Enumerations

I am trying to count some of the nameless objects in the universe. Like the number of letters in the previous sentence. The number of footsteps it took me to cross the room. The number of last drops of water that dripped out right after I closed the water tap. Precious information as the number of seconds I can hold my breath.

I am making a list of all this information just in case somebody asks so that we can have a conversation.

Also,I saw a name brutally scribbled across the metal of a local railway compartment. I know you exist, in case all you did need was an acknowledgement.

Quietly

I could choose to believe in infinity

And cower at what might happen next

But then I could just stop time and sleep a little

I know then it will all go away.

This.Far.Away

Let’s talk in puzzles

And leave each other clues on the walls

So that when the evening sun swims away

We will have stories for the rest of the night.

 

P.S Bibek,I wrote this for you. Don’t fear the excess cheese, no one reads the blog anyway.

 

 

The Paris diaries

What can a new place do to you? It can fill you with an infinite amount of joy, teach you to be happy and gift you with an innate desire to run through the streets wild and free.  It can give you solace, a place by the window where the thousands of bustling cars can seem but with motive. It can give you support which miles away from home you desperately seek and find in the weirdest of places, in the smile of an old couple sitting on the bench, in the soft voice of  a fellow passenger guiding you to the next station.

Or it can remind you of home with the rain pouring suddenly, without control, vicious and ruthless. And It can fill its streets with music so that it would make you feel as if you are in your own short movie, without direction but not lost. It can teach you to wonder at things again and trust life, a feeling which has been too easy to forget.

It can teach you to love and miss and most importantly hope again. 

 

 

 

Rain

There were disagreements,

And bitter words spoken for the umpteenth time

But then it will all be washed away

Because there is talk amongst the clouds tonight.

 

 

Smithereens

He brought it home. Cupped in his tiny hands, the icy slippery fish that he had found on the mud worn path near his house. He put it inside a glass container and watched with delight it springing back to life, confused but breathing through tiny little secret parts.

But it also struck him, the restlessness of the captive,  the false attempts to search beyond the small insensitive glass boundaries.  So he went back to the nearby river and let it swim away. Life comes from life, so he thought. But he didn’t know about that one very thin line between life and death.

The fisherman on the boat ahead caught it, along with other nameless creatures that couldn’t run away from the shabby disguise of reality.

You could have been blue

You could have been blue, but you are not

You are more like the silent shadow of an engrossed timekeeper,

the hostile gleam of a shiny polished wooden floor.

You are green.

 

On a perfect little day, I even think you are purple

Unheard, Unnoticed, borrowed

Aroused by frenzy, often stolen by a thought

Pretending to be poetry, but only prose

 

But you could have been blue,

Free, unwilling and unsure

Like heavy footsteps on a silent empty corridor

And the swiftness of a Tuesday crowd on the go.

Softly and slowly will the leaves fall

And softly the dilapidated drums will announce

As the sound of the sullen sky will echo

Across the thousand miles, with the news of my homecoming.

Excelsior

Promise me a new raincoat, and a shower in the morning that would last

But send me a golden globe and I will see it spin through my kaleidoscopic glass.

Once in a while help me chase the fireflies down the street,

And borrow me that shovel so that I can finally plant my poppy seeds.

I also want a rattle and a song for when I go off to sleep,

And most importantly , a shiny new motorboat to set myself free.

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“It’s better if you don’t see us coming, believe me. You have things you want to achieve, obligations to meet,all that human stuff. It’s those things you do while you’re pretending death isn’t waiting around the corner that determine what look he’ll have on his face when you bump into him.” -Stephen Kelman, Pigeon English.

I do wish there were none, you see-obligations,the shallow importance to ‘achievements’ . But then, I wouldn’t know what to do next or feel. I wouldn’t know then, how to figure out a way through life.

 

Awake

Can you actually find something so beautiful that its very manifestation would shock you and make you afraid?A naked, shallow fear that could soon fill you to overpower your very senses, leaving you perfectly helpless, immobile?

I had an urgent desire to run away somewhere safe as I saw the sea today. It bringing in waves from the remains of an unknown destination.

I felt fear. And nausea that accompanied the feeling of the ground being swept off from under my feet. I couldn’t understand the amusement, the delight of the other people who stood there to scream happy at the crashing waves.

I think dying at sea would be a beautiful thing to do. It would be the best fitting way to go. Lost somewhere in the expanse, somewhere in beauty. It would be like sharing a secret.