I forsake ME

All the casualties I have left behind,

I hide them in the corners of my mind;

All the memories and all the pain,

I have learned a lot many things but the bitterness remains;

Don’t forsake me,

Why do you break me every time?

By judging and all the disarray,

You keep out trying me, but you are only pushing me away,

I don’t want to go, but I can’t have you here;

You are just another soul I am making disappear,

Don’t forsake me,

Before I forsake me.

I have had enough

This time, when I get bruises,

I will not blow softly at my wound,

Nor try and distract myself,

I will let my pain grow;

I have had enough.

This time, when I feel it growing in me,

I will not hum a song to ease it,

I will let the it seep deep in my bones;

I have had enough.

This time, I won’t smear a balm,

Nor will I shut my eyes,

Nor will I turn my head,

At the sight of my naked wound;

I have had enough.

This time, when life comes tumbling down,

I will not have a superficial take on it,

I will let it become thorny and real;

I have had enough.

This time, I won’t sacrifice a single day at work,

Nor succumb to the comfort of my cocoon,

I will not let life retire to ease and peace;

I have had enough.

This time, my wounds need to be delved into,

Carefully,

With much patience,

Determination and decision,

I had to end it somewhere;

This time, I have resolved.

Journeying

I have come quite far, from where I was not before,

To have seen the things looking at me,

Through the all-open door…

And have walked at night all by myself.

To see moonlight as it seem as monstrous trees,

And shapes more fearful because,

I feared what I did not know…

To be continued….

My visiting card reads… Copywriter

Every morning I indulge in an infinitely complicated and pointless ritual.

Where the note book is taken out with caution, so is the pen; the keyboard fingered, the pencil caressed, carefully lined up in the stand. Coffee is drunk, or not drunk. The window blind opened, closed or adjusted. The chair is raised, lowered, moved in, moved out or even replaced. The new funny looking spots on the neck is carefully inspected in the bathroom mirror; the scantily clad girl in the desktop of the colleague seated next is speculatively regarded.

Time moves on, and so does the pointless ritual, until the last moment can no longer be postponed. It’s time to start writing…

Blissful escape…

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone,
Beyond all this the desire for oblivion runs.
Besides the artful tensions of the calendar,
Be the bank balance or the missed menstrual cycles;
Because the family is photographed under aspirations.
Beyond it all, the wish to be alone,
Besides it all this the desire for oblivion runs,
Beneath it all the craving for oblivion shuns.

Being me…

I was born two months before on the rainy rather stormy evening of the 3^rd day of May 1987. When my mother first set my eyes on me she found me a philosopher, blissfully unaware of all around, rather oblivious of my being, somewhat of a thinker. I feel compelled to add ‘so I have been told.’

I deliberately use this special tense that allows distinguishing hear say from something not seen with eyes, say be relating dreams, fairy tales, or past events not witnessed I find it rather apt to use this tense. It is a useful distinction to make remember the earliest of life experiences, be it the cradle, the most adored teddy ted, the very first rhymes, as told by parents, stories which I seem to listen with some rapt attention. It’s a sensation as sweet as seeing thyself in dreams.

That is the tendency I still indulge in without getting bored. It is a kind of get away for me, a kind of relief I seek. Though the process has gained maturity and momentum over time, I still tend to lose control every time imagining the place I am seated the bed room, the sitting room, government office, the bus stop as somewhere else. When I have exhausted the energy to day dream I take refuge in the photographs that sits on every wall, table and desk. The tendency so very innate in me often yells back complaining of confusing routes.