Cosmos

A slow moment,
Rush of blood.
The veins underneath;
Complexity, hiding;
Under your skin.

Look. It's a whole new world.
Your inner cosmos.
Unaccustomed of being stared at.

Colors in m Head

So, I am sitting here.
In the midst of absolute nothingness.
Just sitting here.
The feeling, however, is engulfing me. Trying oh so hard to complete me.
But I am left blank. Staring into oblivion.

Now my hand rises. Voluntarily, involuntarily; it doesn't matter. It rises to the beat of the symphony. There's a background score. The music stops. My hand grabs my dream. It is wrappeed in gift paper. I start untying the nots. My veins pop out.It goes popety pop-pop. I don't know what to do. So, I continue untying. There's still no music. I untie it the whole way.There is a small blue circular object polka dotted by brown; inside. It's very small. Very thin. Very.

I bring my left most finger near it, hoping it won't burst. A grin appears on my face, my heart starts beating faster. Every minute, it skips a beat. But it felt extremely fast eitherway. Anyway, so my heart's skipping a beat, my hand's approaching the blue-brown thing, my mouth is opening wider with each movement of my limb. The tension is building. There's still no music, however. The tension is building. There's still no music, however. The tensions's building again. My heart beat's racing. I am touching it.

I touched it.
The music came back for a second.
Then it stopped.
The bluebrown vanished. It went 'clasp!' in my hand.
My idea vanished.
The dream went to the shit-hole.
I felt wastet yet again.
I had gotten up by now.
I sat down again.
Looked at the space in front of me and stared into oblivion, yet again.

Inspiration, I wish it would strike soon. =)

Beauty and that Regular Beast

The waves calmed me down.
The silence around calmed me a wee bit more.
I smiled inwardly.
Taking out a piece of paper, I tried to soak in the beauty around me. To muse.
And it worked.
I wrote again of a thing called beauty, of the flowers, of love and of course, of her.

I then got up, walked a few kilometers and sat down in another part of the world. Crowds were bustling around me. Running around in circles. Zombie-ish : these walking dead bodies. I wrote again of their beauty.

Then home. The bed. The beauty of sleep. Of home sweet home home.

Beauty in death. In a child. In a tear drop.
Of a smile. Of contradictions. Of love.

Beauty.
Beauty.
BEAUTY.

There's more. I couldn't perceive anymore. I couldn't think.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever? Fuck. What if everything was beautiful? I was dying slowly. Rotting. I could only see beauty. I was sick of it. Sick of the one word vocabulary.
The cynic in me was withering away. But but BUT!
It was beautiful, you know. Like the withering wintery leaves.
Beautiful.

There is too much beauty in my life, I guess Mr. Keats?

That Empty Glass

The glass. Enchanting, really. How it captures motion. Drags it along. Pulls it, stretches it. Smiles at it.

The face opposite, blurred. The smiles, broader. Eyes, wider with horror or contempt, whichever you like. The nose, slide-like, placed arbitrarily above the fat flap of double chin.
The light now, spreading faster, wider, circular. The circle of life. Complete, yet in-complete somehow. Trying to make ends meet?

The smile, the blur, the light, the change, the movement, the build up, the climax,
The end.

Surprising, though, how transparent it is. Vivid. Clear, through this glass of crystal. Surprising, I say.

But weird, how we don't mind. These changes. How we don't shout at it for projecting a fallacious us. How we don't imprison it. How it is. It is just okay.
Fine, really.
It's just glass.

Defence-s

It's time I thought about you. It's been a while now. Some one year, they say.

They'd know best anyway. They did it to us. They climbed up the staircase, they caught us. The buggers. It was my first kiss, you know. I never came around to telling you that, did I? In the boiling passion of that one night we knew each other, we didn't talk too much. Not really, no. It's different now. I can't not talk when I kiss him now. You know, him. He is special. Its like I am living a blurry hallucination. Such a rush. With him, it is. Yes. You know? It's weird though. There's so much of moaning, groaning and sweet talk. But it's all special I guess.

Here's the thing though. These man-whores, they just wont come crawling out now. They won't. They are asleep under my bed, but they just won't come up to the surface and face me. No. While I am lying there, all naked. With him. His arm around me, our fingers entwined. Nothing.

It's strange, really, how they bashed me up the first time. Just when our lips met. Just a kiss, and it was like there was blood all over me. Today, nothing. Not a word. Not a tingling. No fear.
It feels nice though. Yes.

It's real funny.

Who, What, When? An exploration

The day that never was,
Was the one I lived yesterday
Alone, lonely;
Repenting,
My past,
My future,
My yesterday.

The day that never was
Swept me by.
A hailstorm,
Dust in my eyes.
The iris, wider,
The eyelashes, still thin.
The past. Today?

I don't know
What it was.
Where
When
And how?
Those hours
In my dreams
Another world
I don't know.

Was it?
Yesterday
Or today?
Will it be?
Was it?
I don't know.
It never was.
But it will be.
Today. A dream?

(Led on
And left,
Standing.
Under the sun,
Today, this song I sing.

The day that never was.)

The Dying Father and his Daughter

The room
Dense, empty, stark.
A voice echoed. Sudden.

'Pulse?'
'Negative, sir.'

'Love?'
'Was forever.'

'Laugh?'
'In fits.'

The room had lost its charm. She had gone. Was married away. There were no more memories.
Talks. Chatter. Conversations. It was lost. The charm had swept off. Another home, another place.
There was no answer. None to the doorbell too. It was a plain house. With no-one in it.
Except the ghost of some memories.

Sometimes I wonder how she is doing. Is she happy? Content. Does that word apply?
As I stand here, looking at that rickety old armchair, I wonder.

She had stood there, talked to me. Told me her last wish, to get married.
Love, she had whispered to me. The man, she had talked about him.

I had lashed out.

What else could a father do?

It took two minutes. The confrontation.
She walked out.
Independent women, I say.