Parts of Us

You know it is strange–how we go on pretending to be one single entity, while carrying the broken pieces of each and every part of ourselves. We go on thinking we are one whole being, yet we have many voices within us which mirror the selves which are either hidden away or have yet to appear fully.

We have that part which is not healed yet, which is still broken–which does not cease to be. It holds no secrets, only fear and remorse and sometimes even shame. It is vulnerable–so much so that it becomes vulnerable even from us, if we are not rushing past it.

We have that part within us which is still not fully matured, it still clings on to hope and laughter and plays around with the wind while it yearns to dance in the rain. In the open ground of beautiful colored vines, it jumps and sways.

There it meets its match–the part of us which has is either taken by age, pain or circumstances. Occasionally it gets taken by all of these. All it does is stare with a hollow look at you–maybe beyond you. As it is covered in hues of grey which keep spreading like the plague taking everything within its fold. It makes no promises–it keeps none.

And while the ghosts around us are busy in their melancholia, the part of us which died a long time ago also stirs somewhere. Perhaps rattled by the conundrum outside–it tries to wake up but it is bound by time. And you know you are not the Messiah–you cannot revive it.

SO you sit with the part which is hurt and you sit with it for a long time. The same time which seems scattered now into a million specks of dust and doom and glory. And you both are frozen because that is what it all comes down to.

There is heart and there is the mind and there is no conflict between them–but only what we imagine and cannot fathom. When we can no longer fathom it, that is where we feel lost. These parts, no matter how scattered are still all us. And this is what makes it all so grim, beautiful and scary. And when we become tired of all these parts, they play hide and seek with us. They do that even when we are not tired–sometimes, they simply do that because that is all they know.

And then there are fireworks–and the ghosts–they turn out to be our own shadows. Either we run from them, or they run from us. So all the parts of us–they become whole, singular–only to get dislodged into a vacuum.

Loss

Loss is hard hitting since it is followed by grief. We lose people and things and it is kind of like a displacement. Momentarily we lose chunks of our minds and bodies and control. We lose parts of ourselves.

We lose parts of ourselves. Sometimes we lose all of our self. We no longer remember who we were, are or ought to be. We keep being stuck in a void, in bewilderment because we cannot recall why we were such and such–how to get there. In that moment, which lasts eons–it seems like we are passing through a chasm of thoughts and emotions and who we were or who we want to become–seems like a distant dream.

Brain locked, mind boggled, perceptions awry–we can only stand and stare. We ask ourselves–do we go back to this or that. Should we or should we not. And those are the only things we know of, the only experiences, the only clutters and we have nothing, we are nothing. We move nowhere.

We become so aloof from internal and external confusions. Where do we go, why do we go there? Who do we follow? Days become a war, moments and hours become a battle–an nothing wins at the end. That is great loss indeed.

Grass-Skippers

It has been a while.

The grass in the forest is still green and there are daisies growing all over it. The solemn looking trees stand tall and breathe clean. The blue sky has a dozen clouds and the sun seems hidden away. Nothing seems rushed.

There are grass-skippers–two of them. Grey, small and unhinged.

They sit on the daisies and the grass and the other weeds and then they skip away. Are they the same ones from yesterday or the day before that? Is there a way to tell them apart? Where do they skip away to? Do they know they exist? Do they know I exist?

Life experiences–do they have any other than coming to the forest and flying away? Going from one weed to another? Are they finding purpose? Maybe they are just reclusive? Or maybe, they have a purpose?

Do they hear all the sounds of the music too? Is that where their rhythm comes from?

Are they aware that time flies alongside them?

Do they know how plain they look? Do they envy butterflies?

Do they know where they are going to next? That this world is so big and they are so tiny?

Can they feel too? Are they happy or are they sad?

Look at them—not a worry in the world? Or maybe they are worried too, like all of us!

To you, they are grass-skippers but to me, they are stories and story-tellers and actors and dancers and art of another world, another time–another wisdom.

To you they have wings but to me, they have arms and legs and they wear glasses and they dance in the rain and yearn to fly away.

To you–they are are silent but to me–oh the songs they sing and the things they say and the music…always the music.

There they go–flying away, skipping to another time, another world, another life. And I stand here–smiling because I know I will see them there soon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The year was 1995 and a little girl ran outside as the door opened to a portal. As she was scavenging around and seeking treasures amidst the hills and trees and streams and flowers and shrubs—she saw a cluster of tiny butterfly looking things. Fascinated, she marched to see what it was. And as she came close, all but one flew away.

The little girl reached out to pick the grass-skipper in her fingers. But it flew away. So she ran after it, hoping she can catch one. But it kept skipping away. It always did.

So the little girl twirled and ran after it–into the forest, skipping away.

And it has been a while.

Red Hollow Dot

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.

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. 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.

Ring of Fire

And we were tired–of running in circles and falling down the same rabbit hole over and over again. The tepid blue and those flickering city lights in a never ending loop were never meant to be taken seriously because they only instilled nostalgia–one which we erased a long time ago. And yet we both sit here–looking at empty screens which scream to us with so much emotion which translates to silence.

In all the trust–or the lack of it–all we do is run around, faltering words–which are just words. They mean so much and yet they mean nothing. One can change water into wine–and then stare at it because we never wanted wine. We just wanted to do a magic trick. That is how things happen–how we sell ourselves for a dream which reeks of a stale death.

That is how it is—we sell ourselves, until no one can afford us. Until we run out of ourselves.

That is when we realize–there are no longer any butterflies. They all went away because butterflies do not come on rotten flowers. How quickly did they move on–they do not stay and linger.

And under the water–we thought we would breathe. We thought we could! And thus, we dived and splashed but when it was time to dive deep–that is when we drowned. And to come up to surface, that is the real art. But who is kidding who!

And the lilies all wilt–because they were meant to. So do we–because we are meant to. And in our broken down walls–we live and linger on. Never letting anyone in–the ones outside can see everything–yet we never let them in and we do not know the reason as to why.

And the skyline–it left its ugly marks which were beautiful and we must stop now–before the skyline takes us. But I see how you recoil–as if you are stuck in a nightmare which makes you suffocate–as if you are caught and trapped. But it’s just a dream, it will be over and soon you will be free.

And I will be here–fighting for finality.

And we were tired, we are tired. Of running in circles which were perhaps never meant for us. Perhaps they never will. And the blue, everlasting commotion with flickering city lights—will be there. It will be only thing here. It always will be–it always was. We are tired, because we were charged. And that is what it is.

Pandemonium in the Sanctuary

In the brilliant hue of gold

With the dreams bought and sold

And in the shabby bed, which was not very old

He wouldn’t sleep

Oh he wouldn’t sleep

Because he was never this cold

Since he no longer had himself to hold

He’d seen the pastel mountains-

What great stories they all told

And he couldn’t sleep

Oh he couldn’t sleep

His last cigarette in the ashtray had turned to mold

In his bones and in the rust his skin’s fold

Were tales which fate foretold

And he couldn’t sleep

Oh he couldn’t sleep

Soon the last song will end but his agony-

Never consoled

His visions, all of them barren, lo and behold

The love he found and lost–forever outsold

So he couldn’t sleep

Oh he couldn’t sleep

Kaleidoscope

The human who understands life–is not really a human, for the meaning which life has–is in another language, not deciphered by us. There are days where we go silent because there is so much noise within–and then there are those days where we cause a furor for we are internally quenched. And even this–changes patterns like a kaleidoscope. And we never understand why kaleidoscopes exist, they just do. There are so many colors and patterns and we are lost in translation, because meaning left us long ago.

And on the edge of the angry ocean–there was an aloof, old Lighthouse. Day in and day out–the waves would hit at the rocks on its foot–and some waves would even touch it. And there was a seepage–and a hundred tiny cracks where moss grew.  And often solitary travelers would come near it and take photos of its forlorn existence, and then forget about it. Because in some way, it too is just a pattern–standing there, aloof.

Does it guide the ships towards death and destruction? Or does it guide them away from tumult? It never knew–because it was fated to just stand at a fixed point–in isolation. And from far away–travelers can see it and there is temporary hope, or perhaps fear. But there is never any meaning–there is never any translation.

But there is a Keeper of the Lighthouse who often comes by for a smoke. And he looks old and wrinkled–like a dry ghost of clay. But he is not old–he is young–a young magician who jinxed himself into being a figure of oblivion. And he sometimes, gets on the top balcony of the lighthouse–and looks at what lies beyond the sea.

And he has questions–where did all the salty water come from? And why does the sky cry often? Is the floor of the ocean only silt and dirt–or it there any skin there too? Is this world a being–a large entity which can breathe, drink, dance, eat and die? Why does the sky cry so often? Where is the pink Rabid Dog which often comes and sleeps on the door of the Lighthouse? What is this life?

Just then the sky shifts its patterns and colors and turns grey–and the rabid dog–with its of its flesh hanging, and a few clots of blood over its yellowed body–comes yelping. What does it look for? Does it also seek meaning in the great abyss form where no man returns in a fashion which can be described as normal? Maybe it sees its own self in the horizon–a self with its skin intact and wits about. But it is a dog–a rabid dog. And it is tired–so it sleeps at the door of the lighthouse.

And the sailor thinks to himself the final thought–before plunging into the great ocean floor–so he can go see if the sleepy entity, which is the earth–might have a skin–he thinks and says it out loud for the universe to hear,

“Life’s a rabid dog”

And so–the red and white pattern of the Lighthouse stands aloof once again. It is rigid and it can see beyond the horizon, for it is fated to do so. It is not alone–for the Rabid Dog sleeps at its door. Until it moves away–it will be aloof.

The magician is gone—and age returned to him. He no longer looks like a old wrinkled up clay ghost–he looks like a picture with patterns of skin–like a kaleidoscope.

Kaala Saanp, Black Snake

Who are these people? Do we know them at all? All the strangers who we do not know and all of those who we do! What are the conversations we have–with all those meaningless words and empty emotions? And what is this weight–that pulls us all down, into a bottomless ocean–yet we cannot even sink? What are these questions and where are the answers? Are there any answers at all?

You cannot put all your life into words, all our experiences into pictures, all your feelings into songs. And you should not. Things move upward–and then they stay there and they fall into place. That place does not exist–but in thought.

We are all prisoners of our own shells, our walls are weak–to others and we think they can hold up. We think we want people to break them but we just want to run away from everything. People do not understand that. Because they have their own walls–and they are prisoners there. And some run around in circles–they stop for a while, linger about and then they disappear–to be completely forgotten.

Memories are the worst—they are fickle. People are the second worst–they are weak until they are strong. Moments are the third worst–they happen all the time.

A gentle wind is always brewing and simmering somewhere in our minds where a sole Willow Tree stands alone in the golden fields and under a silver sky which keeps changing its shape. And far away from the Willow Tree, a tall jaded Mirror is placed–overlooking the nothingness. It has a long and deep crack–or maybe that is the reflection of the broken vacuum.

The Willow Tree has many places to go, yet it cannot. The Mirror has much to see, yet it cannot. The sky wants to be golden while the fields want to be silver–and neither can change their color. There is a stillness there, the kind which makes you breathe in for a while, taking in the silence but when you breathe out–all you have is a suffocation within the whole body.

He would know–for that is where he would often go when he wanted to learn how to fly. They all laughed when they heard he wanted to learn how to fly–for he had no wings and more importantly he had nowhere to go. But he kept failing. And after every try, he would have to go back to the dismal and tragic town where they all jeered and sneered at him, where he did not belong, where he was the stranger–for he was an outsider but he was the blind King of that town as well. And in the hollow walls of his dusty room–he would sit in a corner wearing his scepter, looking at the door because he figured that is where he can escape. He looked at the windows, because they brought in orange light every day inside. And he would hear only two voices; one of that mongrel dog and the other would be his own–laughing. And he would sway back and forth because he did not want to hear it.

But when he was by the willow tree–he would feel alive forever, even though he wanted to take his pain brushes and color the sky green or maybe blue–because in his hazy memory, he often recalled the sky being blue. But little did he know–he was never going to fly, for he was just not meant to, for he was blind–in his eyes and his heart was blind and he had no soul. Because he was a wooden tapestry draped in black scales which made him look like a black snake. And he was frozen in various moments which he did not even know existed.

So he was doomed–to his dusty room, with a door and a window and a scepter which he wore and he could hear all the faces laugh, scoff, jeer and sneer at him. And in this doom, he waited to turn into a shadow of an outsider–who belonged nowhere and to no one. And in his memory, the sky was blue and in his memory, he was a swan. In his memory, he would often glide–and laugh and dance. But he was a frozen tapestry–and he knew nothing more. SO he would sit under the Willow Tree, which had nothing to say to him and go stand in front of the broken Mirror which overlooked nothingness and try to see what he looked like. Because in his memory, he looked like you.

Sang e Marmar Kai Pahaar, Mountains of Marble

Here we are again, at the crossroads of fire.

And the mountains of marble seem so close and yet they are so far away. Each time, we stand with brazen memories which are nothing more than hazy blurs. Or pungent dreams which suffocate us and haunt us because we held on for too long. And silhouettes—frozen in the shackles of time, desire and thoughts. We know too well that if we touch them–they will break away. Each time–we think it is not the end. It is not anything, it is nothing. So we become forlorn and hide in shadows of our own selves. And that’s why we are who we are.

That is why, we are just lingering trains, going from station to station, going through murky tunnels into the abyss which we call the end. Because this train goes from station to station, never stopping for longer than intended and never late but never on time either.

And we are all submerged in circles are time, rushing towards the City Fair, thinking we will have one final go on the Ferris Wheel, one final go before they take it down. But we reach there just before they run out of tickets. So we just watch from down below, the mesmerized faces with languid bodies clinging on to the sky, laughing. And we leave knowing we will never come back to it again, because it will be gone and there will be no more tickets to buy.

Little do we know that there is a young red head boy on that Ferris wheel–who wants to stay up there because he knows too well–when he comes down–the hole in the floor will eat him up. And he is scared because that hole will swallow him up and take him nowhere.

Or that girl–who has that recurring dream–right out of the cataclysm, where she sees that forsaken stairway. It goes somewhere, but she does not know. But she knows too well for she never took it. She never intended to. And now it haunts her. Because everything is jaded and everything is cold.

And how often do we stand and stare at the possibilities and feel and say things we were never meant to. And how often do we want to run away, because we had to. Because it is in our blood, our genes. And we cannot stay because we are not meant to. Because we are broken pieces of what we are, and will be and were.

There were two hundred plain red canopies in that stranded ground which no one goes to anymore. Who were they for and why? Were they a vivid dream or were they not? They were empty and they had no purpose. And She would often break free from her melancholy and visit them. And sit and stare at how the sky looked from the red canopies and try to form a question towards the sky–which only asked her more questions in return.

Far off somewhere, music was heard but it meant nothing. It never did. And She just stared, dancing as a lifeless form, knowing quite well how it will burn the canopies. For She was fire–meant to burn out and fizzle away. And She would stop to sit in random trains–which went nowhere and try to figure out where the stairs went. Every time She would be the one to get tired and get off in a rush. Because deep inside her–there was a simmering hole which could never be filled.

So here we are again–at a crossroads which can take us to the marble mountains where nothing exists. Because the soil has been love famished for the rain but the rain, it ceased to fall because it was tired of falling again and again. So both lost–and there was a storm. On the other end is a stairways which never existed. So She takes the path leading to the mountain and atop the marble mountain–She would go and dance–a lifeless form, because that is the only thing She knows. And that is where no dreams haunt her and no trains leave her. And She wants to sit on Ferris Wheels–which are about to be taken down. There, She will laugh one last time and disappear.

 

 

Khwab-Haqiqat

Isn’t it funny how empty spaces around us take us back to empty memories which we did not even make ourselves. And empty dreams which we see–as vivid as they can be–trying to find recluse in them. We try not to wake up. Because we are no more the warlords, the princes or the goddesses we were in our dreams when we wake up. We can no longer weave pastel shaded threads around empty spaces and call it home when we wake up. And we are never out of breath—suffocating–in our own beings when we go to sleep.

That little girl wearing a blue skirt and a yellow shirt with a pink flower on it–saw an Orange Swan and ran to her father—“Daddy! Look an Orange Swan! I Saw and Orange Swan!”. He laughed at her, “Ha ha…there are no Orange Swans–only White and Black ones darling. It is just in your imagination.”

But she had seen an Orange Swan. For it waded the purple river and spread its bright orange wings and looked at her from the side of its wistful eyes and then disappeared into the misty horizon. And she wanted to run along the river–in order to see it one more time. She never did for she never could. And that was the day the inner child in her broke and dispersed into thin vapor. And she would never see that little girl again–for she disappeared too–in a horizon which could not be seen.

And one day–she dreamed of a flower field–with grey flowers which had no scent and they were all wilting. There was a rusty ground and the stench was of death and stagnation. And she found a pond of thick blood and she took a swim in it and she drowned. After that–she never woke up again but when she finally opened her eyes–an Orange Swan was waiting for her on the end of the horizon so she ran towards it. She saw a little girl wearing a blue skirt and a yellow shirt with a pink flower on it. And they both looked at each other and laughed and rolled down the cotton hill.

They saw a tulip field and ran towards it–and they built a ladder made of tulips which descended towards the green sky which had a hundred brown clouds just floating about in it. They would live in the clouds from now on. And they laughed and climbed. Climbed and laughed. All of it until they were not two people but one which was no longer human. And as this Entity reached the clouds–it could not get in because the clouds were made of thick shiny glass. And the Entity suffered. So it sat on the tulip ladder and cried.

And lightening struck, the glass clouds shattered and the ladder broke away–and there was no hope. Everything was a neon blue and there was tumult. So the tired and sad Entity flew down and sank in the bottom of the red river. Nothing was left there in that world but a wistful looking Orange Swan.

Empty spaces become diluted into macabre nothingness and we sit on see-saws and swings and become thoughtless paintings. Orange Swans and Tulip Ladders and Glass Clouds surround us. And we suffocate in our hopes and dreams and wish we never wake up again. Empty spaces take us no where and empty memories are a torment. We become Orange Swans–gliding and wading into misty horizons which don’t exist.