Red Hollow Dot

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I had that recurring dream again–life was happening to me and I could not stop it.

I set sail in a ship made of rotten wood–into the angry sea and there was turbulence. I was alone–as I always was because that is how I want it to be. And the void was searching for me. And what was I searching for? I had ceased to search for anything a long while back. Because everything was the same. I stopped looking for people in people–I stopped everything — but the world does not stop for anyone. Yet it seems to have stopped too–this time.

Everyday I hear sirens–from far away but they seem to be calling me to the great oblivion. They aren’t ominous–but they are not happy either. It is like clockwork–you can hear the crescendo at a particular point–until you cannot. They wake people up momentarily only to have them sleep again in a sombre, vapid dream like confusion.

People are faulty. They probably have recurring dreams too–of life happening.

On my roof is a hollow red dot which connects me to a sublime absurdity–it looks back at me as I stare at it. It is a red dot and there is not much to it.

I have never been in love–it does not exist outside my imagination. Outside are people carrying themselves alone–in hopes to share that burden–but they never allow anyone to share it. They think that it will rain red glitter for them and they will feel again–but they never do. They become birds–always fleeting. I do not think anyone is ever capable of love. It does not exist outside their imaginations. And we don’t feel anything anymore–so we don’t imagine anything anymore. Because as it happens–all the while we long for a home–but we are a world full of homeless people who live in shabby houses with others, who live in windowless houses with others, who live in rooms which have red dots on the roof.

I had that recurring dream again–life ceased to happen to me–and I stood outside in the glitter rain and I laughed until I had tears in my eyes. And life was a festival but I was not invited.

There is a red hollow dot on my roof and it seems to be growing. One day it will take the fragile roof with it and I will be exposed to the open sky which is so close yet so far away and it has nothing to tell me now, because I stopped looking for answers. I stopped.

I had that recurring dream again–the blind, deaf man stood in a field of red leaves and danced to the what he thought was music in his head, thinking the world cannot see him. And he was only halfway out of the dark.

I can hear airplanes going to places I have never been to. I can hear them glide through the sick sky–going to places I will probably never go, taking people who I will never meet. And I wave it goodbye because I know it will not return. Nothing ever does–and that is how it is supposed to be.

I had that recurring dream again–about the red hollow dot on my roof. I kept looking into it and found myself at the very ugly core of it. That red hollow dot had always been me. But I had forgotten–as I was supposed to.

Tonight I will not sleep and the void searches for answers within me. But I am a red hollow dots and answers do not exist anymore.

 

Home

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What is home? Do most of us have one? Do we ever stop trying to find a home? Did the young orphan try to find his home in other people or empty hotel rooms where his mistresses would come and go? Or in shadows of people he thought he knew? Or in people he met at drab restaurants? Did he ever quit finding a home? Do we ever stop? Does the tired traveler ever get to his home? Or does he keep changing train-stations? Did he lose himself in the air?

Migratory birds.

At the party, someone asked, “Have you ever found that one place which you can call home?”

Everyone had something to say. Mostly because they had been to places. Mostly because they were empty. Mostly because they had nothing to share. All of them had found homes in residues and filters of cigarettes and wines and liquor. All of them had found homes in slot machines and airports and seas and mountains. In people and love and sorrow.

What did I have to show for my home?

I do not think I am meant to be here. I have no home–so I am not meant to find it, to search for it. I had a home once–in my own self. Until I messed up and now I am not allowed back in. People never let me in–and when they did, I never felt like staying. I never had any force entries–people were always scared and intimidated and I loved it. And home is lost to me just like I am lost to home. I am not lost just not found yet. And when and if I ever am found–I will get away from the fire-escape. Because I have no shadow. Because I am a shadow of someone not supposed to be here. Because I am the tide–it comes and it goes. I had a home once–and there was silence there. Because home is a sickness. It has no cure.

The room grew quiet for a second. Then the silence faded and there was music. And I danced because I had to escape, like most people. And like most of them–I knew it all.

Ripples and Gold

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So there were talking shadows on the silver edges
Of the cold blue pier
Where she sat and looked at her other self
Which talks of the misty air
Unfrozen birds and pink clouds
And lies–too much to bear
Would she rest her head on the rising tide
Or dance around without a care?
Ripples and gold, green skies and a pink canvas
Why did her smile disappear?
Sanctuaries of laughter,  disposable worlds and flash mobs of giddy people
Yet they all cried with blue tears
Ripples and gold–
She sat on the edge of the river, on a damp railing–at the pier.

Saya–Shadow

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We often become overcome by sunlight which emanates from within our cold core and exhumes us and turns into an inextinguishable fire which then spreads out. There is no way around it. If we let it burn, it burns everything. If we embrace it, it overtakes us. If we let it go–it eventually becomes faint and fizzles out. It is like a forlorn shadow which follows us around.

Of this, like most people we meet in our lives–who are meant to stay and meant to leave, there is no tangible memory. They become ghosts which follow us and haunt us like shadows, sometimes to entangle with our bodies and often, just as parts outside of us–trying to fill us and make us whole. But they never will and they never can. Because they are shadows, incomplete.

And we–all of us, are defected. In that, we have one main defect; we are missing from ourselves. We are absent from ourselves. And every time we try to catch our own fleeting shadow–we fail.

And we often sit around in odd places where no one knows us–thinking to ourselves that maybe serendipity will come through and maybe we will see someone or something who can take a look at the turmoil that we are and see the nakedness of our being and appreciate it. But it never happens. And if it happens, we suddenly grab hold of ourselves and draw the curtains back–because no one actually wants to be seen. No one actually wants to be felt. No one actually wants to be touched.

And like shadows–we follow ourselves into the great mists of yesterday, today and tomorrow. And like shadows we sometimes fade mid-way. Just like the people who come and go from the busy trapdoors of our lives.

But the truth is, we cannot have shadows without ourselves. And whether they are elongated or shortened or dark or light or in front of us or behind us—they are there, unwilling to leave us, as we are, reluctant to let go of them.

We are all, in a very requited way, attached with our shadows!

It’s a Crack

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The window from which you look outside-into the grey stillness of the fading away world, has a crack. A very small and subtle one. But it grows every minute and soon it will turn into a void. Do you see this crack? Does it remind you of yourself? Does it remind you of anyone else? Does it remind you of the tragedy that is the human world? The human world which has been taken over by the crowds of people. Banal. Does it remind you of the the rabid dog which goes around yelping into the bleak, dingy streets filled with darkness? Does it remind you of the transsexual romantic wandering looking for closure form the world? Does it remind you of anything? Anyone?

Because there is a crack in everything. And everything is in that crack.

Remember the time when the sparrow waded in the sky and looked down below and the only thought it had was about jumping down and killing itself…Only the tragedy was that it had wings and it could fly. You do not remember because you were not there. But next time you are, remember this. Maybe that is why the sparrow flies. To dive down so it can perish. Maybe it is not about the flight, the freedom–maybe it is chained because of its wings! You do not know–because you do not have any wings. And that is your tragedy.

Remember the time when an orphan boy roamed around in disarray, finding a home inside his house, bluffing with his own being. He adopted a stray dog, because he saw something familiar in it. Only, the dog got gunned down, shot once, shot twice, shot dead and cold. That is the tragedy of the orphan boy who now wanders the streets, finding a home outside his house. You do not remember, because you have a home–outside your home. And that is your tragedy.

Do you recall the time when the old woman forgot herself? She sat in a wooden chair looking at the window with the crack and simply forgot who she was. She could not remember her happiness or her sorrows or her longing or her empty shell. She forgot to smile. She forgot to cry. She only remembered that she has forgotten herself. That is her tragedy. Oh so you do recall! That is your tragedy.

Remember the poetry of the vagrant? How they talked about the happy worlds and the giddy dreams? And the tumult in those cryptic words? Silence in the dead language? Remember how the vagrant passed it on to no one–and was lost! That was his tragedy. You can not remember because it made no sense to you. And so the poetry of the world was lost once more–and that is your tragedy.

I have no more stories for you–except I do. But like a subtly cracked window–I will pretend I have nothing. Except I have an abyss. And your tragedy is that I see, I feel and I hear. But you cannot see me watching you, listening to you, feeling you. Because you do not perceive me–you cannot hear me, you cannot feel me. That, perhaps is the tragedy of those around me. And my tragedy is that I know it and understand it.

And the window has a crack. But it is just a crack. And it is a defiant one. And like all defiant things–it too shall break. And that is perhaps the biggest tragedies of all. The tragedy of all tragedies.

Two Weary Travelers

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Two weary travelers, set out on a course
Through the damaged roads
And over the dried out sea
Through a vindictive sky
And over the ashy mountains
Two weary travelers…
One was red and the other, green
One wept in euphoria
The other laughed in dread
One had a silent bird sitting on top of their head
The other carried a stick made of lead
One told stories of wars on the moon
The other sang songs about heaven’s gloom
One wore their beating heart on their sleeve
The other displayed their dying soul on their ragged fleece
And on they went, to far off lands
Where no one was awake
And they would ring the bells and leave a trail
Where ever they rode
And on the sunlit tops of hills
There were whispering shadows
Which told of tales of happiness and only
Sadness followed
And one fine day the crows were dancing
When one of the travelers sat down
On a cold bench to never get up
And sat there looking at the sun set
And when the sun was drowned in the dark
The weary traveler had passed
Into the gory light
Now on the train that goes nowhere
One weary traveler sits
Alone with their mind hoping like a bird
Without any feathers
The traveler has now a box which contains a dead heart
Which they wear it on their sleeve to see if it ever would beat
And time will stop moving it’s hands
But the heart will never beat
And one weary traveler sits on the wing of a plane
And flies to the sun as it sets

Delta One

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Where is this home which I cannot find
I have gone to the farthest horizons-
And to the hazy shores
Yet, this home which is missing
I could not even find its door
So I climbed the mountains and sat in their sinful peace
But the home I was looking for–
I could not find its lost keys
Even the desert was as empty as it could be
Because the earth oozed this cold bitterness
I turned inwards to my soul
But it was not at ease
And I tried looking for this home then
In the heavens, people and even trees
They were as haunted as they could ever be
And maybe vagrants are not meant–
To find a home
Or maybe it was never meant to be
So I turned away from myself
And maybe that is why home was lost to me
Or maybe, within me there was nowhere to go
So it is was cold and hollow as it could be
And even the stray raven has a place to go
So maybe–
It was not about where I am going
But where I was coming from
But alas!
Even there I could not find
A place to rest my torpor
And that is why the space was as daunting as it could ever be