Serene

Here I am, looking at Pichhola Lake. I was on an Udaipur trip and this photograph was taken by my friend early morning when I stood after waking up and watched the lake. That moment what I really felt was serene

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Am I allowed to feel?

If it’s okay,

To kiss you like we are in a dream, about to wake up,

Then I’ll hold you up against the wall and do that.

If it’s okay,

To talk about the stars making weird shapes,

While we desperately want to fall asleep under them,

Then I will create a canvas of shapes as far as your eyes can stretch in a gaze.

Look that’s a heart, I mumble sheepishly.

If it’s okay to stand on rooftops and feel the wind on our faces,

Drive a skyfall across my skin,

I’ll want us to fly.

To test these shallow waters that keep us inches in trepidations,

If we are permitted to love,

I will dive in still for answers.

Do we sink or stay afloat?

And now I know that I am okay.

It is alright,

To talk about what is not important,

At one in the silence of the night,

And

It is allowed,

I am allowed to feel.

Have some faith.

I don’t find answers in your faith,

But you do.

And maybe we can go on living like that.

Maybe I can stop sneering at your traditional ways

 and you can keep from the thought that I worship the devil.

I don’t.

For I’ll need faith for that.
Carry on,

If you find peace,

You head bent over in front of idols,

And deities.

Books and shrines.

Mountains and rivers.

Fire and the sun.

I am but a blot on another dot,

In a cosmic space that boggles my mind,

And I tried faith to give me the hope that

There still was some hope left for us.

I am but moving towards death like you,

Trying to avoid the inevitability,

Trying to make sense in the truth that,

I am not worse off than you.
I have seen you shrug and brush off a tragedy as

The will of the Lord,

And resign to the cajoling that,

In the end,

The faithful ones shall attain redemption,

While I’ll be queueing up at the gates of hell.
I,

The faithless,

And yet neither you nor I are saved from the end.

Regret

Tell me feelings are,

Made of lumps in my throat.

Made of an uneasiness that springs around my heart,

When you go on,

Unstoppable,

On about what I do,

How I hurt you,

How I never listen,

And all of this in a spiteful breakdown.

On about what I think,

And everything I have ever chosen when I could.

Why should I speak at all,

Everything I say will be used against me;

so I don’t.

Unusual

This week’s photo challenge is about anything that derived from the theme ‘unusual’ .

Lignum Draco shares his brilliant photographs of monks in bright attire as opposed to the surroundings that are in start contrast. 
I am often captivated by the wrath of time on living beings and structures alike. Sends the message that nothing is immune to rot and destruction. When I look at this flight of stairs drenched in rain, the decay makes me think of all the times I have climbed them, during the twenty seven years of my existence. And that makes me realise how I am losing myself to the years too.

Photo by Aparajita

To those who know someone who gave up.

We should not claim to understand what goes on in the mind of a person who has given up on life.

Have you been there?

Have you been there, teetering at the edge of despair when death seems like a better option than survival?

Most probably, you shake your head vehemently in the negative.
How can you judge, then?
I know, it is better to live a long, full life. Someone who chooses death must have nothing to look forward to. NOTHING. When they put their heads to rest, they don’t lie dormant staring at the ceiling until they fall asleep.

When we look at their lives, we find it going so good for them.

What was the need?

But no, in the mind of someone pulling the trigger, she’s caught between the dilemma of jumping from the building or getting burnt along with it. When I watch from afar, I want her to stay put because it is not me faced with a choice between the devil and the sea.
So in the comfort of your friends and family, it is easy to miss what ghosts wreck the psychological defense of someone suicidal.
We have been talking about recognizing depression as a real threat to a person but we miss the signs that someone might be in the pits and we go on pretending that he’s seeking attention or just throwing tantrums.

Our answers to helplessness and desperation have set in stone.

You should go out.

You should think positive.

You shouldn’t watch such depressing stuff.

You should stop thinking.
You should stop existing.
As my bus approaches the bridge,I look down and see murky muddy water in a rage.

And I can feel myself drowning already. And I know, not one amongst the 50 people on the bus is looking at that possibility. They’re looking ahead, because this journey ends. And that is the purpose at hand. I look at the dilapidated structure as we cross it and wonder,

This bridge is in such a bad condition. It’s going to fall any day now. Will it be the day I make the return trip? And again,

I am sinking, trying to breathe, unable to see anything, the weight of things crushing on me. How much longer will I be able to hold on? I don’t want to feel death just yet. But I AM staring at it.

We have crossed the slight momentary trepidation but I am still there, I am still sinking to the bottom. Can no one see it at all?
No.
Someone who knows me, might.
So the only people who can save others from drowning in despair are the ones that truly know how the mind of that person works.

As friends, it is our responsibility to at least try. To talk and listen. To stall.
As friends, we distance ourselves from the ‘negativity’ and start telling them to not post depressing shit on social media. We ask them to not constantly seek attention because for us, the range of emotions contains only two:

You’re either happy.
Or Sad.

And nothing comes in between.
They’re not seeking attention.

It’s like a ‘save our souls’ message. Will you respond?

Will you be first responders?

What will you say?

And what a life it is.

This is your life
If I could read a book about me, I would. And it will be one ride of sorts. With painstakingly detail I read about trying to keep myself from drowning when my bus falls off the road into a raging river. Next minute, I’d be sitting at my desk, trying to sell a mutual fund to a potential customer.

I close my eyes at night and what is it that I think of?

I think it will make for a controversy if we could know what goes on in someone’s mind. We could write about something in different ways.

I watched him as he went on reading, oblivious to me.

This is pretty straightforward.

I watched him as he went on reading, oblivious to me. Barely did I know that he was distraught, thinking about his life over and over again in a playback. I could hardly fathom that the next day I’d find him bent on his desk, overdosed, wondering what could have ever provoked this.
So yes, a book about me would make for an interesting read. I want to remember what transpired to make me the person I am. I want to remember what of this life I have already forgotten. I want to know when was the last time I felt joy, the last time I fell in love and if I am capable of all these emotions that others so evidently feel.

I want to remember my nightmares, know my dreams and try to interpret them, however ambiguous. 

My life on the outside seems drab, viciously pulled into a Whirlpool of monotony.

It is the mind that’s interesting.

Despair

Hoping against hope,

Wishing we didn’t collide into one another,

And neither collapse into a disastrous indifference,

I wait for us to come back to you

And me.

Through my days,

Your eyes smile through dimly lit corridors,

Shadows of light that I keep from filtering in,

Onto my scattered thoughts,

Spill all across the expanse of my memories of you,

Nevertheless.

I will sing songs that liken us to lost stars,

So that I know this can be ethereal.

And beyond my control is this world where we, bereft of gravity to pull us to one another,

Drift apart,
Over news and cups of tea.