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.

 

Pomegranate River

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Maybe it was a river of pomegranates and not tears
Maybe the earth did crack up–like the black broken wings
Swallowing her inside
And maybe the seeds tasted like love
Or perhaps, there was something to long for under the rubble
So does Persephone wait to return,
Or does she wait to come back
And does Hades wait for her to come back
SO he can have her, and then can recoil back once again–
Into the suffering he has been cursed with
Do they break away once they break down
And did She break him like He broke her heart
Maybe it is all a false memory of deceit
Of an affliction which neither knew of
And maybe Spring longs for Winter
As Winter yearns for Spring
But there is nothing in return
And nothing is lost, but everything is lost
And that is what the fall is–an evil act
Of prayers which mean nothing

The river was of pomegranates which tasted like love

Pareshan Sa Pyar, Anxious Love

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We often wake up, clenching our fists and yearning for an unfathomable feeling which for some odd reason, always eluded us. The sinister yet pleasing feeling of something the Gods claimed is Love. And stories, philosophies have been prompted about it, bards written, homes destroyed, poems sung, songs played, wars took place–and there was always bloodshed. In all of this, God was in and out–and tears were prominent and longing was there. And people spoke of tales–of conquering mountains and digging fountains. And it seemed that all of the ones who could feel, were stuck in it, oppressed by love–becoming prisoners of a poisonous feeling which all but turned them sick. They wanted to escape and they just could not. And those who wanted to stay–were kept being expelled.

And over the sky–Cherubs frolicked in gaiety and drunkenness. And all the demigods and deities danced around a fire which burned the whole sky and turned it into tar. Then it rained–a murky yellow rain–and look at us, we all kept on living in exile and isolation in a rotten, broken shell–trying to find solace and escape in the rain, as if it was meant for us. But who was it meant for then? It was meant for no one. And we all laughed, pretending to live but soon–the acid would take us too–the acrid rain and the suffocating air it brought on with it–we will long to breathe. But we always longed to breathe–out, but we never could. For we were love famished, love starved and seldom satiated.

We all thought at the end of it–we will have love to fall back to–and love would never fail us. And love rarely does. But we know nothing of it–for we make our own definitions and attach our own feelings to it, we scavenger for hope and come across everything else but hope. We entwine our hands with another–perhaps someone we love and a momentary sickness takes over us. After it passes–we remain, everything remains–and we miss that nausea. And in every solitude, we try to somehow induce it again.

So every time we see kites in the sky–we have a yearning. Until we realize we are those kites–attached to a string which has all the control over us. And we become frail. So we try to escape ourselves–out of our empty shells–into that of another, and then we long to escape from there too. And in each escape we leave small tokens of commemoration.

And in the end, we know–that we know nothing about it, about this love. Because it is a ghost–it is seen until it is not, heard until it is not, felt until it is not. And it is cold. So we let our thick desires run over it and we make them subservient to all. It is the most terrible affliction to have–and it too, is a pandemic–for it spread like plague and it took us all out.

There was a big garden–lush green with fruits and flowers of all sorts. Yellow apples, brown cherries, purple mangoes, red bananas and white dewy strawberries. There were large trees–all with pink trunks and blue leaves. And flowers which looked like birds and smelt like rain. There was a big lake–it ran wild and ferocious and it was filled with red wine. And silk clad fairies danced about. It was something and it was nothing because the sky was painted in six different hues of violet and there was music.

This was the place where the first sin would be committed. Not of betrayal, or of lust, or of deceit but of love. The two naked figures were running amuck–hiding from each other perhaps for they had seen each other and saw each other. And they were shook. For they felt something in their insides and outsides for the first time. Perhaps it was the very first feeling that humans felt. And they knew–they were destroyed. Both of them stopped for a while and turned to each other–their eyes met and they intertwined their fingers and laughed. And they were destroyed. Because as soon as it happened, sparks flew and fireworks took place. And as soon as they did–they both wanted to get as far away they could from each other yet stay where they were, forever in an embrace.

They both wanted to turn the other in a statue–clay bound. Yet they both wanted to take a hammer and break away that figure of clay. And they both wanted to cry and bleed because they were not okay, for they could feel everything. And when you feel everything, your face becomes a mirage–it has empty blank stares–and they both looked at the sky, but they were the sky. They were happy and they were sad, but mostly they were stifling for freedom from the other. They wanted to fall back into their own empty shells again–for they had seen they empty shell of the other and left their marks–and were afraid.

So there was confusion and chaos. And one of the figures–turned into a snake and went over to the other and told them–“I know your suffering, it is love. I know your plight–for you want to escape but you want to stay. And you want to save yourself because this might be the first and last chance of it. And I know what you need to do–you need take a bite from the forbidden fruit. And it will give you all the answers.”

Then the snake disappeared.

And both of them knew–that the Gardner had told them specifically to never go near the tree which bears the forbidden fruit and if they did they will be punished and thrown down in a desolate desert. Yet they were desperate to be lit by fire and destroy each other. So this was an enticing offer.

So they meekly went over to the tree bearing the forbidden fruit. Carefully picked up the fruit–the color of red. And looked around, fearful of the gardener. And as they were about to bite–they stopped. Thought about everything. But then in a mad rush — they ate it.

Everything began to disintegrate because the Gardner was disappointed and angry. But he was also anticipating it, for he knew.

And at that time, they both knew they had made a mistake. SO they tried to run towards each other–because they longed for one last touch. And they never got it. Thus they were banished. Into their skins. Into misery. Into love.

From that day on wards–the desolate desert has been afflicted with a brazen sickness–it is of love. And it is not sacred.

And we all fall prey to it. And we seldom escape but we long to–every moment of it. It is a servitude, it is a lesson. It is a punishment. And we all face the evening—with longing and our child like eyes and we get lost because we cannot feel what we were meant to feel.

A Two Liner

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And now that we must love from a distance–without touch, without digging deep in the souls of the others by locking their eyes with our own, without being mesmerized by their laughter and drinking it from a chalice, without playfully toiling with their hair with our fingers, without breathing fire into their hungry deceptive bodies–and now when we must stand in corners and long for touch, now that we have to listen to empty jazz tunes alone, and dance…from a distance, that we have to love from gory distances–now we miss Love and we will keep missing it until the grey macabre stillness takes it. And when we were driven mad by it, we looked away from it. Now we are being driven mad through it–without it. But now, we miss it and we are fools.

A Fable; Part One–The Flower

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From the shadows of the empty bed
And fires of the lonely nights
When the moon stood forlorn
Was born a Grey Rose
On the dusty and barren land
Which told tales not of love or lust
Nor of glee and freedom
Nor of togetherness
Nor did it speak of evil
Nor of sadness
Or for that matter–
morbid fabricated tales
Of love lost and death
It was a tale of a scavenger
A yearning
A longing and waiting
It was a reprise–
Of stagnated sheltered dreams

Ufaq

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I left myself at the nape of the road
I moved ahead, yes far ahead
When I looked back, I could see a speck
Which was myself
Yet I trudged on-wards
Until I amalgamated with the horizon
There I met You
And you were a speck too
So I looked to see myself,
I could no longer see anything
And when I looked at You
You were gone, and I met myself
But I could not touch myself
Neither could I turn into myself
Nor could I see, or touch You
So I cried a sea
And I became the sea while You became the sky
And I looked at You,
You looked back at me
I was You, and You were me
Thus we come to know how–
The Sky is a reflection of the Sea
And the Sea is a mirror of the Sky
And on the horizon even today
There stands a speck…

When Clouds Collide

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What a fancy thing is it. The blue sky—roaring blue sky. And clouds. Gosh so many clouds. Clouds represent people sometimes. Wandering about. Drifting about. Like vapors. Except much larger and much far off.

Clouds were solace. Are solace. When wind comes to blow away memories that one wants to hold on to. Clouds are a solace. They don’t stop it from happening. But theirĀ  being there up above in a manner which nothing else can afford–does nothing more than give one hope that memories can never be just taken away by a simple wind..because memories are kept within a person, and no matter how weak he is, he can still hold on to them. Because they are like a thread which keeps him sane.

Clouds are a comfort. In rains. Rains that you wish would never stop. They tell you that there is more to come. Rains that you want to stop. Then the clouds just silently drift away silently…far away.

Clouds. Ha. Clouds are hope in the sun. Up in the sky. they tell you that in the sun–they can hold on to themselves. An entire vapor. Which can float in the sky…and face the sun. They tell you to never let go.

Clouds are strange. They are many things. Many moods. Many feelings.

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When clouds collide! Only then there is something close to a stormy situation. There is noise. But follows it–silence.

Just like you and me. We linger. And we drift. We stand. We hold on. We try not to let go. We meet. We collide. We silently drift away. We collide again. We become one.

And on a clear sky–the blue wonderful intense sky. Upon which an eagle takes its sole flight. Hovers. There areĀ  dispersed a thousand millions vapors. Holding onto each other. In the form of a cloud, or many clouds. Moving, lingering–drifting. Breaking the silence. Making the silence.

And then they collide. They bond.

And amidst all the clouds. You were there. And i was there. And we kept drifting. Until we became one. That was a long time ago. We’ll keep drifting. Until we become one–again.

When clouds collide. There comes with it rage. And anger. And passion. And follows it–peace and finally silence.

When clouds collide. A beautiful catastrophe.