Recycling, Reusing and Repurposing

Nostalgia. I remember when I was in school, a few days before the seeming freedom a friend of mine dropped all his friends a text. A few days before the final exam, the message read, “Coming to School tomorrow?” And in that instant, the reality of the situation hit our bellies like a wrecking ball. The bittersweet aftertaste, matured for 12 years had finally indeed hit our heads. Intoxicating us.

Today as I write this seemingly absurd contemplation, I am reminded of the same. Nostalgia.

Nostalgia for the blog I began and reshaped so many times. Nostalgia for the similar yet ever evolving *tap-tap-tap* of the keyboards I have used. Nostalgia for the flat that I am in. Where I shall be in sweet solitude for . . , let’s say, a while now. Nostalgia for my parents, with whom I lived for so long! And nostalgia for myself and what has become of me.

I can’t write a lot as of now. I have to pick the minds of the greatest weavers of the history. (Much more than you have you eat mine!) But all that I can say right now is, I am recycling this. I am going to reuse this website.
And this will be repurposed, yet again.

For at this very moment, on the 5th of July 2017, 2:51 am I sit half-naked, under a fan in a nearly empty flat. Feeling nostalgic and cathartic.

But at this moment the tonic is not matured for 12 years, but 20.

To your good health!
Adwitiya

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Notes

She’s prettier than it seems but to those who comprehend. She’s prettier than you think if you just look at her skin. She’s prettier than you can imagine if you just think of her looks.

You see she’s like an instrument which you cannot force to sing. She’s not the drum like you who falsetto if someone stings. She’s more like a cello if you look closely. She’s the sound of happiness and the idol of melancholy. She’s misunderstood beyond compare and it’s just because not everyone knows how her to play.

I don’t play her, I really don’t. I just guide the bow softly and just touch the notes. I don’t force her to speak or whisper or scream. I just hold her as on me she leans. I embrace her close and hold her right and we unite and form music bright.

I know you barely understand what I say. You look at her and see an overgrown voila. I look at her and see an instrument rare.

But don’t you worry it’s not your fault. She will seem to you gibberish if you read music wrong. Like Japanese script to an Englishman. Or sheet music to layman.

The Blank Page

I sit here and stare at the blank page. I may be his arch enemy who he has to face everyday as I am the person who is consistently after his existence. As soon as I lay my hands on one of them, I make them not so blank anymore.

But sitting here i front of the blank page right now just gives me a thought. What if he was a real person? Taking the limits of grammar beyond the capabilities it has, I think that the blank paper is something I would love to personify. Quite, literally.

He’s the quietest person you’ll ever met and adapt everything you are and incorporate his existence into the work you’re doing. The blank page is the mute commuter who says nothing but still is so visibly understanding that his silence  becomes his answer.

The blank page is divine! The poor little creature stay behind me, beneath me, around  me and about me. Not just me. Us. Everywhere around us. I am decimating 13 of his kind everyday. If I sit down to write my draft, it would increase in exponential of 1000s. And still here it sits in front of me. Staring me in the eye and challenging me to a duel.

“Let’s see who is the stronger, keener and faster. My existence or your creativity?”

Everyday I draw my guns out and destroy his existence and still the divine white paper, comes up in front of me defiantly and challenges.

Hail him.

Dream

It is a dream. It’s always been a dream.

It’s a secret my heart tells me when I am asleep. He is a little kid, my heart. He behaves like a child and is very shy. My heart stays away from my body with someone beyond my reach. Just, so, close! I can reach up to it and scrape my fingers at it but I cannot get the grip as of now. Tired, grasping and out of breath when I lay on the stone just below my stone, me heart crawls up to me and whispers in my ear a secret.

He is a little shy, my heart. Afraid to voice out his words. Scared that someone may overhear and laugh.Scared that someone will overhear. Scared. He is a lot scared, my heart. Afraid to voice himself out. Afraid for me. Afraid for my rock.

He creeps down the rock and scuttles towards me in his tiny feet and whispers in my ear and runs back. He doesn’t like to leave my rock alone, my heart. Desires unspoken in the public, he gives them a form. Fears unheard of he says with a shivering voice, only when I am asleep.

He did a prophecy, my heart. His whispers are words which come to life. To create is to animate. Give birth to a thought. His thoughts are so cute and so macabre, it’s ridiculous they exist. He’s a bit foolish, my heart. Speaks in a language none understand and is still afraid to speak out loud.

He whispers so little, it’s hardly a sentence. Two syllable. Two sentences.

Two emotions.

He whispered your name. My rock. My rock on whom I will build my church. A dream I have with my. On whom my fingers scrape but I cannot get a grip as of yet. He whispers “Sorrow” and indeed the worst of this breed comes to greet me.

I am an honest and sincere host though. I welcome them both. My rock and sorrow. Embrace them both. My rock and sorrow. I do all the preparations for both my rock and sorrow. I come, and make my move. Between the two I sit and groove. I don’t want them to meet and greet. They’re not a team, I’d like to see.

My rocks weeps. Asks for me to grip and I will. It seems too sorrowful and disheartening.

But he doesn’t know me my heart. He is afraid I will collapse apart. Give up and let go and depart.

He’s naive my heart.

 

One day I will indeed get a grip on my rock. And then I will build my church. The deity: my rock.

Five Blank Sheets Of Paper

Abstract. I was an abstract she wrote with her eyes closed and her breath even when the moon was out and the stars were twinkling. She wrote me like an abstract work of art in her dream. I was the creation of her imagination which was pulled out of her dream in an incident neither happy nor sad. She couldn’t have placed her thoughts clearly on the table if she would have said this but the truth is that she’s been dreaming lately.

She dreamt a dream filled with surprises rare and exotic which made her life seem like a dish made with sophistication and grace by a gourmet from far of lands. Little did she know that her dream would come true and the rare spice of love she dreamt of in her dreams would ultimately come forth her to be savoured for the rest of her life.

She was a muse I always admired from the distance and adored with all my heart. She was the salt in my broth sans which no matter what the exotic elements may, it would’ve tasted bland. She was the gravitational pull for a waterfall sans which there would have been no beauty in envisioning a cascade. She was the flesh to the skeleton of desires and dreams, keeping them alive.

Our past, present and future, our chemistry together and our fate.

Nothing but five blank sheets of paper for us to create.

Steps On A Ladder

When I was five,

I felt I will be robbed off my life

If I stood at the roots of a gigantic structure.

Be it a tree or architecture.

Now I am older.

Climbing the rungs of a ladder.

Hoping that one day it will be a staircase grand.

I have a secret knowledge in my hand.

The child me wasn’t afraid of being at the top

but of beginning the journey with the approving nod.

Now that I am higher in the air

my fear has seemed to disappear.

The Labyrinth

Lost within the labyrinth, there was once a lad. Tired and sick. Hungry. Lost. Wandering with a candle in his hand. The darkness had made him blind. The hunger had murdered his appetite. He was lost with no hope inside him to even hope for a hope. Struggling to stand up on his feet, struggling to take another breath, struggling to struggle furthermore. The lad was lost within the labyrinth of this world. Alone. In the darkness he lived. He was alone in the dark with his strength failing. He almost gave in to the labyrinth and let go of himself. He was on the edge from the edge to leap into void. He was on the verge of being on the verge to give up. He almost gave up to give up on life.

But then the angel saved him. At first the sight of light so bright bedazzled him. Initially he thought his end has come. Primarily he thought that the labyrinth was over. But then when she was just beside him he realized who she was. The angel quietly held his hand and stood him up. The angel held her hand and this encouraged the boy the continue walking. The boy for a few moments forgot everything and just looked at her. The Angel was luminescent and her luminescence illuminated the way.

But the lad then forgot to get out of the labyrinth and all he now wanted was the Angel. So he got stubborn and began to excuse himself from her to kill the time. So that the end does not comes and the angel’s task could remain incomplete and she can stay with him forever. A day came such that the lad fell to the floor and started to cry. Refused to budge. Proclaimed that this labyrinth now was all he knew and that his desire to survive has died as now he took joy in this struggle.

The angel then scolded him and he was left surprised. The angel stood up on her feet and produced pearlescent butterfly wings. She fluttered them and began to fly and this time, she was adamant on saving the lad. She pulled at his arm and dragged him to the rescue, she guided him towards the exit.

She refused to leave him alone for a second further now.