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.

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Books!

The daily post weekly photo challenge in its latest challenge asks us to take a photo of what satisfies us. My first thought went to my books. And I won’t lie and tell you I have read the lot that I have, the satisfaction springs from having them, and finding comfort in the fact that one day I’ll pick up one that I haven’t read and will gain a new experience at minimal effort.

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.

What do you like?

There are a lot of things about life that I don’t like. It’s short and so uncertain, so often ends abruptly. So much about this world bothers me too when I can’t do anything about it. But today, I decided to make a list of things that I like.

  1.  Books

          Yes, I smell books. I order books when there are some already waiting to be read. Books are truly the friends we seldom acknowledge. In books I find comfort. Through the voice of those that have left us and those that continue to inspire us, I find that I can overcome my moroseness about death and existence.The world they weave exists like another universe in my mind. Places and people overlap simultaneously, from Elizabeth Bennett to Chacha Choudhary. Books were my first love and will always be.
          2. Music

          Headphones in, I can conveniently forget the world now. Some songs catapult me into the past and sweet nostalgia. While others intensify the uneasiness I have at heart and bring tears to my eyes. But in the end, music soothes. Music is my answer to the nights I have trouble sleeping.

          3. Mountains

          Photo by Aparajita

          I have been to the mountains once, with my brothers. We went on a trip to Darjeeling and I fell head over heels. As I watched the peaks being kissed by sunlight while I sat in the car, it overwhelmed me. I got caught in the meaninglessness of this existence when I stood before the towering structures that have been here forever. If asked to choose between the mountains and the sea, I know it will always be the former. It felt like home out there.

          4. Relationships

          My parents, siblings and I are not always on the same page on everything and I guess that’s allowed. We are allowed differences and inspite of those, we can always be confident of having each other around like pillars you can hold on to.

          Amongst my relationships my prized achievements include retaining a few very good friends. They’re few, but enough. I don’t need a hundred friends who be unavailable when I need them. I just need one who’ll be there. And one, is enough.

          5. Cakes and pastries

          My friends now know how I love these sweet delights. To indulge into a cheesecake or a heavenly black forest feels the right thing to do, any day. Like a child, I look with a longing at delicious pastries kept in the display at bakeries. I used to joke that marrying a baker would really be convenient for my cravings.

          6. Poems

          Poets say so much in terse phrases that it astounds me. 

          I shall be telling this with a sigh 

          Somewhere ages and ages hence: 

          Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, 

          I took the one less traveled by, 

          And that has made all the difference.

          The poems I hold dear to me talk about time and death. They give me the comfort of trying to find order in a random chaotic universe. Poetry offers the solace that is often snatched away by an existential crisis.
          When I started making this list, I was at a loss. I was unsure if I could list even five. And I did. But there’s more! There are a lot of things that I like. This list isn’t comprehensive. There’ll be at least twenty lists like this one- at least a hundred things that I like! 🙂

          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.

          What makes me want to write?

          The important question is this: Why do I write?
          I have found entire worlds form around me as I turned page after page, reading what someone else had written. I find that words comfort me and can explain what I feel. 
          When I read a sentence that goes:

          The forest filled with the sound of birds chirping, as if it celebrated the birth of the boy.

          As I read that, I have a picture in front of my eyes. And anyone who loves reading does so because the image the same sentence creates for him can be entirely different from mine.
          Isn’t that wonderful?
          I think I want to write because I love reading and I know what words can do to you.

          Writers inspire me.

          Poets create magic with their distorted perception of this world.

          Novelists create entire universes full of unique characters between the yellow pages of an ageing book.
          I write because I know, palaces will be razed to the ground but words will never die. And it is my shot at avoiding Oblivion.

          Writing helps me cope with the dilemma of existing in the absurd. I place my life before anyone else and yet fail to find it’s purpose.

          I write because it is much like talking to myself: unraveling the innermost thoughts of this mind and putting it out to censure.