adversities come and go.
bad times get worse, they batter you through to your soul. how much and what gets lost during this is what makes all the difference, is that which creates a sense of passage through the bad times.
some bad  times are here to stay. you never get okay for the simple reason that you can never get okay.
it is no longer adversity. it an indelible scar, a memory that can never fade.

when i see how people get through adversity, intact, slightly ruffled, slightly changed, i envy their good fortune.
a repairable condition i think to myself.
some things are simply beyond repair.

Death

is a passage for those who go through it.

For those left behind
 death another name for maturity.. .

sorry love..

sorry love...just couldn't help pouring out in my diary..
it's a strange thing how you vie for me ;) 

hand write

the itch to hand write sometimes becomes insurmountable, the thirst to see your strokes, the slant of your ls and  js, the symmetry to which your written lines fall into, the gentle undulations made by your letters against the blank page, it all has something akin to breaking open a fresh bottle of wine, walking in a virgin snow, drawing in a blank sheet of page and witnessing the seepage of the ink into the fabric of the paper, which blots and follows the path charted by the nib, the absolute close vision!

and then you withdraw, step back and see the entire picture at large...

the itch to hand write sometimes is a bewitching process

a note

I would have let you see this page
I would have let you read these lines
But so many of you are there,
each with so many impressions, opinions and thoughts about me
Each one having known me differently

And You, I could have let you read these words,
To let you fathom who it is I have in mind
It would surprise you, nay,
Perhaps not so much from me
Not expected! or oh how so creative! how something and something

But in the text I have woven
I would have wanted you to know
Few grains, few fibers and portions,
To let you just know
It is You whom I had in mind
That it was you whom I addressed.
Unable to do so in real life,
Unable to show so much in real life,
Like seeing this page would be reading my soul
Like reading these lines would be stripping me off,
Apprehension and fears looming in large
Hold me from sending these to you,
Each one of you with your impressions and opinions about me...


as though, just letting know is not enough
that you are with me
I keep you with me
In a way differently than you imagine
But keep you with me
All the same.

When the world is but a room for you

I know that this phase won't last
It's like falling in space before you hit the ground, hard
This existence of mine, beyond temporality and space
One day like another
Not even relevant to mark them out..with work? action?
They seem a distant echo of the last impact I had with the universe
Now I am still floating in space
Wondering if emotions such as gratitude, grace or of hollowness, emptiness
Should I seek to burden myself with
or let it be the same

Until I hit the ground next

Story of words

You taught me the love for words
your idioms and expressions creating a world of magic
Those words and your face alight with it..
so familiar of the secure past and childhood of fearless, undoubted confidence
when nothing seemed to make me afraid
nothing challenged my beliefs and
the sunshine seemed to last forever.

In the chamber of your words, unspools the thread of your imagination
creating Big men Small men, twisting realities to humour my tender mind
not too strong, not too harsh,
like potter's hands leaving soft impression on the clay
you shaped the edge of satire, to get the joy of understanding meanings
and how words come together to conjure that world for you
whose every crease, every twist, every shade, every bump in the texture
all take you to that sanctum of words, far away in time, far away in space,
where I am not grown up nor a child, but as though these eyes and these senses have remained just the same
..Staring and listening to the world behind these words
believing in secrecy on their potency to make everything alright.

long before you realize, you will have enchained yourself
you will have committed yourself
and long before you have known
you will have become unrecognizable here.

when you want to get back at your work with vengeance but you are at a loss for inspiration ..on a late saturday afternoon..

Conviction

Maybe it's not about being strong, vocal, courageous or all of those things which underlines an outspoken and expressive activist stance. We all are different. Each one of us. The line of experience that we have traversed is something which perhaps none can replicate in the exact same way. I closest and most probable I can think of could be either your sibling or through some weird turn of events called "co-incidence" a completely different stranger on this planet. No guarantee that you will discover him/her in same time and space and learn about the similarities. Chances are, you will never come to know each other.

Well these ideas are leading me into some other train of thoughts which I do not want to disturb right now. Now I want to talk about something else. So does inaction, resignation, silence mean you are not concerned? That the boiling matter of a revolution at hand, an agitation or a call to arms goes unheard by you? Only those who shout, yell, who write fervently about things and go on sloganeering in protests and participation are the ones who want things to happen from their heart? Is this the measure of the conviction?

I have a case to make against this. Who speaks the least about it, who seems unperturbed by ongoing events by day are the ones who lose their sleep over it by night. To commit is too quick for them. For commitment means to them, the complete allegiance to the cause. So that when the time comes, they will fling themselves and their loved ones into danger, death and come what may without any thought. This takes time to commit to.
To make a real understanding of, is it really worth it? Does it really mean what it avows to be? I believe each one of us have some degree of seriousness in us. Some can easily take things seriously, while others have their own expressions of letting know they are serious. These are learnt by each one of us through the journeys we have made in life. Some have learnt costly lessons too early in life. Things have come to them always through the hard way. They have learnt to make compromises and be understanding to the things around them right from their childhood.
They value things such as commitment, they take time to trust , to have faith and once that faith has been built,they will die for it.

Having known people who exemplify these thoughts, or perhaps I have been drawn towards only such people, can't be sure, I stand here, amidst my generation of men and women, a strange thing for today. Who thinks and feels in the same way, but some how comes to posit value on lost causes, things inconsequential and against that which is more rational and wise. Are fools equivalent to unwise people?

are losers always cowards? what stuff is success made of? what is a successful, wise decision like?

It's difficult to hold the fort for these questions when placed outside their certain conventional understanding. It's very difficult. More difficult it is to live by these unclear principles, taking them to be real.

It takes faith, courage, to believe in them.

song about a song

 I wrote you a song
and I sent it to you
you read it and called me to say how you felt...
special, lovely and oh! all so true
For someone who deals in letters found it could've been better

like words flowing out in love
like words pouring out like rain
why make the rhymes and why say, describe?
would have been more like artistic
to write them like jottings
fragments and pieces, sounding really profound
a song it could've been
Oh what a song it could've been!!

to you i did send it
knowing it would cause that dimple deeper to grow
your desire you expressed that i should write it to you,
it all may sound a bit cheesy and lame but for me it's like a real gift to you
in writing a song, for some one you love
it feels like what the hell was i doing till now?
not writing for you but for all sorts of crap,

well now that I have written it out
if not the perfect artistic way, at least as a bout,
but i think  i'd better stop here,
 the rhyming bug seems to be close at my heels,
and
put a period before it bites again at me!

love love love ;)

hahaha!

is how I can react when I think...

a young nun, when she has to live among normal young girls with common liberties...

first day in the computer room she has the internet before her.

she chooses to watch the holy dalai lama sermons and teachings on youtube.

normal for her, I think.

a few days later, let's say a week later.

there's a typically romantic Korean movie she's  glued onto.


that's when i have a private laugh.

hahaha!

flickering questions in the night

In between these existences, silences and tremulous steps
A thousand many miles, generations and aspirations of a thousand young hearts come

To change, is which comes from within
happening just like that.
To think too much over nothing is different I agree
But how can one  make what is what?
The leap of faith not a momentary impulse but something that was meant to be
That I have met you thus
was not an ordinary meeting, but something that my being was moving towards-
every day of its life, in every word it uttered, in every ideal it conjured, in every twitch it muscled, in every part of its growth- was nothing but a movement towards you.

Or, this in itself is a trick of my mind
A ruse to beguile  the  chances  of 'no'

It is a different reflection that I see dancing in the shadows and lights of my prospective days
Am I leaving something behind in a bid to touch her?
or am I here, speaking thus, already a ghost of a memory of what I have come out from?

how can you fade away like this?
each day i wake up into new reality,
experiences, which only push you further and further away,
I do not want these experiences to recede you like this
So I shake and pinch myself.
Only yesterday you were right here next to me,
 You felt warmth, you felt touch, you talked,
we fought, we laughed.
it's different today- a world without you.
No fights, no complains, no worries, no care,
silent and solo, a single tree hill.
a lingering self pity of those left behind.

Each day a day to vie for you in this scuttled warehouse of memories
things may go on as life has but for you
The warmth of your body as you suddenly got up and left my side
Your chuckles, the timbre of your voice
my mind feels and my heart seals
like every thought, every beat.

Tree and me

a mossy nook where I can spend my day
keep childhood memories safely tucked away
the good old tree swaying its shade
like sweet caresses on my face
the early spring sun makes it better still
how much I am in love with the hills
The joy of resting against a mossy tree root
collecting baby ferns for food
what joy it is to play all day
diggin the earth, gathering moss and clay
with pots and pan, few pebbles to lay
and just like that you can sleep away
and waking up amid your scattered play things
you see the day is left behind
the setting sun far away in the hills
sends cooler breeze to evenings
so many such days have i known in the past
foolishly thought them forever to last
But a good old tree with mossy roots and kinder shade
is all it needs, once in a while to take me there..