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wordsfordreamers

Dream. Write. Share.

Month

September 2015

Wish List.

It feels like holding a heart made of glass.
Is it mine, or is it yours?

You once told me I complete your songs. And you still complete my sentences.
You told me your heart skipped a beat. And you dream along with me.
You asked me to draw with the wind. And you think I’m a star.

What do I wish for?
I wish to feel like this forever.
Define “this”. I can’t. Feels like an anomia.
But I… I am breathing only for this.

So… it does feel like holding a heart made of glass.
And I am following it.
I know it will lead me to you.

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Blue Curtains

I was attracted to the lemony scent:
The tinge in the air made me moth-like as I was drawn
To the flame of another world, battling my wings
In the hollow shell of despair; but my plan was flawed.

I collided with bluish curtains, nowhere near the lemons,
Only a sickening turquoise mocking the inner depths of
My being. I felt taunted by the drapes, the pleats,
The entire design forming a tapestry of deafening roars.

That was when the lemony scent was replaced by
The smoky smell of death, choking my surroundings, Continue reading “Blue Curtains”

On Maybe.

Maybe this is how we are meant to feel forever.
Maybe this is how it never ends.
Maybe this is why it matters.
Maybe we are more than just friends.

Too many ‘maybe’s’ we cannot understand. Too many colours of our hearts we would like to splash across the sky. Too many clouds we need to move around. Too many strings to untie.
And then, there are words we write.

Why do we write? To express. To let those too-insistent voices come out. To feel blue. To feel words that are sometimes just enough. Or just not enough. Barely encompassing that space in which we want to breathe.

Maybe we want to start in one way and end up in another.
Maybe there’s no clear beginning.
No clear end.

Maybe there’s just you.
And then, there’s me.

Shots

Shots

He counts the shots as he fires –
One, two, three, no one is safe.
His father’s gun feels right in his hands,
Even as they tremble and they chafe.

Here lies the bully, who made him scream
Everyday as he walked down the hall,
Tortured him to his very soul,
And made sure no help would ever come.

One for the teacher, who’d pick on him,
Two for the girls, who laughed at him,
Three for the ones he once called friends,
Whose friendship led him to such an end.

He counted the shots as he fired –
His tremulous thoughts went haywire.
He forgot the list he had made before,
He couldn’t keep track anymore.

Continue reading “Shots”

Being Human.

Last week, I decided to make life come to a standstill, for a while. I needed to breathe, I needed to remember the magical moments I live for. After all, what am I if I stop dreaming?

I followed the trail; I walked along the path; I admired the trees, some of them reaching for the sky – at one point, I became one of them, I felt. I crossed brooks, paddled in the water, relishing in the squelching sound my shoes made. I sat by a river, took out my Kindle, read a few poems, softly, out loud.

And I remembered… it seemed that all the memories circumambulated the trees! I also remembered the tough times from which I wouldn’t absquatulate, although I wouldn’t quite want to relive them! I wished I could collect all the moments in my hands, hold them, breathe through them, and then let them go, like water seeping through…

I needed the quietness (the leaves rustling), the loneliness (finding myself), the nothingness (nothing mattered), the forgetfulness (unheard melodies), the playfulness (ambling delectably)… I needed it all.

I walked out (against my deepest desires!) rejuvenated, ebullient, yet restful, like a puzzle that had finally found its last missing piece… Completely disconnected from reality, irrevocably reconnected with my inner self.

Dark Night

It always starts with a melody,
Like a waterfall shielded from perfidy,
You strutted to me, like a prince without vanity,
Asking me to walk to you, to create another reality.

I gazed in ultimate ecstasy,
As the wisps of smoke reinvented insanity:
The colours, the scent, you… a whole other galaxy.
The more I looked, the more you… you all seemed imaginary.

Where were we? Where had we reached?
I’d forgotten all alacrity!
Where are we? Where have we reached?
I’d follow you in greater depravity.

There are too many words in my head,
Too many that I write for you,
Too many that defy you, define you,
Give meaning to the flashes in my head.

Continue reading “Dark Night”

Congratulations, Robots. We are now People.

Remember those times when a phone was meant only for phone calls? Of course, you don’t. Nowadays, when you call someone, the response you are most likely to get is, “Is your house on fire?” or “Who died?” (I mean, someone must have died… why else did you exert so much effort to CALL me?)

One of the stories that struck me, and remained at the back of my mind for years for its sheer farsightedness, is E.M. Forster’s ‘The Machine Stops’. To cut a short story shorter, people are completely dependent on machines, and one day, something just goes haywire, the machines do stop, and the ending is quite apocalyptic (Yes, everyone dies.). Sounds prophetic?

Now, imagine there is no electricity for a day… or no internet for a week. Some of you are fidgeting already. Continue reading “Congratulations, Robots. We are now People.”

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