One capture , one clue

Okay, so after much contemplating and thinking about giving up on writing for good and forever, I have decided this writer's block can be overcome small sentences at a time.
Each photograph brings a forlorn thought to mind.

Enjoy!

#Lecture theater kahaniyan

Bird.

Dog.

The dominant eats the docile.

Order in the universe : restored.
All hearts!

Because we must believe in something more, something more than what can be touched.
Love, miracles, the way babies smell.
Birthday wishes.

We are memoirs, someone’s.

We are, all of us, merely fake tattoos on someone’s ugly angulated ankle.

Water will eventually erode away the black, till very little remains.

The blue goat.

Unless she has been dreaming about carefully hidden blood dabbed tissues behind the sink , the exact second , the very moment she wakes up, she is always happy.

It takes time to get accustomed to the faint sunlight streaming through the dark blue curtains and to recognize the voices of all the people around.
The walk from the bed to the washroom sink is all it takes for everything to return back to her mind.

And by the time she runs her clammy hands over the tap handles, she is sick already , more willing than ever to vomit out the contents of her mind into the abyss that lies beneath the hair clogged sink bottom.

She is equally repulsed by the person staring back at her in disgust through the front mirror as she is by her thoughts.

The blue goat takes in the bloody red sunset through her emotionless eyes.

She drools over the the blades at the paying counter at the nearby shop.
Red, blue , green , they come in all boxes.

She needs to hold one.

In her mind she is always slashing herself , the legs , always the legs.

What beautiful things , sharp objects.

The ends of the so many broken coke bottles on the rooftop, the mirror , the foot scrubber , the nail filer , the metal tab from her soda can , the fruit knife.

The blue goat takes a bite at a tuft of grass.

Harm yourself?

What for?

Cause everyone is doing it.

Is that a good enough reason?

What for?

Nothing.

She is bored.

She wants a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and she wants to know how it feels to bleed.

She yawns.

She could take a nap , or swim or keep obsessing over an idea she wasn't going to act on anyways.

In her dream the popcorn guy at the cinema keeps handing out cotton to everyone.
Not cotton candy , but cotton to clean.

Goats sleep dreamless sleeps , as bearded shepherds look over them.

The blue goat takes a nap too.

Cutting is but such an unimaginative activity.
When you can control your thoughts ,why drive them away only to wait for them to return later?
If you could focus at a rose in your mind and focus only and only on that rose , why feel the urge to make bodily pain take up all the space?
No one could answer that for her because for some, they couldn't focus on the rose , for others only thorns could be imagined , no roses.
Never roses.

There was no goat , is no goat.
Blue goats don't exist you see, neither do they give out blue cheese.
Blue cheese , you would find in aisle no. 3.
A little to the left , yes.
Cheese in the cold storage , blades on the counter.
Its an easy life.


                 

Three line confessions.

I hate small talk.
I hate it when people talk about meaning-less things like the weather while the more important conversations lurk deep inside, unsaid.
And I hate the fact that most of the haikus are about autumn.

So heres my try at coming up with a decent haiku.
At times I have followed the 5-7-5 , at times I haven't.

Condolence
Fell undecidedly

such small morbid salt crystals 

on my lap his tears.

Wave me a last goodbye

Moving round and round

  gray on grime ; rust on rust ; a

farewell, finally  bid.

Humans
The devil’s tongue in 
a clay mouth; self-assured for 
thy heart Virginal.

To be flushed
(an ode to my lil) 

Dead lily dreaming

on the top of the fish bowl

she floats.

To fat or not to fat
On the crossroads of life

she makes her choice
full cream over skimmed.

As I retrace his footsteps
A sad tune
the skylarks in love whine
of ecstasy.

A mid-summer night's kiss

He melts with a kiss
glutinous, soft; in my mouth
my oatmeal cookie.

Just one last one,

Can you weep out a laugh
O you!who taught
how to empathize

To the moth who imparts lessons of compassion.

Elephants FTW.

Walking out of misery

Every day is not your day.
Life is about losing some rounds and winning others.
You can’t have each and every trophy up there on your mantelpiece.
Life will throw you down; life might drive you to the extent of playing around with knives on your wrists.

Somewhere in, what may seem to you, a pathetic excuse for a life, you shall have to face defeat, you shall have to bear with the loss of your loved ones, you shall be served rejection.
At times your entrees might just keep on coming .
A new dish every time.
Rejection plated up, a million different ways.
Steamed.
Deep-fried.
Sautéed.
Ever try putting salt on an earthworm as it glides in the rain?
Seen its adrenaline- powered morbid dance as it shrivels up and death consumes it?
When that kind of a thing is the only thing that makes you feel in control, your life is over.

When in distress , we opt to seek refuge.
Some of us find solace in music , others in religion.
Do what you need to do cause locking yourself up in the bedroom wont help . Neither will hurling stones in the water at Hawks Bay. Find a passion and divert your energy towards it.
There is always something to look forward to so find that one thing and be happy about it.
I could tell you a million methods to beat depression but I have found that there is only one fool-proof method to it and that’s going pedestrian.

Walk, walk , walk!!!
Nothing clears the mind like a stroll around the park. A slightly brisk walk on the road or a jog around the sports complex won’t hurt either. The faster , the better.
Just leave your Ipod at home.
Yes, listening to Evanescence does make matters worse.
Your walk should be your me time , a time to make sense of your life , put your affairs in order, in the compartments of your head and start afresh. Jogging away blankly is the best though if some serious matters are troubling you , shut out the world and run into the sunset.
Trust me , a day will come when you will become sick of licking your wounds and you will smile again.

"I'm learning to walk again
I believe I've waited long enough
Where do I begin?
I'm learning to talk again
Can't you see I've waited long enough
Where do I begin?" - Foo Fighters.

The perfect day to die.

I sit at my favorite spot , the chatt above the chatt.

I wish I had worn an upper, the air has that characteristic cold feel to it that all summer-winter transient airs possess.
The mynahs rummage in the rubble , hopeful for a breadcrumb or two.
The Beatles play.
The crows wander astray above me.
"Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?"

There is something serene, almost  perfect about this moment.

Something absolutely serene , absolute in the sense that it would never come again.

I feel like there would be , should be no tomorrow.

It should end today , right now.

It has been for quite some time now that the suicidal thoughts have been kept at bay.

Years have passed since I last held the knife to my wrist.

But today all the reason comes reeling back.

Today seems to be the perfect time to die , with the mynahs watching , the crows swaying to the wind's chime, with all the lonely people and their lone footsteps.

Everything I could ever want in life , exact at nineteen, I have and yet I am so unhappy , so so unhappy.

Who knows how life would be , from here on?

Better kill myself, right now in this perfect , serene moment.

Today is the perfect day to die.

I walk out towards the railing, in angle of the the armpit between the nurses' hostel and the building on which I am perched , is a void.

In that void , I belong.

But the fall won't kill ?!?!

Maybe break a leg or two , but not kill.

But hey! I could aim for the barbed wire and the pointed metal bars on the wall.
They would cut right through me.

Suddenly , the Azaan sounds.

My foot , on the verge of the railing now, hesitates.

The twin towers of the Bahawalpur block mock me , for they and I , both , are imprisoned.

They in stone, cement, varnish.

I, in this human body.