Split into two Read online

  And sometimes you see her standing up for you and others, not because she loves you, because she thinks you would do the same for her.

  Some days, rare days, you can also see her putting an end to the endless fights, the sleep-less night, the everyday yearnings, the emotional bruising and the occasional soul-piercing cuts. The end doesn’t mean she is strong, it means she’s lost the last drop of hope. And that she’s tried enough to make it work.

  Some days you might happen to see her across the shop, picking stuff for family, toiling around, with eyes glued onto the little one’s and mind accustomed to balancing between what you need, what the family needs and what can be sacrificed to get everything that’s crucial to your idea of a perfect- home.

  Some days you see her nagging and crying and demanding like a two year old, making your life look like a battle-ground, absolutely driving you crazy, not letting you rejoice the match or your glass of wine, craving for your attention and getting jealous over you wanting to spend time with that so- called colleague over her.

  Some days she’s going to make you beg for forgiveness and make you feel like shit, some days she might look right into your eye and hit right on the weakest nerve to make you undergo the same shame that dawns upon her every time you make a loose comment or a remark on her unworthiness.

  She might drop-dead a million times, given your physical abuse and the vocal trash-talk but it doesn’t end here, you will either go through a lifetime sabotaging her idea of self, day by day or you’ll see her letting go off the ‘fool-yourself everyday arrangements’. One day she will act like a human, and retaliate a thousand times stronger than you could ever imagine of.

  Some days you can see her sitting at a place, not knowing what is she thinking, not looking for mysteries, not looking for answers, not caring about anything. Llost in oblivion, with her favorite song plugged into her ears, lighting a cigarette, sipping onto her black-coffee, dragging in the best of both worlds.

  Some nights, you can see her losing herself into memories, memories that crawl up to your mind and leave you in a far-away, distant state of not knowing which is the real you, the one who could learn to survive one day at a time because she had you, the unconditional friend by her side, she had nothing to worry about her worries at least for that part of the day, because she could feel alive with the little nothings and something’s that she shared with you.

  Or the one who believed in your silence, your words, even if they were meant to be funny, and even when she knew trusting again could mean dying again, or the one who now looks around to somehow find your face by her side, or may be your voice for a couple of minutes or just a text, but ends up all by herself, failing to believe that those days and nights have now turned into memories. Memories that give her life and snatch away her breath at times.

  Someplace else, under the same sun, in a new balcony, you can see her letting her hair down, gasping for breath, hiding from the known but un-known voices in the room, learning to inhale, exhale, onemore time, without you. Without listening to the sound of your name, without having anyone she could turn to, for a minute of assurance.

  With blurry memories, exhausting attempts at trying to flood in all the bitterness that peals her skin, her eyes, her mind, her soul every single moment. You can see her suffocating, struggling to scream through silent sighs, with a cloth on her lips, to not let the sound of her brokenness leak out to the one’s who want cannot see her in a condition that defeats the purpose of being alive.

  You can see her quickly wiping off the tears, covering the scars, washing away the real, tying her hair back, up and running, secretly praying for an escape into being so numb that it hurts no-more.

  And you can see her sleeping like a piece of blessing, one more night of fooling herself into believing that sleeping over her existence will do the trick next morning. Things will change, she”ll be able to breathe-in and breathe out like you do, without having to feel the fear of being left-out, the fear of not knowing who does she belong to, the fear of putting up an act of not caring about anything, and the ritual of her being the invisible one will come to an end.

  Perhaps, you can see her again, may be in a coffin, with the radiance intact but the faith dead, or may be in a different city, by a different window, looking though wrinkled eyes, holding onto her wishful living. Her timeless journey, her un-spoken love and her un-noticed existence.

  Be My Eyes

   

  What would happen if you lost your vision for a day?

  I guess sleeping wouldn’t be any different from staying up, except that you wouldn’t know the difference of black and white

  You’d walk a lot more cautiously, making sure not to bump into furniture, blocks and people

  You’d take the piece of cloth by hand and feel the texture, before you put it on, you’d softly whisper his name and wait to hear the sound of his footsteps turning towards you

  You’d open your arms wide open on the 3rd consecutive doorbell going off, you’d listen a lot more carefully to all the rants and musings your neighbour has to talk about

  You’d call her beautiful for the way she makes you feel around her and she’d get more used to feeling beautiful and she’d never have to worry about being called ugly or fat or a piece of work

  You’d thank him for the way he holds your hand and tells you, what I would do without you.

  You’d know what it’s like to be told about a sunny evening and hear the drizzles pouring down while he carves out an universe in your mind that only you could see

  You’d know what it’s like to be lost in infinite darkness and dread days and night but find yourself picking up pieces, one by one, every morning, because you could live without eyes, but he could never live without looking at you.

  You’d know what a giggle sounds like and how a frown forms, what tears taste like, how does the scent of his body fills the room with long gone memories and how the peck on your forehead, is the most you will ever see of love.

  Alas! while you do have a vision today, I don’t understand, why do you keep looking for pretty faces and seductive voices. Why do you keep closing your eyes to anything, anyone, wanting to lend you a pair of eyes. A pair of eyes that sees beyond the facade.

  Unable to abandon the person I used to be, I carry her in me.

   

  The park on the side of the road swings me back and forth in bits and pieces of what was and what is.

  That  peculiar smell in the air leaves me gasping for breath.

  The chuckling laughter from the neighbor’s house mystically turns my forehead down and eye lids shut.

  The boy next door seems like a boy next door on days spent in sanity, while some days go by chasing the familiarity in his eyes.

  The celebrations and the togetherness forms a lump in my throat, making it difficult to utter words of pathological happiness.

  The flapping pages of the torn diary reads all that’s printed on the page and the soul.

  To let a night pass by isn’t any more about sleeping over your worries; a dark night carves a prayer of its own that pleads for a life to pass by, while the night comes to a standstill.

  To live for those who matter and to work for work that keeps you going is an art well-learned, and yet the sudden prick of a long lost memory disturbs the self-induced strength all over again.

  The long walks, the refreshing catch up’s, the relishing movies, the exhausting routine, the varying destinations, the aimless scribbling, the same sun sets and the growing fondness for old friends, the happiest moments, the little accomplishments, the daily failures, the unsaid words, the silence of night, the million faces and the ongoing war in my head, everything has come to terms with the ever-changing ways of life, and yet what holds my heart back in time is what makes it painfully beautiful.

  That song on radio is just a song… some soulful music.. a good ol’song..  Bam! It feels like soothingly being cut into pieces, yet again.


  Colour me Colourless

   

  “I’ll know, when I have to, the one I love will pluck me just when the time is right.” Said, Daisy.

  Rose burst into giggles, muttering softly, “I trust in the flow of breeze. The winds will direct me to the right direction.”

  Interesting! I like the way you two think but let me burst your bubble of dreams. Said, Orchid.

  “The one for you is the one you are destined to be with. Life owns us and not the other way around, when have you ever seen a flower plucking a hand to feel the touch of warmth and slide it away, gasping for more?”

  The conversation had no destination and the three colours refused to blend in with the new shades of black, blue or grey. The only shades that made sense to them were their own.

  Days later, the winds had secrets to spill, while the colours whispered in a faint voice.”

  “How are you holding up there, Daisy. I’ve been radiating the essence of pink. The shopkeeper wasn’t an ass after all. The basket of the rainbow bouquet has me warm and safe. I blossom and unveil with the passion of Red, placed right next to me.” Said, Orchid.

  “It’s not so good here, It hurts, each time the smile I fell in love with, stamps all over me, forbidding my essence to smell a new bud.” Said, Daisy, shrugging away the droplets of dust and dreams.

  “I haven’t seen Rose around?”

  “Oh! She was flattened and blown away by the storm. The winds couldn’t resist the power and she was too naive to pick her own direction.” Said, Orchid.

  The conversation had met a destination. They knew a little less about life than they knew before and a little more about uncertainty than ever.

  While the shades wear fading away in silence, the sky above, uttered notoriously,

  “Some believe in Karma, Some in Destiny, Some in Blind faith and some in Love. And, one day, the unexpected calls upon their need to look away from their beliefs only to turn around and pick someone else’s.”

  “The mystery stands untouched.”

  The Damaged One

   

  There’s this one, in every flock,

  The one hiding in your backyard

  The one drop of ink that’s spread over the underlined word,

  The last branch of the tree,

  The one beneath your footsteps,

  The one you swallowed along your pride,

  The one you could fool as much and as many times you please,

  The one that hides behind the door,

  The one who looks down the window with bloody eyes and shivering hands,

  The one, you knew, would stick around as long as you’d need,

  The one shapeless doormat, you could fit in and out of your life

  The one you left behind and the one who stood still,

  The one making funny noises in the rest-room,

  The one picking up pieces every morning,

  The one mixing blood and tears,

  The one scattered all over,

  The one dreading to look through the mirror,

  The one last note of life in your dust-painted diary,

  The one last phrase of the deleted song,

  The one last picture in your recycle bin,

  The last roar of silence,

  The damaged one,

  And the damage becomes her.

  If I kept a log of thoughts for all the nights I spend awake and aloof

   

  If I kept a log of thoughts for all the nights spent up and by the window, I wouldn’t be surprised to find most pages left empty.

  The one’s filled with words would read a lot like you – broken and memorable.

  Some pages would read of stories, you haven’t known and some of stories that take place in my head, to let imagination get the best of me.

  A few pages might even send chills down your throat and choke you to death.

  The poetry however, shall read as bright as your mornings.

  If I kept a log of thoughts for all the nights I stayed up, some pages would need me to slit open a nerve and let the pain take over the numbness of the longest, darkest nights.

  For times when I forget to breathe in and breathe out, I write

   

  I do not get things right,

  I do not understand life and it’s musings,

  I do not carve art and I certainly do not excel at pleasing strangers,

  I do not believe in euphoria and fancy stories and momentary sighs,

  I do not dream to fit in your idea of Me,

  And I do not feel the urge to compete and win-over and prove a point.

  I do not willingly place myself on a chair and prepare myself to spend the rest of my life trying to fetch stars and secure finances,

  I do not plug-in earphones when I look at you,

  I do not love to claim love for every new face,

  And since I haven’t burst into flames without you by my side, I write.

  I write, for I do not belong here.

  Silhouette of Life

   

  Beating up and down,

  My hand over your chest and the stillness of mind,

  Our bodies evaporating in dust, silence humming the sound of our sighs,

  The one night of emerging beyond hollow words and eternal fear

  The one end to the one lifetime of living the un-real

  The peck on your forehead and the swirl in my hair,

  Whispering lips, trying to tame the helpless roar,

  The ticking clock and the cruelty of life,

  Both return, only to get me up and out of your arms, into the hole.

  The good thing about falling into pieces is that humans can do it so quietly

   

  Insanely numb.

   

  That’s the point you reach when you’ve been walking the disturbing path endlessly, seen memories fade, felt it so deep that the wounds have silently soaked in the blood, have been hit by reality so hard and so raw, that feelings do not surface anywhere around you.

   

  The worst has ended and the worst has seen you alive. The air gushing  through your fingers is no dream, it is perhaps a sweet reminder of what could have been, what did not and what it takes to pick life over death. The crushing sound of your soul will make you want to deceive life, and get to the absolute end.

   

  But the end is not coming easy. The end requires you to drown an inch deeper into the leftovers of past each day forward.  It requires you to breathe in the toxic love and exhale the wisdom of surviving through the breath taking sighs!

   

  The way towards the end is insanely numb. The only end possible now,  is a steady crawl of your dying soul, with the power of a revengeful destiny that keeps u breathing in broken pieces.

  Yeah Baby that’s How Life Rolls

   

  Yea baby that's how life rolls, in dirt and thorns,

  let the music be theirs and the dance be yours,

  Pour in the pain and light on the fire.

   

  Curl up the left-overs, gather the ruins and get back to the top

  There ain’t no getting away from the drama,

  Time withholds evidence to eternal hopelessness.

  fill in the gaps, buckle up, get onto the war of love.

   

  The rage running through your body,

  the sweet sensation of being dead when alive,

  the unsung songs of liberty,

  the dust-wrapped poetry,

  the un-touched body,

  the crippled soul,

  the blood-soaked words and the transforming agony,

  All of it speaks of your victory, of your journey.

   

  Yeah baby that's how we roll, in dreams and despair,

  In faith and in doubts,

  Let the moon be yours and the light be theirs,

  Mask on the evil and dress-down th
e shield

  Pour in the pain, light on the fire.