Monsters in the Head

I got some bad news.

I let go of some dreams.

I rejudged and rearranged a whole lot of things in my life.

I lost a hero.

I've been through all this before.

The losses, the depression following the losses, the cuts and bruises, the panic.

The trying-to-copes.

It was always bad.

There was also something else.

A sense of...well...exhilaration.

Strange word to use here, I know. But it was there. Fighting the darkness, going under, coming back, fighting again.

It was almost fun, in a way.

Not anymore.

Now it's just fear and ebbing strength and more fear.

Fear of surviving.

Not the other way round.

Fear of surviving, and be left a living wreck, to look back upon all this.

Maybe it doesn't make sense.

Nothing has, for quiet some time, to be frank.

Whispering that everything will be all right.

Knowing it won't be.

I once had a talk with a friend.

About our favourite phrase “There's always a choice”.

About how quickly choices go out of the window once things go wrong.

We were too naive to draw conclusions then, but we know better now.

The choice is never whether or not you get shit. That is never an option.

The choice is only there for whether you pass the hurt on.

And whatever you choose, it's gonna hurt you either way.

Bring's me to my other favourite phrase “You shouldn't take life to seriously, you'll never get out alive anyway.”

The Nirvana of Nothingness

I wish you could see me now.

Standing at the edge, I'm almost, funny word, peaceful.

Which way?

I've been here often over the years.

At the depths of my darkness.

The place where it doesn't hurt any more.

So tempting.

Words don't work in this place. 

Neither do hopes, dreams and shooting stars.

There's a door here.

I either walk through or walk back.

I've been here often over the years.

So tempting.

Time slows down here.

I've always walked back.

Till now.

It's only me vs. me in here.

Which way?

You flip through your life, while you take you call.

Standing at the edge.

It lists out all that hurts.

It hurts because you love it so.

I can walk through.

But I can't take with me what I love.

And I love it so.

I can walk back.

But I can't make it stop hurting.

And it hurts so.

So tempting.

Which way?

Trying to Cope

Funny thing is I feel I have been through this before. Deja vu. Fancy word.

I had become a different person out of high school and into the world. Cynical, shy, often caustic, often faithless. And lonely, both as a reason and cause.

Then, with what I call, the elasticity of youth, I was coming back. I made plans. Still tentative, still paranoid. But I put one foot in front of the other, hoping the ice doesn't crack. And to my surprise, it seemed to be holding strong.

I told myself, half laughing, half relieved, "Too good to be true." Turns out, it was. I don't want to go into the details. Stuff collapsed. Like a pack of cards. Like a bunch of dreams. At this moment, almost all of it. Almost.

Am I fine? No.

Am I coping? Yes.

Is it going to break me? Probably.

Am I going to laugh at it maybe 10 years later? Probably.


It's one of those things that is going to be a companion for many years to come. One wishes that instead it would be over quickly. Like a thunderclap, so that I can rejoice in being alive after it's over.

Or maybe, I'm just tired.
Tired of understanding.
Tired of the pillow being the only thing I don't need to be strong around.
Tired of showing a courage I don't have.
Tired of finding out time and again that I care too much to say that I don't care.
Tired of, God forgive me, listening to people.
Tired of pep talks and inspirations.

Maybe if I had a good sleep, things would change.
Maybe if I had a good sleep that I never needed to wake up from, I wouldn't be tired anymore.

Despair night

Feverish demon fingers,
Curling, clenching, clawing.

A long drawn moan
A beast wounded, the fight is done.

Despair night, rolling down the hill
Like a consumptive cough.

The stars wink down, content,
Far above from the beast, the demon, the fog.

Lives unnumbered, have been crossed by the stars,
Have the stars too been crossed by their lives?    

Keep Running

I seem to be rushing through my days.
Blurred moments, blurred faces, blurred ache.
Running on. Running on.
Always on.
No way to rest. No place for fatigue.
Forward. Forward. I don't want to any more.
Somebody make it stop!
Don't stop,
Don't stop. To move is to hurt, but to stop is to die.
Don't weep,
Don't weep. There will always be enough time for tears.
Keep running.
Don't panic,
Don't panic. Fear is a friend. Fear will keep you alive.
Don't fight,
Don't fight. Even when the walls close in.
Keep running.
It will pass.
The thud beats out a rhythm.
Forward. Forward.
No hurts. No tears. No regrets.
Even when it bleeds.
Even when I break apart into a thousand tiny pieces.
Even when I see the hilarious injustice of it all.
Even when the grounds falls away under my feet.
Keep running. Keep running.
Someday there will be rest.
Someday the tears will flow.
Someday there will be no fear.
Someday I can let go.
Someday. Not now.
Keep running. Keep running.

Desiderata - Max Ehrmann

It is a bit wordy and maybe a teeny bit preachy, but it has calmed me in my worst times over the years. I don't want to spoil it by too many words of my own, but even if a single line makes sense to you, keep it close, it will serve you well.

Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

 

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

 

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

Brown Eyes

If yours locked into mine,

Two pairs of browns,

Would the silence talk

Of you and of me,

Safe

In a fragile safety,

Loved

With an inflamed hatred,

Destroyed

By a violent innocence?

If yours locked into mine,
Two pairs of browns,
Would you find me pretty
Burnt, broken and beaten
Alive in dead flesh
Dismantled
Disfigured
And Disillusioned?

If yours locked into mine,

Two pairs of browns,

For the space of a blink

Or of a century

Would you hear me plead,

Silent, tortured, hungry

To let me love you

Just one more time?

Was written for someone I haven't found yet. Hope I do. If I don't, oh well.

Life,Blues, and Some Answers

I had been struggling since a few days to make sense of it all. People killing themselves, choices and consequences, acceptance (or rather the lack of it), and of course, human folly. In short, the usual drivel. I got caught in a Mobius loop of it all. I talked it over with a friend, and a few home truths came out.

Truth one. I am scared. I am scared every day of my life. If it goes bad, I’m scared it will go worse. If it goes good, I’m scared it will go bad. I’m scared I will not be able to cope. That I’m not good enough. That one of these days, I’ll snap.  

Truth two. I am confused. I revel in grey. I don’t put things in black and white. I wrote before of hating “straightlines and twisted logic”. I probably wear glasses to see things blurred, not to see them clear (this is metaphorically speaking, not literally!).

Truth three. I am never going to be ‘normal’, in the most ‘normal’ use of the world. I am always going to be a bit of a loner. I will always have trouble finding people who are like me (and consequently, like me. As in, ‘like’ the verb.). I may never get what I want of life.

All of which leads to Truth four. Ta-da! (Well, ok.).
When I say I am scared of snapping, I know that I will definitely snap. One day, but it’s not today. It’s never today.

When I say I am not good enough, I know it’s true. It also could have been worse. I am lucky to not be homophobic, or xenophobic, or bacillophobic. Or even a sociopath, for that matter.(Oh wait. I am probably that partially. Just kidding.).

When I say I revel in grey, I know it’s something I will struggle with for years to come. It also means I have a sharper perception of all other colours too. Specially those in people.

When I say I am not normal, I know it makes it tougher for me to survive. That doesn’t stop me from  knowing that I can. Not matter what, no matter how, I will see it through.

When I say I may not get what I want, I know that it is pretty much true, too (never mind what the birthday and new year wishes say). But I will always have what I need. Always.

I mentioned once before that I feel like a fraud with my words. Because they are just words, nothing more. But I still cling on to them, because, perhaps, they let me be who I am. And in my own poor, stupid way, I am an all right person (at least kinda).

And if the whole thing read too oxymoronic, it is probably because that’s exactly what it is. That’s why they call it life. Otherwise they would have called it three-cheese-and-pepperoni pizza. (I know you grinned at that.) 

On Losing the Meaning

My childhood thesaurus put melancholy as a synonym for sadness. But life taught me the subtle difference. Sadness comes with tears, anger, indignation, denial. It blocks out everything else. Sadness heals. We give Time, time, and sadness heals. But melancholy? Melancholy comes with a tired acceptance. It stays. Softly, unobtrusively but it stays. It never stops anything, but like a tinted glass, it dims the brightest of sunshine.

“And everyday life loses a little bit of its meaning.”

Thus read a friend’s text message while we were philosophising on the phone. Strange how depressing observations reach across people. No one died today. No dreams were shattered. No one cried out for help. No shots were fired. There is melancholy, not sadness.

And yet there is a ever-deepening sense of loss. Each day goes by with the feeling that it left me a little bit poorer than the previous. Small, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. Every day I lose a little more and I know I will never regain it back.

For someone who grew up believing in the glory of life, the brittleness of the meaning of life in the face of the world is hard to swallow. As I pick apart all that is around me, everything unravels with an ease that is almost scary. And it all echoes emptily with a single question, “What does it matter?”
So is that it? I remember shaking my head, and thinking “Crazy fellow”, when I first read that life is something that happens to you on the way to the grave. Somehow, I don’t do that anymore. Shake my head disbelievingly, that is.

No one died, because no one lived. No dreams were shattered because we lost those long back. No one cried for help because they learnt way early that there is no one to hear. No shots were fired because there is nothing left to fight for. And there is melancholy, not sadness.

They say sorrow shared is half. Perhaps it didn’t hold good for this because as I said, there is melancholy, not sadness. There was small comfort that two people, miles apart in terms of geography, ideas, age and background, both shared this depressing (and accurate?) view. The walls the world builds between people effectively prevents any real exchange of emotions, except perhaps in rare unguarded moments. We did not talk about this anymore beyond those five minutes.

My reply was that “If everyday life loses a little bit of its meaning, and you are still not done with it, I would still call you lucky. Because it means you started out with a whole lot of it in the first place.” Old habits die hard, and the eternal optimist says perhaps, just perhaps, this is the meaning of life. That in spite of it all, we still had this conversation.

[photo courtesy:https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqAGZnpAkWLNhFXbtd4udWjoFQBxvtvYhGaFBnl9BD0JMY_xwRdZJnqgGayZBME8V3fbL9769D2nSxa-2dVO-gab2MFMvw-UssZW3iXg-iNLhC-CK4fCfz4XNo_TSQnnUMpwm8ytnpTk/s1600/Lost-Soul.jpg]

Forbidden Fruit

This was written on a moment of inspiration. Inspiration that is partly literature, partly certain story people whom I know, partly lonely-night-blues And a lot of other things. Unrequited love is tough. Tougher is perhaps when you cannot even speak about it. And I don't even want to go into the cases where destiny has other plans in mind. (But I am totally against people being hailed as Romeos when they kill themselves when a relation gets over.Relations do get over.And you learn to live with it.Period.) As usual with me and poems, its extremely bad poetry, but I do hope some of the emotions manage to come through.

Forbidden fruit
Nectar divine
Love of mine
But only silently can I cry.

Forbidden fruit
I’d sell my soul
And take a nibble
If only the price wasn’t so high.

Forbidden fruit
Choices and decisions.
Actions and consequences
But what do you judge by?

Forbidden fruit
Never enough
Not even close
Judgement of man, hard to defy.

Forbidden fruit
What’s the use?
I know I will lose.
Why did the songs of love lie?

Forbidden fruit
Ever in mind
Never to be mine
Still no one to hear me sigh.

Forbidden fruit

The ecstasy of pain
Like moths to the flame
But I am too young to die.

Forbidden fruit
You will never know
Perhaps neither will I
Forbidden fruit.

[photo courtesy:http://blog.vipulsetia.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/Broken_Heart.jpg]

Redemption

"And this you can know—fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe."

I stood watching the ocean with my toes digging into the moist sand. The waves crashed onto the shore a few feet away from where I was. The water sometimes came up and swirled around my ankles. As it flowed back, it took the sand from beneath my feet, disbalancing me slightly.

I stood watching the ocean carry on in the same way as it had been for millions of years.

I stood there watching the ocean as millions before me had done, and millions more would do.

I stood there watching the ocean and felt the melancholy of the world bear down on me. I heard the smash of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises. The wind that ruffled my hair brought with it the stench of dead ambition and the sigh of unlived moments. I felt the wings of flight fettered by the chains of habit. I saw the seething rage in the white billows in front of me. And I knew that the rage would forever be bottled up inside the hearts of men, burning them, tormenting them, destroying them inside, while they go on placidly with their lives on the outside. I felt stifled by the darkness of fear which threatens to draw out the life from everything that men hold dear. For a time, it left me broken. The defeat, the humiliation, the unfairness of it all. The overwhelming mediocrity of existence. The utter helplessness that came with being human. It made me cringe.

I stood there watching the ocean and was redeemed by the ancient wisdom of that unending stretch of water in front of me. The roaring waves echoed back my very words to me. Being human. That was what mattered. To have the power to choose. Choose to be bigger than what pulls down, to be greater than what opposes.In spite of all the despair, men will still forge on. What I had mistaken as useless rage is actually what keeps the wheels of the world moving. Moving to higher, better, stronger. Extraordinary rises from the ashes of mediocrity. Because the only time Man is mediocre, is when he has nothing to fight against. As long as the tussle is there between living and existence, so long mankind is great. It takes a man to feel the helplessness. And it requires of the same man to rise above it.

I was reminded of something I had read long back.  “This you may say of man—when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it. This you may know when the bombs plummet out of the black planes on the market place, when prisoners are stuck like pigs, when the crushed bodies drain filthily in the dust. You may know it in this way. If the step were not being taken, if the stumbling-forward ache were not alive, the bombs would not fall, the throats would not be cut. Fear the time when the bombs stop falling while the bombers live—for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strikes stop while the great owners live—for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken. And this you can know—fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe.” (John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath)

There may come a day when man will not rise up any more. When he forgets love, despair, anger and everything else that made him who he is throughout the ages. But that will not come to pass, as long as there is someone who stands there watching the ocean.