Beneath the statue of the Old Beggar with a hundred lines sculpted on his face
I sat like art–waiting to be created,
I–who had written all the stories
Of the fires which had burned the town hall
Where the dancers would do the silent Waltz
And of the blind man–who saw everything and heard nothing
Of the women–who sang in chorus, of love which was not meant for them
Of children, who stopped playing because of the scars
Of the sculpted swan, with its ugly broken wing
I sat there like art, waiting to be drawn
I–who had heard the choir boys singing
While the Woman in the green dress had repressed a smile
And left the room–for she was torn
Because she had come from nowhere and had nowhere to go
And she slept in the dingy streets with torment under her sleeves
But I sat there like art–waiting to be designed
For once, long ago–I had lost my way in the ruined valleys-
With empty houses and unbothered streets
So beneath the statue on the Old Beggar with a hundred lines-
And an expression of solitude frozen on his face
I sat like art–waiting to be composed
For I knew all the stories, because I had written them all
Of you and me, and me and you
And I sat there like art–because
I knew of all the endings, right from the very start
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.
I sit in a dark room thinking about darkness
I have a glass of blood in my hands
And a bird flies quietly in my head
I do not know why
I will sit here. For hours to come. And minutes and seconds
Thinking about darkness
All the light that I lost
And I cannot look around me
There is a bear which plays the flute
And I do not understand why
There is darkness around me
And I am the light.
And soon I’ll burn myself out
As I burnt my candle turning it into the wildfires
The ghosts play the piano
And I can not dance
But I do not know why
I can hear laughter and people talking
But it must be all in my head
Yet I do not know why
It’s like the days are not even days any more.
Night isn’t night anymore.
I am not even who I was anymore.
The sky has turned into ash, it isn’t blue anymore
The moon is a black dot, it isn’t the moon anymore
The sea has turned into soot, it isn’t it anymore
The tree upon which I gazed outside
It is not standing there anymore…perhaps it travelled north or towards a dusty gloom
I don’t know anymore
There is so much dark now, I don’t want the light anymore
I loved someone once
I don’t love anymore
Never a comforting thought–that. But ah.. sunsets. How your heart sets, skips and does wonders during sunsets.
The grief ridden eyes find solace in nothing except a deep lingering sleep. They will say–it is common heartache…but nay. It is naught but that. It is grief. Not an inbred shift of innards. It is like a setting sun.
The worst thing about storms is, that before they strike hard, there is calm and peace. The worst thing about calm and peace is–that it never lasts and is immediately followed by storms.
Thus sets the sun. Deep into the horizon–to emerge again. But in all its glory–things repeat and stay the same.
And so–the little prince could not find the words and the nerves to reply. What would it say? They were forty four sunsets. One after the other.
It was not heartache. It was just an empty void.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
All i gathered about life. Each and everything. It must and can be summed in these four words. Not mine. NO. But they were written down by T.S Eliot.
‘Life is very long’
And thus…we go on living. We don’t know why we are doing so. But simply because if we don’t–life will stop. We don’t know what to do. So we keep walking.
SO we keep watching sunsets. And brace the long long life.
It is not even remotely hilarious how the end comes so quickly and how the end comes while being so melancholic–so brutal–so real–so imaginary and so very lonely. How in the end, not a single soul stays by your side–not even those who claimed to always be there… People never stay. Friends move away. And it is absolute nothingness. The birds and butterflies, the silent mountains, the calm skies and the deep waters– nothingness. So in the end, don’t bother to expect..it’ll come crashing down, just like you did. Close your eyes. Sleep.
It was just broken glass– so what if there was pain
What does it matter– it is all sand in a palm
So it is all clouds in the mind
Fog in the eyes
Shadows in the dust storm
Stillness in solitudes
Cracks in the soul
Cracks in the glass–it was just a broken glass