quaint

"mein ne rkhay thay kahin dil mein chupa kar kuch log
ab mujhe yad nhi kon kidhar rakha tha"

Faisal Ajmi

june 24th

I have carved your name in ebonywood,
Solid black with spidery rifts.
Stick figures dancing across the length and breadth;
Essence
Of scented sandalwood.
You will run your fingers across these scars
Until
The numbness gets imprinted.

a week..or more..

Thoughts swirl in and around my head all day – thoughts that shift and jump and morph from one form to another; half-formed barely-virgin ideas, salted, unsalted; bittersweet poignance moulding into rough, crabby chunks of unreasonable reckoning; stringy and bold fancies warp into petite, contrite thought-substance – and yet…faced with an empty page, I cannot remember what it is I wanted to discourse on.
I had dozens of ideas to expound upon…and now I am empty – more so than the page.

Even then. Let us begin.

I have found it rather pleasing to put into words this phenomenon that I have been noticing recently. You form an idea, or opinion about something, and then you revise it. Again and again and again. New thoughts come about and change your thinking, and you voice a slightly changed opinion…and this goes on.
The only problem is…who to voice it to.
I’m being overwhelmed with emotion.
I must stop.


-

i am bitter...aaho!

-

I was goth today. It felt strangely liberating. It meant I could be however I wanted to be and not have to face any of the ugly, stubby fingers people like to point at me. Yessir...that is my definition of it!

I've gotten back in that race, when time begins to matter. Your pulse races along with every tick of the clock, every second, and a single misstep threatens to throw you off balance and turn your world upside-down.

I want to write in flowing ink, watching the black fluid spread across the page in chinese runes, every dash of the brush elegant and smooth.
I want.
But I am bitter.

No wants with bitter.

End bitter
first

Hard.
Very hard.

*sigh*
-

I am a back and I hurt.

-
Scheduled outage at 2 a.m :D

It's not that late yet, me thinks. But my back is giving way.

Let it drag!

-
There is nothing more strange than thinking about something passively and then suddenly seeing it erupt into existence right before your eyes.
*smile*

I believe in slow, passive thoughts at the moment. Thoughts that are slowly swished around the mind; watching them sparkle in the light, grow, and change shape with each turning movement; thoughts that leave this satisfying warmth as you watch them mould into new ones, leaving that stardust impression in their wake on your subconscious.

I need more flexibility, and more freedom. I haven't yet let down those walls around me, and the stiffness is painfully visible. I wish to flaunt, but am held back. I don't know if it will just take time, or the right kind of atmosphere. Or maybe both.

I can wait.

-

me likes.. *smile*

-
"Patience is power.
With time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes silk."
Chinese Proverb

-

I am a day flower

-
I have seen better days,
Under azure skies and purple clouds;
I have felt before,
This light, and darkness,
And the cold wind stinging my face --
Not cool, not refreshing.
I have seen the autumn leaves strewn across your path
And crunched my way
Toward oblivion and peace;
Rockets spewing hazy smoky somethings,
Out and over your head.
I have felt before this modest beginning,
This search for truth,
This display of innocence,
This image shattered by thorny lives
And hopeless endings.
I have seen before the walkways of your life
White sand beaches and gray sky mornings,
No deep-fried throbbing, only bitter pain,
Waiting to be spit out.
I have watched, and waited,
And then watched some more
(Waiting needs to become a habit)
I trod carefully over your scattered bones,
Lest I made another misstep
Again.
I tended the plants in your garden,
Then watched them
Wither.
I choked the vines with my bare hands,
Then watered the
ground, with my tears.
(Exceptions).

I have felt.

That is enough,
For now.
News when I do, not when I don't.
Exemplifying mindless mannequins
Twisting marionettes - hollow sawdust
And bones.
Watch foreheads wrinkle,
Temples throb,
Eyelids twitch
Forever.
I have seen before this sunset
Crimson-red, gold, lavender, gray
Swirling rocky mountain, and blueberry streams;
I have tasted your candyfloss dreams
Let them fade and dissolve and swirl away
Until anomalies appear;
And crush them.

(I am a day flower, I bloom in the day).
-

From the past...

-
The past few days I've been posting old stuff...old prose-ish things I wrote a long time ago. I found an old journal recently and decided to put up the stuff I liked alot. My style is kind of different now, so they sound weird to me, but they represent a part of me - an age that I went through.
-

And you thought you knew it

-
There is a fire crackling in the grate. It cannot be said to be crackling merrily, because merry it is not. There is too much anger in those flames, too much hate. They flicker back and forth, moving forward as if to grasp something other than the air, then leaping back, its prize tight in its hold, which it transfers to the center of its being where it is silently devoured by others waiting. It has no visible eye, yet it is watching, always watching. It shifts itself to see things more clearly. Even then, there seems to be a certain vengeance in its eyes; it cannot be seen, only felt. At times, it will seem to pause, and the ends of its flames appear to hover in mid-air for a split-second; it is at such moments that a distinct form becomes visible in this fire, its features too hideous to want to remember. Before one can blink or turn away, it is gone, and the flames fall with a certain shiver, subtle yet noticeable, indicating the yearning it had when it was stretched out to its limit of movement, and the self-control it seems to display as if doing one of us a favor. It is not hot, nor does it radiate heat, no, it is ice-cold, giving an outward appearance of warmth, and yet chilling one right to the bones, cold that soaks through until it scarcely touches the boundary of the soul, and yet that is enough for one to despair. Its thirst for revenge is insatiable. It longs to be one with all things, to bind itself to them, when in actuality, it is consuming them of its own free will. It can sometimes pretend to be tame, but that is just a form of pretense it puts on for the gullible and the naive. It gives a quality of light to itself, beguiling the observer that it is providing light when it is actually feeding on it. The longer the fire burns, the darker its surroundings become. It sets up a pattern in its dancing flames, a dance-routine that has an enchanting quality to it, a lulling touch that will first cause one's attention to be caught by it, and then to hold that gaze until it becomes an unblinking stare. The person having any minor thoughts of withdrawing his gaze will find such thoughts suddenly and strangely subdued; the fire cannot afford to let those eyes, now caught, wander. This transfixed gaze allows the person's mind to become entranced, and the flames cause him to become dazed, as he will exist, for many long moments, only as himself and then as the flames, shifting from one state to another, sometimes flame, sometimes human. It is one of the attempts of the fire to have someone become one with it, to exist as a single being instead of two pulsating beings of life. It rests on its bed of ashes is if it were a throne, a seat of honor entrusted only to itself, though it is willing to share it with any followers. It knows no reluctance, it knows no hesitation, it is fiery, impulsive, demanding. And yet, it is not perfect. It dreads many things, things that threaten its existence and nothing more. Even such a fearful entity is capable of experiencing fear itself, such is how Nature goes.
-

-

I am at peace. I feel better. Happy almost. Yes, I'm still lazy...but well, that comes with the package.
I need change though..constant change. I can't stand stagnation. I like it when my life is in flickering motion and everything around me is a blur, and then I can pinpoint that one non-moving object and make a decision.

Of a day long past...but yet to come

-

They stood together, breathing in the cool, still air, as of yet untainted by the promised warmth.
He turned to see her facing the eastern hills, and squinted in that general direction. The sky that had been a soft shade of indigo, as fading slowly to a pale violet, giving shape to the clouds that permeated the emptiness till the edge of the horizon.

She smiled at the spectacle, and then glanced at him. He was gazing at the imminent event with skepticism in his eyes. He had never seen a sunrise before. He was not impressed.

Slight tinges of pink shot through the blue, replacing it with the first touches of color.

He looked on.

Golden warmth diffused throughout the sky, outlining the cotton-candy clouds as if they were gilded.

He watched, as the first sunbeams penetrated through the mist, spreading over the land, giving the air a feeling of new hope, oozing with the mystery and freshness of the break of a new day.
His nose felt cold. He tweaked it irritably, though not taking his eyes off Nature's splendorous display.

Her eyes shone with moist brightness. Her lips were parted in an everlasting sigh; the balls of her cheeks were pink with pleasure, and wonder. She yearned to hug herself at the beauty of it all. How could someone not marvel at such a sight!

His gaze roamed across the sky, taking in the transition from pink and gold to azure. He could not see why people, especially her, made such a fuss over something so not-quite-so-extraordinary. What was in a sunrise? How different was it from a sunset? He ruffled his hair and stood grumpily with his hands in his pockets. He glanced furtively at her. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but somewhere inside he suspected that he could not let the guard off of his ego. He would not admit to her what he really felt.

The crisp air was set into motion, and a soft breeze began to play across their faces. She loved to come here every once in a while and witness the glory of Nature, the pride of its handiwork. It always put a smile to her face, and glowed in her like a happy memory for the rest of the day. Sunsets, however, were a different matter. She did not like them as much, because they symbolized the end of a day, a transition from light to darkness, and a fading out of hope, like the evening faded into twilight. Or was it the other way around?

There was a sharp call, and an eagle glided across their line of vision, dipping gracefully as if bowing to the wind, and then just as gracefully turning in a slow, wide arc, its wings completely motionless. They watched the flight of the eagle for some time, until it drifted out of sight.

He sighed and turned to walk back. His mind was already on the work he had to do that day, the meetings to attend, the deadlines to meet.

She walked back with one last long look, and traipsed with a spring in her step, the color in her cheeks not yet diminished, her spirits still soaring with that solitary eagle. She was arrogant enough to pity him, and others, for the joy they were unable to experience out of pure obstinacy.

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