Shush

Have you ever had one of those dreams where some extraordinarily paralyzing force grips you and you can't move?
And you can't run?
And you can't talk and your chest is being crushed and you can't breathe?
And you are struggling to form words and your tongue wont move?
And even when it moves and you are screaming ,nothing comes out of your open mouth?

And you are drowning.
But you can't swim because your arms weigh you down.
and the anchor hits bottom.

And you can't make those eyes turn?

Fuseli - The nightmare

And even after its all over and you wake up, someone is still holding you down by the wrists and you can't move and you just stare at the ceiling and wait for the feeling to pass.

That's how it feels to be around you.
And that's why I wont talk.

And it still feels so good to feel that.
Cause it feels good to feel anything at all.
I am, perhaps not a vegetable, after all.

And anyways, haven't you felt like there is nothing substantial to be said anymore, like when you have exhausted yourself, spoken so much that you have run out of words?
There’s uncharacteristic warmth in silence, which no word could ever afford, no?

That's exactly why I won't talk.

I dreamt of you last night

Just you and I, like old times.
We are on a hill and everything is just so blindingly green that it makes my eyes hurt.
You are wearing blue and you are waving to me from a distance.
I roll down one end of the hill towards a plain piece of land.
I can hear you laugh as I roll down, I have my eyes shut tight but I open them from time to time, there are these sharp blades of grass (a happy sharp, not an evil poke-your-eyes-out sharp, mind you) and there is moss on the few rocks here and there and there are kites in the air and the sky is cheerfully blue.
You roll down another end, arms in the air, squealing in delight but your end is steeper and you end up at bottom, in a pile of rocks.
So we decide to have a go again from my, less-steeper, end.
But there are all these gypsy children here now and they are flinging down goats and water cans and these twisted silver knobs and we have to wait for our turn.
And I turn to say something to you and you are gone.
But it is my dream and I already knew you would leave so it is okay.

I wake up and I am happy.
You must be doing okay too.
I think about texting you but then I don’t.

In my dream, we were happy even when the kids start throwing rubble down the hill and we couldn’t get a turn.
We were happy even when you go away because I knew you were happy wherever you disappeared off to and because being alone didn’t terrify me.
The dream makes me smile.
And then it makes me terribly upset for the rest of the day.
The subconscious really doesn’t have a clue about what has long died, does it?

“When you are young, you think you can get rid of people and things and leave them behind.
Time is frozen in dreams.
You can never get away from where you have been.” – Margaret Atwood.

The subconscious contains within it, a plethora of emotions, hopes, fears, memories.
Muddle up these very essential ingredients and you have dreams.
What do you dream of?

I dream of my own version of the Triwizard tournament a lot.
I dream of this place with crazy elevators a lot too, I can never decide where to get off.
Each elevator leads to only one shop and although its very loud, I am the only person in the mall.
And I dream of Kashmir a lot.
And desserts and the foggy darkness outside an airplane window on a late night flight and dogs.
Once I dreamt I had grey wings and I flew to the highest point one could possibly fly to.
At that point, between the moon and the stars and the dark clouds was a well and my wings withered and fell into the well and I came falling all the way down.
I dream also of what inevitably awaits us, death.
Not my own, never my own, but you guys, you all die in imaginative ways and I always wake up in a cold sweat.
One thing that is present in almost all of my nightmares is gauze; pale white and fragile and the way it clings so lovingly to the wound.
Nearly all of my worst nightmares culminate in a string of gauze spread out upon a stretcher; signifying death most probably.

I dream of horrendous ideas.
I dream of all kinds of events occurring.
But the most important aspect is usually people. *small mind*
Some appearances are so frighteningly recurring that one seems to wonder why these people have nowhere else to crash for the night, why always your sofa?
Others are sweet and surprising.
Some people come to remind us of days gone by, they come unchanged.
What concepts we sometimes do manage to grasp in the real, we forget entirely when we imagine.
And thus, mostly people appear as you like them to be; just a figment of your imagination and perfectly so.
What you think you have let go of in real, sometimes you cling on to as tightly in the world of the subconscious.
Some people , although they may not make an appearance are always there, sleeping upstairs, in another room, out of your view but always, reassuringly there.
Some people come back from the dead to let us make that one last conversation we wanted to have.
Other people have a habit of watching you out of the shadows, an eye peering out of a corner and you have to be careful not to look back.
You get used to them being there all the time, and it ceases to scare you.

With our eyes open, we know what to do, how to react, what to say.
With our eyes shut, we lose all reason.
What we spend days convincing ourselves to forget, our subconscious brings up again at night.
Behind our shut eyes, it replays each and every memory, improved, with innovative conclusions and leading to new beginnings.
The subconscious is but a tormenter.
The leash it keeps us on is hope.
Does it not understand that there is nothing crueler to a person than false hope?

"And the days, they linger on
And every night, what I'm waiting for
Is the real possibility I may meet you in my dream

And sometimes you're there
And you're talking back to me
Come the morning I could swear you're next to me"

I do have my very own dream catcher.
It just doesnt work. :/

   

Lies

Looking back everything sensual I have ever written has been in a rage.
If not a lie, even then just a spur of the moment.
Feelings are so transient, aren't they?
The sun doesn't come up two weeks in a row and you jot down a suicide note.
You weave expectations that are way out of proportions and then later reminiscence about how hope has always been a shattering force in your life ; An obsession leads you to compose a deranged proclamation of ever-lasting devotion.
You write about floating and you write about drowning.
You unleash the most terrible critic you would ever have on yourself, as you write about things gone wrong.
You compartmentalize all your worries in an extensive pros/cons list and there-in lies the decision of whether you would act upon the universe's calling or not.
Empathy is a word beautiful to pronounce, isn't it?
But when you empathize on paper, it is ugly.
If a thought you now can't possibly identify with, never a true thought to begin with?

Must each thought be entertained on paper when it shall cease to exist sooner or later?
And when it does cease to exist or if it is proved wrong, does the inked proof qualify as a carefully fabricated lie?

Spinning up stories is effortless.
I have been wanting to write for weeks.
The words just don't flow.
Maybe cause all I want to write now is the truth ; the naked truth.
Not facts, I have never been a factual person and I still want to explore emotions with the pen but when I look inside, nothing bleeds.

The truth is what needs to be penned down.
But I would rather write about the reactions towards the fact than the fact itself.
But there could be so many interpretations of a single fact.
Whose version is the truth?

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.