Sometimes I wonder what if I have walked the road everyone thought was the only way to reach a place that seemed almost same in everyone’s eyes and gave almost the same perspective. Would life have been less difficult?Would I have been less troubled? Would the journey have been easy?
Sometimes I wonder what if I have chosen the conventional way to live a life, feeling alive despite being reticent about everything around. Would there have been someone to walk with, someone who could imbue the emptiness on the street…someone who could fill the silence between the imaginary walls? Would I have taken another turn in anticipation?
I don’t know where the road that I chose will lead me to. Will it be the mountains that I ever wanted to touch, or an ocean I always wanted to swim in, or nowhere. But I’m sure that the road I didn’t choose would have taken me to an insipid place, where they all go, losing themselves through a vile journey, and I’m sure that’s not where I ever wanted to be and ever want to be.
The days are still long and the nights still are immeasurable, but memories of you, the thought of you, your brown eyes, your big nose, your hands, all now lies on the horizon. There is no fear if they cross, or if they stay there. Slowly and slowly, the line would fade.
The ocean is dark and deep as it always was, but I have learned to swim. I no longer fear of getting drowned in you, by you. The tides roar high and search for me, but my feet have befriended sand, clasping it tight. I no longer fear of getting devoured by the eerie sound of the tides. The screams from the torrent of your ruthless love do not shut, but the calmness of letting you go is not perturbed. I no longer fear getting swallowed. Slowly and slowly, the ocean would dry.
Your sun has set, and the summer of love has faded away into the cold mist. The moonlight has disowned your shadow, and the stars don’t look for you, yet somehow your face is reflected when they twinkle. Slowly and slowly, the cold mist would cloud the stars.
The day you named my prayer a curse for you, I puked out all the love for you over the memories we shared. However, I doubt myself if I puked it all, while I write this, thinking about you. But I know that, I will spill them out, slowly and slowly, poem by poem, word by word, smoothly emptying my body, and making space for another love, the one I always deserved, the one worthy to have and worthy to keep.
The thoughts whirl around her head. The words wander on the sheet. While the bewitching moonlight smoothly falls on her face, she gazes at the stars of the midnight. She refills her ink pen and pours herself a drink.
Knowing of the nights that wake you up to the soft sunlight slinking into the room while you are awake, she whispers to herself, “This night is going to be a long one.”
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.)
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.
Weary of the tears my eyes and pen created to paint you and your memories
I replaced the pen with a cigarette, holding it between my fingers
To suck in the truth that you no longer care
To blow out the smoke along with thoughts of you
To flick off the ashes of love we once lived
But every time I puffed, the cloud of the smoke created your face.
Disclaimer: Smoking cigarette in poems is not injurious to health; however, the heart may ache for a while.