Unrehearsed

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The unrehearsed waves crash into the rocks–and they do a little dance before disintegrating into whispers of the sea. And the morning comes like a glint of light and caresses the whispers and takes them into its arms. Would they wake up? Or would they dissolve?

No talk of travelers and suddenly no talk of the forlorn shadows which play hide and seek with their own selves.

And unrehearsed waves keep crashing into the shores of summer and longing. And they keep on breathing and they keep on dying.

The people standing on the shore–they look like ropes knit together. They do a little unrehearsed dance too–before they become untangled into threads. And the wind blows these threads away–they all disperse.

And the stars have nowhere to go–they keep staring at the waves–they keep mourning for them–they keep doing an unrehearsed dance for them. They keep disappearing into thin nothingness which is so immense that they sometimes get lost. But they always come back.

And I–standing on the lighthouse, searching for the lost ship–cast a glance on the waves. They have no message for me. They have no meaning for me. And I am reduced to a shell–empty. And I have no shadows anymore–I have no self. I have no ideas, or thoughts. I have no questions–Who am I? What am I? Why am I?

And the future keeps perturbing the past. They do an unrehearsed dance together–and each gives itself away to the present–unkempt.

And I have no face anymore. And I have no shape anymore–unkempt.

So what will I reap? And what will I sow? I thought I had wings–but I have none. I thought I was–I am not.

I am not the sea, I am not the sand, the sky or the moon…or the stars, or the sun! I am not the clouds, or the waves–or the whisper.

Slowly–like a wilted flower–I dance with myself, an unrehearsed dance– me, the disfigured, unhinged and enchanted atom–and slowly I realize… the entirety of the frightened world, which hides itself from me.

Everything seems unrehearsed.

I realize–everything and nothing.

 

Betrayal

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This life is nothing more than an intrepid betrayal. And this betrayal begins from the womb–wherein you are comfortable in it when one day life gets to perform its first act of betrayal by ejecting you outside into a strange dexterous void–the world. In this world, you start getting used to the pungent sun and make it your friend since you are afraid of the coarse darkness–and suddenly with one jerk, the sun goes down, betrays you and the dismal night stands in contrast. So you make friends with the millions of ghosts up in the sky–until they too disappear from your sight when you wake up. Illusions. And then you get used to the winds–the light and cold company and you are one with them –when there is betrayal in the form of heavy rain. Then you go on to make memories. And you make so many of them, when with the crack of age–one by one the memories seep out through you, thereby betraying you. And of course, the people—you meet them with a mask, or perhaps many. And you see they are wearing a mask as well–or perhaps many. But you swing past that, knowing quite well what face exists beneath them. Yet when the masks come off–you feel betrayed, perhaps by your own selves first and then the faces you see for they quite resemble yours. And that is–the betrayal of the self and of the mind. You are betrayed by your virtues because of your vices, your sins by your tragedies or perhaps it is the other way around, your senses by your delusions and your feelings by your reality…  So then you realize, what is life about and you finally get the hang of it. Alas! You are met with betrayal in the form of death.

And death…is a betrayal of sorts in its own self as well.

Hollow

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I was haunted by the hollow of my hand
What is in it. Why
I was disfigured by the death in my eyes
Who died. Why
I was shattered by the quivering of my soul
How did it happen. Why
I was looking at the curve of my lips
Which way did they go. Why
I sat with myself once
I danced with myself once
I dreamed within myself once
Who was I supposed to be. Why

Questions.

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You ever felt this way before? Had you ever so many questions to ask?

Questions about life. Questions about faith?

Questions about God. Questions about death?

There is confusion.

Questions.

There is destruction.

Questions.

Denial.

Questions.

Rotten with fear. Burning in anguish.

Mere contemplation.

Hesitation.

What is a question without a definition?

Till death do apart–is it a question or mere interpretation!

They die, so some go to heaven and others to hell.

Is it a fact or is it a question.

What is that force called, which changes the season?

If i say God, is it an answer or a question for a question?

Where does the tree come from.

Are we humans? But that is a joke.

Questions.

Why? What? How? Why?