A call from far away wakes me admist the drizzle and I am drowned down the nostalgic passionate evenings we had together once a long while ago. The days were glorious and evenings surreal.
Was the beauty so expensive, I could not beat the price which dears with rise??
In a faint voice, I urge thee..
keep me in memory
For I am fallible and flawed
I am the man, who said I do.
What happened to us??? I asked in that drunk evening.
Time and too many secrets.
It was naive when I blasted on a colleague and blurted, “Who are you …….?”
The rest of the sentence I can’t recall, but some thing went amiss. The invalid thoughts of agony often argue the same. The integrity of malady is tested against the strength of my will. The debacle of existence of the unknown is questioned with the three words, “who are you”?
Many a times, I call it past. The other times I lay back and label the tag; Lost Love.
In honest hour; You are a desire, I surrender to. A monument I made on the grave of my hopes. A light I seek in sense of utter darkness. You are transparency of indigenous sadness lying within me. You are the question in yourselves. You are the answer for my existence and you are the root for my survival.
There is an undying need, edging in me. The battle of foster thoughts blowing the fireworks at personal stand. A constant urge to believe in something I chose to abandon. Easily, she asked me if life could be upside down. While I would love the idea of turning it around.
There were struggles in the past. It was never that smooth I wish it could be. But I came out of it strong enough to lay back on my beach chair and cherish it with a puddle of white wine.
Do I want it to turn upside down???
Nah!! May be I want to re-live that period. May be I want to hold the hands again and walk with him on the lanes of city. May be I want to hear the crackles of his laughter which burst on the noisiest of double meaning jokes. May be???
Living the past again will come with a pre-decided expiry of seven years. Do I want to contain myself again for another seven years.
I had made the promises of seven lives. Seven seasons and seven heavens.
Let the time race a bit backwards. I want to re-live those seven years again.
The convulsive mind never stops asking the questions I don’t want to hear anymore. They are the pregnant thoughts of a lazy day when you just want to enjoy your own company but seldom you feel alone even when there is no one in the room.
It’s another full moon night, when the light seeps in to my bedroom through the French windows falling onto the mirrors of chimes. I see a clear sky with the pale white light, often disturbed with the haze of wandering clouds.
If only the moon, I am romancing with, is the reflection of sun I hate during the sweltering day, has reminded me of you; who used to be the reflection of my lust in night and the love in smoldering day.
As I am filled with the thoughts of beautiful past, the cortex of my intellect debates the prospects of future. The past which is as clear as the bright moon and the future as hazy as the gloom of passing cloud, I recede to my slumber.
It’s another night, when I convince my heart that the withering tree will be a shade for the other who needs it. The utility of its left over green will revive its own stem someday.
I always convince myself with that word.
Am I enough beloved? I asked the night.
The night was pretentious but the argument went right.
It was a movie night, when few of us gathered to watch the sequel of fifty shades of grey. Let me finish my viewpoint, fifty shades darker is much better conceived than the prequel.
Post movie, I was almost in tears and overjoyed with warm heart full of romance and love saga. When the boyfriend blurted, “you are like one of kind, as my girlfriend chews the button for Grey, you are none the less same”.
I smiled back.
Reluctantly he continued his version,“ I don’t understand this bull crap, these women love Christian Grey for his deeds and when I try to convince them for same kinky fuckry, they fail to reckon. I mean, many times I have heard her talking about the book and his fantasies but when I want to try those same with her, she finds me opportunistic and vulgar. What the mess”?
I could not control my riot of laughter as my imagination runs faster than the vocals of speaker. While he was narrating his anger, I was having these funny visions of this fat man making out with his girlfriend.
“Well” I tried to compose myself. “It’s the perspective of a viewer which talks the ill or good. If you could see through my point of view, you will see the power of true love over-riding the dark desires of a cult. The genre of the book or film may be erotica but underneath lays an immortal victory of love over hate. It’s the pure love of Anastasia who can subdue the dark fantasies of her lover. When it comes to the movie or book, I see the hope. A hope of true love overcoming the flaws of a partner and accepting the way it is. The true love holds the power to change the wrong to right and dark to light.”
He smirked back at me, “So why didn’t it work for you?” I had no answer of the yore. Yet I acknowledged the question.
They come in different shapes and colors. Sometimes, they make you weak at your knees bending you towards the greater gravity yet, sometimes they make you learned, strong and better person.
I am not talking about the candy jar of my nanny but the vivid memories I keep in the vault of my forehead. While reading a biography of a director, I went way back my childhood memories. I wonder, how they have got starched with time turning into grave and faint sepia. I remember that there were several memories I had kept labelled for this conjuncture of my life to be recalled for time sake. the deeper i try to explore, more i get lost in empty lanes of my childhood. I faintly remember the cry of my mother on my first epileptic attack, what happened later has got erased with time. I have this similar memory of a night shout may be a decade later past the midnight when my room mate aroused me from sleep asking me if I just had the fits. The rest of fits got lost in the jolts of life.
Earlier this weekend, with my pals during the game of cards, we asked each other about the first adventurous memory we have. the memory of any adventure which brings the joy of doing it for the first along with the fears of doing it. To my surprise, I told them the story of a day when I must be 17 years old. I wonder, where were the first 17 years got lost. i dont even remember when my father must have beaten for me for the first time and for what. One of my friend could not recall any such event of her life. I could sense her mind racing to and forth drilling the time to find such memory.
Memories are naive and made of plastic. They can mold in any shape and form whichever way we want to. They say, time is the best healer. I now know why they call time as the best medicine for agony. Time erases the memory etched on your soul. We build new memories with old synapses. New circuits are formed in the circus of life.
My friend keeps a record of all the bad things happened to him. It was a suggestion of his shrink to maintain the diary of his ills. Nevertheless, they forget to suggest their clients to maintain a record of happy memories too. Every time he feels sick, he reads the diary he kept filled with agonies and feels more pathetic than ever.
How about we keep the records of our best memories we want to visit again and again. How about we create a log book of people we loved and lost in the midst of crowd. The visual diaries may not sustain forever but the written texts will leave their lasting imprints.
For the least, I am cherishing the few faces I love the most with this draft. For, I love freely.
I thought I had given myself another chance but it seems life has no second option for me. Lat night, I had this vision of me running through a large and dark tunnel. It was humid, horrid and scary. I was running as fast as possible. The tunnel led me to a barren lane. The lane was narrow and noisy with haunting voices of my past. I could not see anything much apart that there were plenty of doors. More doors everywhere and closed from inside. I called for names. I knocked every other door before the walls started crumbling.
My heart started pounding as if i was alive. In that head rush, I started running as fast as possible. I was gathering all my energy in search of way out but the lane was endless and the doors all closed. In midst of escape thoughts, I realized that I ran past to an open window. I stood still to catch my breath and process, “Was there a window or should I look forth for an open door?”
My heart was counting the pros of walking ahead when i chose to opt for the window. I started running backwards in search of the open window thinking of a plan B through the window. But I could not locate the window. I knew I had seen it. It was open with a clear sky through it. i started panicking, if i missed my window. I started running across the lane but all in-vain.
I woke up past midnight with the nightmare exhausting me through the core. I couldn’t sleep for the rest of night wondering if I really missed my “Window”. What if second chance never exists? Would I be lost in the lane or a right door is waiting for my knock?