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.
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.
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.
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.
I am weak,
I am small.
You are rustic,
And you’re about to fall.
I am green,
You are red.
I am a vine,
You are the rustic slide in the kids playground.
I was the weed
And you were the rusted.
Both of us about to be dismantled.
Then I met you
And you met me.
And it was love at the first sight.
We teamed ourselves
Against the world.
We gave the other
What we had.
Like pieces of jigsaw,
We missed what the water had.
We became the perfect pair.
I grew up on you,
You gave me the support I lacked.
You got a life from me,
No longer rustic.
We were about to be deported.
Together we became yardart.
Desired and copied
Sometimes being in the dark leads us to believe that we exist in the darkness. Such a creature was I with myself in the dark and believing that the darkness was where I existed. I would have went on like that till the day someone approached me.
The lone wolf is definitely and defiantly a strong feeler. The power in his jaws is surely greater but he has no confrontation of it’s kind to tell him the senses. Similarly wandering in a dreamless land was so excruciating and tiresome that the mind almost set up to believe that walking is no longer an option.
Until the point I met the warrior of light.
The warrior of light cradled me and as the savage I snapped and snarled, the Warrior just looked at me and smiled gently. Amused, bemused and amazed I stopped my lashing around and stood still and looked into the Warrior’s eyes and found something which I had almost forgotten.
The light of dreams and stands and ambitions. The light of hope and relief and joy. The light of sleep. The light of belief.
And now the Warrior of Light leads my way.
A mate of rose,
Was on it’s toes,
Grasping in the sun.
Came a crow,
And did a bow,
Crowed, “Let me show you fun”.
One he pick,
The male he peck,
And went away laughing.
The rose was pale,
This was the tale.
From a common viewing.
The male he bled.
Female, she scared,
Went from red to white.
Pale as moon,
She turned to loon.
Trembling in her fright.
This is to bring to your notice the absence of a priceless and affordable commodity.
Commonly accepted fact amongst the masses is that it was last seen a long while ago. It belongs to the masses and once found will be redistributed amongst all of humanity. The only remembrance of it is that it’s contagious and abstract in nature.
Kindly return to Public Works Department if anybody finds Happiness.
The sound of your breath,
Music to ears.
The eyes closed,
Serenity on face.
My hands move quick,
The charcoal a blur
I sketch your image.
A burning candle in the room
Throws a shadow on the wall.
And on you obsessed,
I handle it delicately.
And trace it on the wall.
She was a river,
Wide and huge,
Merging herself into the ocean.
And I was an imbecile lad,
Too young to understand.
Trying to save her.
One pail at a time.