History

He looked at me.

The stern face with those stern eyes behind those heavy deep-set glasses. He was talking. I might have called it blabbering at another point of time.
He addressed me. From behind those eyes, he looked at me, accusing like.

Like I had done something. Killed him or something like that. I don’t know. I was rolling my eyes. But I was staring at him. Right back at him. He was talking.

Yeah, this man, sitting there was babbling some shit about how life was 35 years ago. I couldn’t care. But then I was listening. I was trying, okay. So he was talking and I think he kept getting lost.
He talked about all of it. How life’s changed. About people changing. He tried telling me about the world and how he paid 7 bucks to get through his school.

I looked at him straight.

He told me about why he is sitting in a chair as an optician. He told me why he wasn’t another guy with a doctorate ripping me off my money. I was still staring at him. He was making sense.
He opened his mouth again. He muttered something about the world with its sins and how everything falls into place.
He closed his mouth. And then opened it again. It was replaying in my head, in slow motion. 30 frames per second. He was doing it again. Saying some godforsaken thing. I was listening. I was. It was making sense finally. I was listening.
And then it stopped. It went back to normalcy.

He talked. I thought he was talking to me.
But I got it this time. He was trying to address a whole generation. Tell them all about what’s going on in his futile life.
I was Generation X. He was the one gone by. Representatives of ourselves and others.

I looked at him. I had a few words to say.
I looked at him again. I noticed the harsh light around his rounded wrinkled face. I stopped myself.
I couldn’t tell him.

He was living in his past.
All I could hope for was he liked it.

Soledad

In the land of the Boulevard
And with it, its setting sun,
Arose this man.

A chance was all he hoped,
a moment in god's forsaken time.
Lost in a chance he forgot to store,
This maniac of the wild.

Screams, shouts and screams!
Yelping to the grave, ran did he.
Twas his story, twas his name;
He cared not to say or be.

A single line did he sing,
This simple melody.
He knew not of winters,
Nor rabbit holes for hidding did he seek.

He came out and forever
Sang this song of misery.

Complexity

The mirror reflected me perfectly. Me, alone, in its path. Unaware of the rest of the world.

There was no paper. No pen. No leaves. Nothing. It didn't reflect moments. No birth. No crisis. No work of art. It was me. Simply, me and the mirror.

And the distance between us.
Separated by a few inches. A 5'5'' figure was all the world was, at this point.
Separated by a silver lining. No clouds. No sky. No horizon. Just a vertical silver lining.
Separating this existence from the rest.

Yes, even behind this mirror was a world. A world as complex as my inner being. As your inner self. As this world. Inside us.

The skin of this mirror was all there was. A simple brown layer against a complex silver one. There were two worlds.

Here, itself. In a moment, the truth dawned on me. Of aliens and their existence. Of me and my own being. Of the world; irrelevant but now; hidden behind mirrors. Of faces, of expressions. Of nothing but what is not here. Hidden. Away. Unknown.

Unaware, of the rest and of what lies inside, there was nothing. I could learn now. I turned.

The other direction led me back. To my world.
And what was left to see.

The stones. The pen. The paper. And the clouds.
I looked at the birds. I smiled. And art.
Birth. Mid-life crisis. And a pen and a paper.

There was so much left to learn.

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.