on with yours. But a poet pauses. A poet creates that awkward moment to see more. That little bit more. Through the glass beyond the reflection.

And that is when the city bares her soul.

For her soul lies beyond her reflection. Beyond the mirrors, behind the glass. Her soul breathes and stirs the emotions that run through. Millions come and go through her. Whether they leave intoxicated or abstemious, they leave with an experience they will remember. Because in her they see their reflections. Their distorted reflections. But sometimes what may seem distorted, is the truth here.

No one really comes here to find the truth, but they are surprised when they do. Right next to the buzz, is the calm of the oceans and the mountains. The oasis of thought. The taste of fusion. Have you ever looked down into a volcano? And then turned around to look behind?

The clatter and chaos thrives on the tranquility of the reflections that her soul creates.

And as you walk by looking up and marveling, you don’t see yourself in the reflections but something else. Something deeper. Something with more meaning. But you can’t put your finger on it. But you can feel it. It’s there.

You don’t see it eye to eye. It is a reflection. Just like the city. That is the way you have to experience it. There is no other way.

Their Little Clichés: Scene 40

2005-08-10T07:57:00.000+08:00

After Work

[Indoors. A small study. Camera comes in from the door, as if you are walking into a conversation which is midway. He is sitting at a table near the entrance on His laptop. Camera focuses on Him in a side view. He is listening and typing at the same time. You can hear background noises of the TV set.]

Her
(coming off her narration)
... And then, after I finished work, I went out for a coffee before I came home.

Him
(pre-occupied)
Hhmmm.

[Camera pans towards Her, sitting on the sofa. Watching TV and talking at the same time.]

Her
(speaking slowly and deliberately)
Did you even listen to what I said?

Him
(immediately replying)
Of course I did. After you finished work you went out for a coffee and then came home.
(smiles)

[Camera pans out to show us the full room. The TV is on his left and He has His back to Her. As they talk the camera focuses on Her from the back of His head and on Him from the side of the laptop.]

Her
(sighing)
Why can't you leave that laptop and talk to me?

Him
(smugly)
Why can't you turn off the TV when you talk to me?

Her
(mildly irritated)
I knew you would say that. Just as I started asking you to leave the laptop, I knew you were going to say that.

Him
(turns around and smiles at her)
Then why did you say it?

Her
(smiling back)
Because that is how I feel.

Him
(naughty)
And, do you know how I feel?

Her
(raising her eyebrows)
No. Show me.

[Camera focuses on Her. She reaches for the remote, and turns off the TV. Drops the remote on the sofa and starts getting up. Camera moves to the back of His head. He is quickly trying to finish something. He moves his chair back and gets up from the table and turns around to greet her. Soft music starts playing from the laptop as soon as He gets up.]

Him
(taking her hand)
I feel like dancing.

Her
(laughing)
So do I!

[They both dance slowly. Camera pans out from the other side of the room. Camera moves out of the window. They are framed together in their dance right in the center of the window. The music mixes with the traffic and the camera pans out and fades to black.]

Unnoticed

2005-08-05T07:19:00.000+08:00

I hide
Behind my eyes
Visions
Of magnificence

I hide
Behind my thoughts
Feelings
Of freedom

I hide
Behind my dreams
An imagination
Of decadence

My visions, feelings and imagination
Make
The magnificence of freedom almost decadent
That they need to hide
Behind my
Eyes, thoughts and dreams

Another August

2005-08-02T23:15:00.000+08:00

Au•gust (ô'g∂st)
n. Abbr. Aug.
The eighth month of the year in the Gregorian calendar.

And
Another August
Has come
Carried in by time

au•gust (ô-gǔst')
adj.
Inspiring awe or admiration; majestic.

And
Another august
Has come
To carry me away

au•gust (ô-gǔst')
adj.
Venerable for reasons of age or high rank.

And
Another august
Has come
Carrying away my thoughts

Illustrated Firmament

2005-07-31T23:24:00.000+08:00

I turned
To see
What the sky
Had become
For me

I stared
And wished
That that minute
Would become
Infinite

Book 4, Chapter 13, Doggerel 22

2005-07-29T23:08:00.000+08:00

Dancing figures
Don the night
Demarcating domains
Through their dance

Momentary movements
Mix and match
Making meaning
Out of nothing

Vixens weave
Vivid versions
Vague and vast
Like vineyards

Their Little Clichés: Scene 41

2005-07-26T07:20:00.000+08:00

After The Night Out

[Night time. Inside of an SUV. Camera is out of focus. Slowly starts focusing on Him sitting on the passenger side. As it comes into focus, the first focus falls on the window by his side. Droplets of rain. It stopped raining a while ago. Blurred red and blue lights mark the background. Camera focuses on His face. He is looking towards the camera but not at it. Camera cuts from Him to Her at similar angles as they speak.]

Him
(smiling, almost in delight)
Quite an evening!

Her
(trying to concentrate on her driving)
Yes, a bit too much. I don’t like late nights on weekdays.

Him
But this was a one time exception.

Her
I understand, but I am just saying we should not do this too often.

Him
Of course not!

[Camera cuts to view of the road in the front from Her perspective. Starts drizzling again. Windshield wipers come on. Accompanied by sound of wipers but not of rain. Camera cuts back to alternating between them.]

Her
(pauses and looks at him)

Him
(puzzled)
What?

Her
You haven’t noticed my dress all evening.

Him
Of course I have noticed it.

Her
No you have not. You have not said anything about it.

Him
(smug)
I said I noticed it. I don’t have to say something about it to have noticed it.

Her
Argh!

Him
Come on. You look beautiful and you know that.

Her
You should say it more often.

Him
Okay.

[Camera pans out to back of SUV on road and keeps moving upwards. SUV keeps driving off into the drizzle. Light music plays. Camera goes out of focus again]

Lingua franca

2005-07-21T21:44:00.000+08:00

Complex nightmares
With innuendos
Running through

Haunting metaphors
In sinuous dreams
Run anew

Primordial beliefs
Illogical paradigms
Ran yore

Creating communes
Of vernacular origin
Through scuttling syndromes

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

2005-07-17T23:13:00.000+08:00

Sometimes
All that we have
In common
Is death

Sometimes
It comes
Sometimes
It goes

Sometimes
We think about it
Sometimes
We try not to think about it

Sometimes
It happens close to us
Sometimes
It happens to those close to us

Sometimes
We forget about it
Sometimes
We can't stop thinking about it

Sometimes
It's here
Sometimes
It's not

Sometimes
It brings
Us together
Forever

Shining through

2005-07-13T07:56:00.000+08:00

The clouds
Form across
The blue sky
Creating patterns
Into the horizon

They leave
The sun
Lonely
Trapped
Behind

Its light
Crashes through
The trees
Sharp and
Shining through

One night, inside out

2005-07-08T07:43:00.000+08:00

When the outside is about nothing and the inside is about everything. That is when you lose your senses. And as you get permeated with the moment and the feeling. It all comes to you. The meaning of the moment and living it. And I am living this moment. And I am breathing this feeling. And it comes to me again. The beat breathes through my soul. And I am seeing this city in a different light tonight than I ever did before.

When the outside
Is about nothing
And the inside
Is about everything
That
Is when
You lose
Your senses

And
As you get permeated
With the moment
And the feeling
It all comes to you
The meaning
Of the moment
And living it

And
I am living
This moment
And
I am breathing
This feeling
And it comes
To me again

The beat
Breathes
Through my soul
And
I am seeing
This city
In a different light tonight
Than I ever did before

And I am seeing this city in a different light tonight than I ever did before. The beat breathes through my soul. And it comes to me again. And I am breathing this feeling. And I am living this moment. The meaning of the moment and living it. It all comes to you. And as you get permeated with the moment and the feeling. That is when you lose your senses. When the outside is about nothing and the inside is about everything.

Scribble

2005-07-03T17:37:00.000+08:00

At first
He scribbled
His thoughts
On the pages
Before him

The pages
Grew more and more
Complicated
Immersed
In his thoughts

Then
She overwrote
His thoughts
With the way
She saw things

The pages
Got a life
Of their own
That streaked
Through

In the end
A child
Came along
And scribbled
And tore

The pages
Were now
What you see
They call it
Scribble art

Captured, captivated, complete ...

2005-07-01T18:32:00.000+08:00

Captured ... by the light
Captivated ... by the moment
Complete ... by the feeling

Their Little Clichés: Scene 42

2005-06-26T23:46:00.000+08:00

The Decision

[Evening time. A path in a park, sloping and coming upwards towards the top of a small hill. Camera pans from the gravel and moves upwards giving a side view of the path. Camera then pulls out and traces the path upwards while capturing the greenery around. You can see the leaves fluttering from the blowing wind. On the top of the hill there is a round stone table and two figures are sitting around it. Camera cuts to showing half of the back of His head and the other half is focused on Her face.]

Her
So this is it?

Him
Why does it have to be it?

Her
We need to decide.

Him
Okay, then decide.

Her
I said ‘we’ need to decide, not ‘I’ need to decide.

Him
(sighs)

Her
Don’t do that. You know I hate it when you do that.

[Camera slowly rotates to the back of her head, revealing him. He looks different from what we have seen of him earlier. A disheveled look and a stubble mark his face. But he does not look tired.]

Him
(smiles)

Her
What?

Him
(playfully) And I love it when you do that.

[Light music plays. Camera pans upwards showing an aerial view of the round table and the two figures seated around. Fade to black.]

This is an attempt to ‘continue’ and ‘borrow’ a style from Wandering Dervish of Loud Thinking. You can read Parts 1-6 here and Part 7 here.

The creation of music

2005-06-22T22:10:00.000+08:00

To witness the creation of music is an event that happens once in a lifetime.

The sounds echoed longer than they should have when they were created. The lights lingered longer than they would have when they passed by your vision. The moment lasted longer than it does when you are enjoying yourself so much.

Some say that there is no taste and smell to music. I tell them to witness its creation.

Don't

2005-06-18T15:31:00.000+08:00

Don't stop yourself
From writing this
It has to be written

My two voices spoke to me today, and I melted as I listened to them. They told me things that I didn't want to hear but I needed to hear. It was a realization of sorts. Actually, it wasn't. It was just a story. A story of how this was all going to come together. It was a story of the future. So it was something that may or may not come true. It was something that was in my own hands. The two voices spoke of two different directions. One that was to be taken in the knowledge of what I had heard and the other was to ignore it and to carry on. Sometimes, you have more information than you need to make a decision. Then how do you go about it? This was part of the problem that I was facing at this stage. But this was just the easy part. The difficult part was actually the decision to take it forward. Whatever I decided I needed to take it forward. It was one way or the other. There was no middle path. There could be no middle path. The two voices were drowning out each other to be heard. And neither could be heard now. All I could hear was the oncoming of silence. The silence that meant that it was time to decide. The silence that meant it was time to write this down. The silence that meant it was time to read this again for what it was. The silence.

Don't stop yourself
From reading this
It has to be read

Fourth

2005-06-15T23:44:00.000+08:00

This is the fourth time I am writing this.

So what is ‘this’? ‘This’ is actually nothing. It is an imaginary thought, a vision, a dream. Could it happen? I am not sure. But I want it to. I don’t know what I would do if it happened, but I think I would want to see what I would do. It would be the fourth time it will happen. But not the fourth time for me. For me, it will be a first. And first times are scary. Think about all your ‘first times’. Not as in looking back, but as in that very moment when it was happening or about to happen and you did not know what would happen after it. How things would turn out.

This is the fourth time I am thinking about this.

Reminisces

2005-06-12T10:04:00.000+08:00

I collect
Little fragments
Of memories
When I travel

These fragments
Which I
Look at again
When I want to remember

I create
Imaginary fragments
For the memories
I have not collected

These memories
Are the ones
Which are more
Interesting than reality

I destroy
Other fragments
From my memories
To make them perfect

These fragments and memories
Are more often
Than not
Unrequited

Clairvoyant

2005-06-07T07:51:00.000+08:00

“Things are not always completely clear the way you would like them to be. That is why everything cannot be as predictable as you would like it to be. That is why you are not so sure what is going to happen next. That is why you don’t know what your reaction is going to be to something. That is why you have to take it as it comes. That is why life is full of surprises and disappointments. That is why it is so wonderful.”

“Then why are you a fortuneteller?”

“Because I know.”

“What do you know?”

“I know what I need to know, and no more.”

“Then you tell people what they want to hear?”

“I tell people what they need to hear.”

But, there is no rain

2005-06-04T13:22:00.000+08:00

The music plays in the background.

All she can see is the storm coming.

The dark clouds settle over the horizon and lay in wait for their signal.

The thunder.

To mark the beginning of the onslaught.

The storm.

A flash of what could have been and what has been.

The lightning.

The music plays for her.

The storm is because of her.

But, there is no rain.

Mélange

2005-05-31T23:29:00.000+08:00

Airports can be so lonely sometimes. Not the fullofpeoplebutyoustillfeellonely kind of lonely. But the itissoemptybecausenooneelseisthere kind of lonely.

The picture above is a blend of some of those moments.

Walk on water

2005-05-28T00:01:00.000+08:00

. The shimmering
. . Highlights on water
. . . Envelope a pathway

. My mortal self
. . Obliged
. . . Once again to be
. . . . Next to immortality

Mesh of memories

2005-05-25T07:15:00.000+08:00

Travel is a starting and ending point of memories. Memories created, recreated and realised. Similarly, memories completed, destroyed and desecrated.

And while this mesh is being woven, you live those moments and take thousands of pictures in your head, reels and reels of movies in you mind. All, so that you can go back and relive them, or hide them, as may be the case.

Sometimes, you capture moments that may not have any meaning to you at the time, but when you look back, they define the trip, the journey. Can one lone picture capture the mesh of memories of a single journey?

Learning to fly

2005-05-22T20:09:00.000+08:00

This is my life
And everything else
Revolves around it
And as it revolves
I live it

This is his life
And everything else
Is absolutely still
And as it is still
He moves it

This is her life
And everything else
Is happening now
And as it happens
She creates it

This is our life
And everything else
Falls into place
And as it falls
We enjoy it

This is their life
And everything else
Ceases to exist
And as it ceases
They drown in it

This is life
And everything else
Builds it up
And as it builds
It is lived

In a moment

2005-05-19T23:12:00.000+08:00

The gentle sounds of rain trickled down the window pane behind her. It was a strange sound from inside her glass cage and made her look back to assess what was happening. A storm was brewing. Brewing but not yet started. Like her day, which was brewing. Unfortunately, the horrible taste of instant coffee lingered in her mouth. As did the music that she soaked into this morning. As the echoes of the soaked music mixed with the sharp bitterness of the instant coffee, she paused to reflect. In a moment, she could see the flashes of lightning run across her glass cage. It seemed to fragile now. Life seemed so fragile. An instant, and everything could be gone. And she got caught within that moment and those thoughts as everything moved around her.

A view from the clouds

2005-05-16T21:04:00.000+08:00

. Again
. . New clouds
. . . Greet me when
. . . . Returning home to
. . . . . You

. Could
. . Love be the answer
. . . Of your
. . . . Understanding
. . . . . Despite the anger
. . . . . . Shown

Uprooted?

2005-05-12T23:07:00.000+08:00

The city dissolved into the night before my very own eyes. It was twilight when I saw it. The touch of crimson in the sky, the sky line eating its way into the night, the bright lights yearning to be in the middle, tilting the balance of the city along with the last light. This sinking feeling as I am writing this. This sinking feeling in a sinking city. Moving down. Slowly. Going down. Slowly. Down from the neck, down the spine, pinning you to the floor. A crucifixion of your roots.

Not about rain

2005-05-09T06:45:00.000+08:00

A yellow leaf floats by
Followed by a few more
A drop caresses my forehead
And trickles down as more leaves pass

Suddenly the rain is here
Not unexpected but welcome
One by one the drops cover the earth
Causing helter skelter here and there

Ugly fat noisy raindrops
Spear their way through
Rattling at anything and everything
Showing their unforgiving nature

Lightning crashes and thunder roars
Dreams and demons get washed away
Her breathing is constant through this
Like her presence always there

Heaven beckoned

2005-05-07T13:37:00.000+08:00

The war came to an end with a realization. A realization of the futility of the cause that was being fought for. As the dust separated the dead from the wounded, sunlight streaked across the horizon. The smell of war wafted through the battlefield. A lone figure stood at the edge of the river. Broken, bruised and battered. The dirty blood mixed water ran through, lapping at his feet. A lone tear traced its way down his cheek and fell in slow motion. Plop, it landed, mixing with the dirty blood water lapping at his feet. The war had ended. His realization was complete. Heaven beckoned.

Twice

2005-05-02T11:59:00.000+08:00

Sunlight streams
Through the
Leaves lighting
Faded feelings
Making memories

Two times
We watch
Remembrances reappear
While wine
Tickles tongues

The taste
Of olives
Lingers long
Bringing back
Pristine ponderings

Black & White

2005-04-30T01:01:00.000+08:00

Pebble by pebble, the story came together.
Pebble by pebble, the river traced its path.
Pebble by pebble, it all unfolded.

* * *

The story came together in front of my eyes. It was unlike any other story that I had seen before. It was pristine in its simplicity. Captivating in its boldness. And mesmerizing in its presentation. It was no ordinary story. And it came together pebble by pebble.

The river traced its path through this story. It came out of nowhere and gently went over each pebble. Drowning them and taking them into its great expanse. Into the story that it was. It was creation and recreation at the same time. And it traced its path pebble by pebble.

It all unfolded as everything happened everywhere. A perfectly synchronized harmony that is life, played in the background. And the background melted and slowly everything started to fall into its own. Each was seen for what it was and the whole did not exist anymore. And it all unfolded pebble by pebble.

The answer

2005-04-26T07:44:00.000+08:00

Is it the wind
Or the sea
That is whispering
To me
The horizon
Encased
Between
Two palm trees
Draws closer
And closer
And the answer
Further

Shapes and signs

2005-04-23T06:37:00.000+08:00

The 'shapes of travel' appear every time I look up before embarking on a journey. It's not the same shape every time, but there is a kind of symbolism to it. It's almost like a sign, but the only thing is that it appears after the journey has begun.

Sometimes, I wonder why I look upwards before starting a journey? Is it the endless possibilities of travel? Is it something deep down inside or just a habit? And how come I don't notice any shapes when the journey is ending?

Somehow, you don't look up when the journey is over. You don't see the shapes. You don't see the signs. Maybe you are too caught up in thinking about the past, or getting ready to face the future.

Everyday

2005-04-21T07:55:00.000+08:00

Sunlight
Streams
And splashes
On eyes closed
To the world

Entrapped
In the beat
Of darkness
And light
And in between

Memories
Fade in
And out
Like the rhythm
Of life

The eyes
Open
And the world
Fades
Back in

Twilight

2005-04-15T20:25:00.000+08:00

At that moment, when the moment arrived, I had no idea what I was going to say. Have you ever felt this way before? Reaching the moment that you have been waiting for all the time and being left speechless? It is a strange kind of irony when this happens, I can tell you that. And the irony is that you have spent so much time thinking of what you wanted to say only to be left speechless at the moment. But wait, that was not the end of the matter. Is this a philosophical discussion of the beauty of the silence and how everything that you wanted to say was absorbed within your soul and what came out after that was truly heartfelt and beautiful? Nothing like that happened. That only happens in dreams, or to be more precise, daydreams. Even dreams are not so kind to you.

"At that moment, when the moment arrived, I had no idea what I was going to say. Have you ever felt this way before?"

"Reaching the moment that you have been waiting for all the time and being left speechless?"

"It is a strange kind of irony when this happens, I can tell you that."

"And the irony is that you have spent so much time thinking of what you wanted to say only to be left speechless at the moment."

"But wait, that was not the end of the matter."

"Is this a philosophical discussion of the beauty of the silence and how everything that you wanted to say was absorbed within your soul and what came out after that was truly heartfelt and beautiful?"

"Nothing like that happened. That only happens in dreams, or to be more precise, daydreams."

"Even dreams are not so kind to you."

Déjà vu again

2005-04-11T23:25:00.000+08:00

Déjà vu. I saw it happen again. Before. Only this time it was for real.

And I thought back to how I saw a place I never knew existed within the place I existed. This was a strange experience for me. It was not the same kind of a déjà vu. It was a dream becoming real, but not a dream you expected to come to life within the bounds of your everyday reality. Yet there it was, staring you in the face. Existing where you didn’t think it would. And that is when I knew, that you can’t take anything for granted. Things are there and you might not have seen them. When the basest of assumptions turn out to be blatant lies. And those lies get shattered.

Déjà vu. I saw it happen before. Again. Only this time it might have been a dream.

Back in the same city again. After a long time. Back again, in exactly the same situation. As clearly as it was, in the dream. But I didn’t make the connection till I looked up, and saw something that caught my attention. And he was there, exactly the way he was in my dream. Looking back with a friendly stare. Waiting for an answer. And I was thinking about my dream and how I got here. And about all the other dreams that have come true and might come true in the future. This one, of course, was harmless. But what about the darker ones? What if they started to come to life. But they wouldn’t. I knew that. So I picked up my drink and smiled back.

Music and hope

2005-04-09T09:47:00.000+08:00

Music
What a way to start a day

Music
Creating hope
Creating desire
Creating life
All around

Like a breath of fresh air, even when there is no fresh air around.
Like the rhythm of the swaying leaves, even when there is no wind blowing.
Like the sweet sounds of the morning after it has rained, even though it is a bright and dry day.
Like the morning dew, even though you are walking on concrete.

Music
Giving hope
Giving desire
Giving Life
Now

Music
That plays
On and on
And on

Motion

2005-04-07T04:45:00.000+08:00

A perception

Of motion

Created

A perception

Of stillness

Recreated

The sound

Of motion

Muffled

The sound

Of stillness

Deafening