There is a different kind of ache in my heart
although it is similar to the one I had
when the plane took off
and my heart was punched hard
by the gravity of a love left behind
and was stabbed by the distance
that I remember it bled for days
(it still does)
and I remember lying in the bed
sometimes crying loud enough
that the pain echoed in the big house
which felt lonely and small without you
and sometimes stuffing my mouth with the quilt
which failed to keep me warm
(it still doesn’t)
This throbbing ache tonight sways me
to let this longing for you
travel through my heart
into a poetry that won’t ever be fair
to the sincerity of my heart
which might just die
because it has longed for so long
but tonight even if I wish to write
I find no words
and few that hang to the stars
of night that seldom betray me
are too far from my reach
or they might just have
stopped looking for me
So I sit all by myself
pressing my hand
against my chest
where you bury your worries
while it springs with your smell
(it always does)
hoping that this ache goes away.
I don’t know why I am writing this, maybe I want someone who has been crushed to read this and know that they are not alone in their struggle, or maybe I haven’t written this, perhaps someone else, the one I have never met in daylight, but is sure of her existence. But does that matter to anyone? I think not!
Suicide is never the last resort, because when pain has engulfed you completely, it is the pain that will cure it. No one in this fucking world has any kind of power over you. Never let a situation or a person control you to a level where your life doesn’t seem worth living, because the fact is that it is yours not theirs, because that fact is they did not give a damn to your pain and tears, your endless tries and efforts to get out of depression, your benumb thoughts and frozen body, but you are giving an unnecessary damn to them. Because the fact is circumstances change, but you are not giving yourself time to see them changing. Is it all worth it? I think not!
After you wake up from your suicidal dreams, go and take a shower and drain out all your suicidal thoughts, let the pain of seeing yourself as a failure at your various tasks, or in some relationship, slowly slip down your body with the water. Because you were not born to live for certain number of years, to fail and to kill yourself. You are more than these failures; you deserve a better love than the one, which compelled you to push yourself when you were at the edge; you deserve your own trust, not theirs; you are born to fulfill your dreams and ambitions, not theirs. The clock is same for all of us, but the time is different for each one of us. Would you still listen to the tick-tick of their time instead of yours? I think not!
Even after all these realizations, if dying seems like the best and the last option to you, then die once in your dream to reborn into someone you have never known, or the world has never met, into someone who doesn’t care even when there is no friend to say hello to, because you would no longer need hellos, love yous; you will be on your own. Will you think about another attempt to suicide then? I think not!
The boat sinks only when you let the water enter inside the boat. Do not give circumstances and insignificant people chance to make a hole in your boat. Does it still matter in whose voice you are reading it? I think not!
PS. I am not going to point out that there is family and people who love us, and who suffer when one has committed suicide, because sometimes they are very reason why one has killed himself/herself. Live for yourself, or for someone who is worth living for.
My life always has been perplexing; perhaps, a jigsaw puzzle, and I am trying to put different pieces into right places, sometimes to give it some sense, and sometimes to see what it turns out to be. However, putting a piece in its right place isn’t as easy as everybody around me told. There were nights when I struggled to give my fatigued eyes some rest, because my thoughts refused to sleep. However, a night of absolute persuasiveness came by, and I could let the bleak thoughts slip away in the pure silence of the night. I realized that the pieces of my puzzle are not at one place, that they never were, but they are always around me.
I continued to move my pen over the plain white sheet, and did not regret if a line bended between or the ink clogged. For some reason, I always believe that I’ll make something out of it, and that a mistake might lead to a much beautiful piece of art that couldn’t have been possible without unintentional clogs or bends.
I finished my piece without doubting my ideas and capabilities only to realize that I will only be able to pick the pieces of puzzle if I keep walking, as far as I can, as long as I can, and if I happen to pick wrong pieces, not once but many times, I should not worry and keep moving. Instead of thinking about the wrong pieces that I mistakenly took hold of, and that I failed at finding the right ones, I must look at the puzzle with careful fore-thoughtful planning.
The next morning I showed my art work to a friend who fairly appreciated, unknown of the hidden imprints of clogs and bends under the artistic lines. That’s how life is.
You are sitting by the window
staring at the moon that,
sometimes appears as a drunken man with sorrows,
and sometimes as a sober thinker with drunken thoughts.
The lights in the room are off,
and the only light that embraces everything
inside you and inside the room is the moonlight.
The moonlight enters through the windowpane,
that has been broken for a reason,
that you no longer remember.
The light falls on the floor, filling the gaps
between the two tiles, caused by
weariness of your footsteps and time.
You make circles with your left foot,
and it feels like you are dipping your jiggered foot
in the water, healing you as it slowly enters through cracks
in the water, that has been kissed by the moonlight.
You focus back on the moon and you observe that,
some portion of it is veiled by the clouds,
and you wonder if clouds are jealous of how
you stare at the moon with longing and with love.
Your eyes are set on the sight as the clouds continue to
swirl around the moon and later leaving it all alone.
You no longer hear the tick-tick of the clock,
as you listen to the song of the starry night in its silence,
and even though they say that nights are meant to sleep,
you only want to behold the moon,
for you believe that, this night isn’t the one that
brings you the thoughts of your fiddly life and worries,
but helps you to break your skin into a smile.
You stretch your right arm and make a U
with your thumb and forefinger to hold the moon,
and it fits perfectly in the space even from a distance,
but you realize that you cannot hold it forever and,
you break the U, knowing that,
you can still feel its warmth even if you cannot hold.
The writer in you tells you to pick up your pen and diary,
to write down a poem on how beautiful the moon is,
on how painful it is to know that,
you can have it only from a distance;
But you continue to be enamoured of
the moon and the starry night thinking,
that sometimes some poetries should
not penned down on a paper, but they must be
written in the reflection of the sight in your eyes,
for they stay there forever; untouched and undestroyed.
As the loudness of silence increases,
the night gets more still,
and in that stillness you are awake,
and all your fears sleep.
You feel at peace and this night
you do not wish to dream,
as you aren’t sure if your dream could be as
beautiful as the night sky and,
as calming as the moon.
While your eyes are fixed on the moon,
the lullaby by the moon puts you to sleep.
Your eyes closed, and your mouth half opened,
and the lover in you enters your dream, this night too,
telling you that the moon you have been taking a shine to
was familiar to the one you love.
The moon continued to shine in the darkness,
and the stars pinned to its beauty,
while another night sings in your dream, where
the lover in you reads the poetry,
the one that was written in your eyes,
with soft pauses and hard truths etched into it.
(Now think of the moon as the one someone loves, read the poem again; a story of a lost love and that someone.)
Understand, that when people you love
slip quietly away from you
your heart makes the loudest cry;
that cry shouldn’t be stored up
and make you heavy each day,
because the sky screeches thunder
when there is a violent storm
and later it rains down all its pain.
Understand, that the rain would,
wash off the gloomy clouds to
give you a clear sight again.
There will be a night when you would feel worthless, and you would think that there is no meaning to your life anymore. Your body would shudder and your lips would quiver in fear of being alive. You would think how will you survive another day? You would think maybe tomorrow will be worse than today, and you will again regret for not ending it the first time the thought came to your mind, that had coagulated all your hopes and potential.
And then with your trembling hands, you would open the drawer of your study and take out the paper-cutter or the scissor to stop everything at once; every pain, every disappointment, every reason, every hope and all your fears. You would place it on your wrist, and you would stare at the veins travelling from your wrist to your heart. You would think how delicate life is, and how God exposed the veins to heart while designing the body, letting us see the roots and veiling its branches with the skin.
At first you would cut if softly, because it isn’t easy, and nothing would happen. You would give it a second try thinking it is hard and painful, but it isn’t impossible and that you have to do it, for your life has become a mess. While placing the cutter on your wrist, you would pause for a moment and ask yourself; if you can give this a second chance, why you cannot give it to yourself?
Hello, everyone. I am starting with a series- Late Night Thoughts; relating to thoughts that our mind speaks in the silence of the night.
Whenever you feel that life
Is singing a monotonous song
Of worn out pensiveness
Of pinching melancholics;
Pause for a moment and know
That life is like a cassette
Playing the songs
Of our unvoiced stories
Of all our unsung poetries
Of new hopes and dreams
You just need to change to
The other side of the cassette
To listen to the song of your soul.
Echoes of the thunder silenced
the love ditty I sang for you.
Unabating force of the rainstorm
dented the soil of delicate love.
The lightning flash cracked
the only hope I had from you.
The limpid blood of a wounded love spilled under my feet.
The faith that had kept us together
slid down the skin along the raindrops.
The gravity of your wrath and doubts
pushed down the lightest drop of hope.
The love of acceptance that had kept its
head above water drowned in potholes.
The treasured dream
of being with you crushed under my feet.
(The footwear in the picture isKolhapuri Chappal. Kolhapuri chappals are Indian hand-crafted leather slippers. I bought this from Maharasthra, India.)
What was real blindness like? I wondered while lying down on the floor staring at the roof of the room whose only furniture was darkness. Is it in the inability to see the light? Or is it in the inability to see the facades they wear?
On further introspection, I realized that I never fathom out that behind a facade there is no light, so how can they ever think good for me? I wanted to know who I am, I wanted to see if my skin was still breathing or the darkness had occluded all the pores.
I ran my fingers along my face, and when my fingers reached the end of the forehead, it felt as a shore to the sea of black hair that had captured the whirlwind of realism, ready to sweep away the pseudo.
The window of the room howled in the darkness, and the glass cracked with the force of the wind that blew outside. I stood up with a slightly loosen hair bun and eagerness in my eyes to look outside the window.
The moonlight entered through the crack, and gave birth to my shadow, the part of me that got lost amidst the darkness.
The wind permeated the room, wiping out their villainous smell, and flew through my loosen bun, unfolding each strand full of power with its tenderness.
The moonlight seeped through my veins, bestirring the blood to flow smoothly with a hope.
The veil of blindness was peeled off by the songs of the wind, the dance of the moonlight, poetry of the stars and silence of the soul. The pores breathed again, and I was reborn.