Of Figments And Verities

My one recourse to the safety of my identity, untouched by foreign perceptions, remains no more in my stead alone – writing.

Then again, it’s just self-preservation. No one likes to be remolded; to be cast in a different light, stripped of all known traits, of everything held dear.

Alone, vulnerable. Afraid. Anxious and yet hopeful. Faith and suspicion lie in juxtaposition and the dance of life is as erratic as ever. Amidst the uncertainty, I stand facing misgivings and presumptions.

But the fire of vindication remains burning. The raging inferno is all one sees, not the shrivelling soul at the very source of it, fuelling those hated flames.

And the cries go unheeded, for it is one sound amongst the cacophony of a thousand wailing hearts; a dissonant chord so banal, one has forgotten how blissful silence can be.

You and I…we’re no different, are we?

Except, perhaps, distinguished by the palpable reserve we maintain, the aloof demeanour allowing us to coolly brush off unwanted advances…the walls, the stringent fortification, the false lull of security.

I marvel at how we have managed to breathe amidst such emotional asphyxiation.

So, what would it be?

A perilous willingness to uncover the carefully placed veils of antipathy, or resigned acceptance to the delusion of forced detachment?

You…could choose either, notwithstanding how I will still be able to look through you, your pretenses.

I return, to seek the solace of my expression, only to find your undeciphered gaze haunting me, setting my heart aflutter and trepidation coursing through my entire being.

 Your voice echoes within the confines of my mind, your presence acutely felt and sought.

Therefore, in lieu of rediscovering the sense of identity I may have lost, I find you to be my looking-glass.

Who am I to you? Who would I be… if you weren’t there?

Heed my call or forever hold your breath. For I know, as certainly as I could ever know…

…that you seek me as much as I seek you. 

A Harbinger Of Solace

It was that time of the year again.

She was perched upon a rickety swing, in a desolate park, alone. The surroundings were mostly in tune with her current disposition, only intermittently broken by quiet laughter emanating from a group of revelers cuddled around a campfire in a corner not too far from the deserted playground which was currently her domain.

The sun painted the environs in myriad hues of orange. The air was mercifully still but nevertheless had that chilling edge to it, which cut to the bones and was more often than not the portent of an even colder night.

The chains clanked against the worn frame as she swung to and fro, her eyes riveted upon the fading horizon. One hand clutched a journal and a pencil as she racked her brains in vain, trying to ignite the flame of inspiration which would finally allow her to do what she was supposed to be best at – writing.

But words escaped her, imagination failed her and the revered instruments of her art weighed on her being like stones.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke her reverie. She did not look up.

The adjacent swing strained under the weight of its new occupant and was set in motion. She glanced sideways to see the man equally preoccupied, apparently on the same quest as hers.

Two perfect strangers, they had spent the past two weeks in the same manner.

She chuckled – slightly, derisively. An open-ended invitation to either remain in silence or initiate a conversation.  He took the hint, his lips curving into a half-smile as he muttered, “What a morbid way to end the year.”

“I couldn’t have asked for more, you know.”

“With a couple of lovely lines to bring a closure, that would have been the case, yes.”

“We still have until midnight.”

“Until midnight and all I’ll be able to describe is this numbing cold, in not too flattering words.”

“Spare me the rhetoric – why don’t you go out and enjoy yourself like those people over there?”

“You and I both know we’re better than that, sure enough.”

“How morose. There’s more to life.”

“Which could be denied to us if we don’t get back on track, you see.”

“Worst case scenario – we’ll be dismissed.”

“Unlike you, I can’t live with that.”

And so the banter continued, each choosing to sidestep the looming question. How prolific they were in their art was left buried under their increasing impatience to write and submit a short story to a prestigious competition. It was important – for the money and a little for the pride.

The string of coincidences that led them here were also that easily brushed off.

“Your idea of a collaboration doesn’t seem to be working.”

“I never proposed it in the first place.”

“Are you telling me that I was dreaming of that up till now?”

“Cut it out! Not like I’d want to share the money with you.”

“That is if you get any in the first place.”

“Neither will you, if you keep harping that way.”

They both turned away, brokering an unspoken agreement of not bothering the other any further.

Her pensive mood resurfaced, the brief pleasure of an otherwise worthless repartee having but all gone. They didn’t have the hour to kill today; there would be no tomorrow.  Her hand moved unconsciously, scribbling across the pages, throwing together random words that might, just might paint a cohesive picture at the end of it.

“Stream of consciousness doesn’t work with us; I thought you knew that already.”

She looked at him, annoyance flashing in her eyes before giving way to resignation. “I can’t think of anything else.”

Abruptly, he stood up and extended a hand towards to her. “Let’s go and take a walk.”

She acquiesced. They began to circle the park, the air now crackling with the smell of burning wood. The glowing embers had been deserted a while ago and were dying. They chose to sit by the fire – she drawing up her legs and warming her hands over the flames while he gathered branches and twigs scattered around to build them up.

“I would be content to just write about this setting. A fire entrances me like nothing else.”

“‘The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.’”

“I’m afraid that is exactly what is happening to us tonight.”

“Maybe,” he said, looking at her strangely. She returned the gaze with a question but he chose to focus on his notebook instead, scribbling furiously.

What the…? She was still stuck and he was writing away!

Fifteen minutes more of staring into the fire and she gave up. She didn’t want to spend the New Year’s Eve in chasing words and sentences – she wanted to go back home, to warmth and comfort even if it meant curling up with a blanket against the window, watching the fireworks and ushering in the New Year, alone.

(The competition be damned, meanwhile.)

She stood up to leave, glancing at the man before her, apparently blessed by the muse. He did condescend to give her an acknowledging nod, which was surprisingly more emphatic than pitying.

Walking away, she reflected upon how disappointed he was…sorry to see her leave but too proud to hold her back.

It takes a writer to identify solitude – chosen or imposed - in another. They can’t blossom otherwise.

…

Two days after that dissatisfying evening, she was back in the park. The settings had not changed and neither had the cold. Seated on her usual spot, the swing, she couldn’t help but feel as if her life was forever thwarted in anticipation of something to come, that elusive future that would finally allow her to start living.

But fate decided to surprise her, for once, when the same man who had been her silent companion for the past two weeks turned up besides her. To see him in reality than in her daydreams.

He handed over a single sheet to her without looking in her direction.

She smiled in spite of herself. “Muse not pleased enough to grant you a winning entry?”

“Shut up.”

She read. A story of a girl by a fire, an artist looking to kindle her own flame, the outpouring of which would be her tale to tell the world. Of a night sheltering two strangers in the cold. Of everything and nothing in particular.

Of how a writer never really needs a story to write; the ability to tell one is more than enough.

She looked up and smiled at him – the first, genuine smile she had shared with him, a gesture more personal than knowing his name.

Which she didn’t know, and neither did he.

But, they had an entire year (and perhaps even further) to know more of each other.

He took her hand and the deal was struck. And yet again, she couldn’t have asked for more.

...

Thanks to Hachiko for her help. ;)

A very Happy New Year to all my readers in advance. :)

Felicity

She sets herself a task to write something. In the face of a seemingly insurmountable writer’s block, a difficult thing to do.

But the occasion cannot be missed. It’s a special day for someone and as is her wont, her best gift has always been a few well-written words.

What could she even write for a fellow writer?

So what would it be?

She sighs, thinking, reflecting back on the few months that had gone by without writing a word…

…had it not been for her dear, dear friend, wanting to see her revel in her expression, create art with those unusual words she loved to use.

That friend whose style was poles apart – so refreshing and original in its take, written straight from the heart.

She sighs yet again. This won’t do. She will not like it one bit.

Nevertheless, she wonders. Wonders and smiles at how things fall into place, how the most unlikely people end up befriending each other, only to be amazed at the similarities galore.

In a way, she does not and perhaps never will belong to her world – her world of innocence and childlike cheer. Of smiles and laughter, of Harry Porter and country music, of chocolate and 

doodling. Of simplicity and understanding.

Like a ray of sunshine in her dark, gloomy realm. I’m glad to have found her.

And so she settles on keeping it simple – her knack for elaborate, fancy prose has deserted her anyway.

Many happy returns of the day, my friend. May happiness and fulfillment find you always, so that you may never lose your smile. Remain the way you are, always. I’m glad I met you.

Unwittingly, she finds herself smiling as well.

...

Written for Hachiko...you know who you are! Happy birthday! :)

That Which Lies Within

It’s been a while, isn't it? No matter how much I change, how articulate I become, I don’t think I’ll ever let go of words like these. There’s only so much that I can do in my attempt to be succinct.

And I ramble and make small talk, as usual. I have acquired quite the knack to play with words and fill in the gaps, prolong an insubstantial conversation, if you may.

But I believe I have lost the ability to express my innermost feelings, as hackneyed as it may sound. My expression has lost its verve, its clarity and depth – and I struggle to elucidate things that came so naturally to me a while ago.

How long has it been since my writing skills went for a toss and I hit a perpetual writer’s block, I have no idea. It’s become so perfunctory, so mechanical. Words, beautiful, unusual words which I would carefully pick to adorn my elaborate prose with, to create that breathtaking, thought-provoking effect – they entice me no longer. 

And I hate the idea of sounding conventional and drab.

But, I digress. Much as I would love to rant about my writing or the lack thereof – it is not what weighs on my mind.

I don’t even know if I want to acknowledge my thoughts anymore. Facing your issues head-on can be so exhausting. I don’t want to feel drained anymore. I’m tired of crying for the wounds that only get deeper with time.

It has never been my wont to blame others, to subject them to revengeful, venomous thoughts. Anger takes the form of despair and hopelessness and I succumb further and further to self-pity and martyrdom.

Have I reached a point where I can’t be honest with myself anymore? How utterly deplorable is that.

And so I try, for once, to channel my feelings into words, address them to someone, instead of letting them reverberate against the scarred walls of my own mind. And so I try to speak of that which afflicts me the most, which has no direct bearing to the person concerned but revolves around the said being, who serves but as a trigger, a reflection of my innermost desires and fears.

I wish I could call you by name, however, to lend you so much credence especially when you yourself have no idea about the effect you have on me, will be taking it too far.

But you are there and my feelings for you continue to hold me in their grip. Attraction…desire intertwined with guilt, with hesitation and with uncertainty. All under the looming question of your perceived worth…of who deserves whom, of the larger question of being seen together, of acceptance. 

How foolishly delusional it was for me to even consider the future ramifications that a relationship between us would have entailed.

I fell for your intellect, your seemingly haughty demeanour, the air of secrecy you deliberately surrounded yourself with. In haste, I thought I had found a kindred spirit – the walls, they appeal to me to be broken down just as I yearn for someone to recognize and do the same for me.

And it was the first time I had been in such proximity to a person I liked and it nearly killed me. I hate the fact as to how evident it was – in contravention to the controlled bearing I usually adopt.

And you saw through it, didn't you? You knew what was going on in my mind. Oblivion is a ruse neither of us can adopt.

But I’d give anything to be able to know if you knew, if you had any inkling of the cause behind my peculiar behaviour. You wouldn't have spoken to me the way you did, otherwise, would you now?

That is, before I destroyed that nascent trust, by being overbearing, by pushing things too far.

By doing so deliberately knowing that you are already with someone else.

I can’t apologise enough. And probably, I have lost all the respect I had earned.

Disenchantment

The chaotic pace that my existence has taken, and I’m yet to realize the gravity of the events that have taken place so far.

Have I changed? I don’t know. I know nothing anymore. Adrift in the turbulent ocean of life…I seek to anchor myself but in vain.

I wonder if you would be that anchor, that steadying presence.

I stumble through the days, marking off one date after another…waiting, always waiting for that elusive day where I would finally seek my contentment, my bliss.

Is it you that I seek? I wish I knew.

All illusions have been shattered, my carefully crafted reflection has been ripped apart – I choose to disregard the scheming voice of my mind, coaxing me to retain the shreds of my identity.

An identity I can’t believe in anymore. An esteem founded on the very base of faithlessness.

You can see through me and I couldn’t care any less. I’m no less dead to you, aren’t I?

And yet…I can’t, I won’t bring myself to take the first, tentative step. Nothing holds me back – my pride, my anxieties, the uncertainty of my entire being have been carelessly tossed aside. But I won’t call out to you.

It has always been my wont to wait. Anticipation is all I have ever known.

And so a part of me retreats to that timeless world, where my dreams lie suspended, awaiting resurrection. I see the glimpses of my former glory and despair envelops my entirety.

Can you see who I am?

And so I await, for this limbo to be broken, for this faltering life to breathe again.

Are you the one that I seek?

Or is this new-founded trust no less illusory than the hope of unconditional, selfless…impossible love?

...

And one thinks law school would kill any semblance of sentimentality. Yet this is the form my stifled creativity takes. 

I make no promises of appearing here again, not for a month at least. 

Disavowal

It’s dark. It’s still. The air around me has a breathless quality to it, only intermittently broken by the sounds that stir the heart.

Soft, gentle melodies. Memories of whispered nothings. My own choking sobs.

You see, I have retreated to my shell.

Alone, surrounded with worn recollections of a brief life. The past has never been deader. Basking in the flimsy warmth of its flickering light, I stand now with its smoke curling around my being, the ash dusting my feet.

I chose to burn the past myself. And I stand; singed and charred, unable to escape the ramifications of the dependency I had so willingly embraced.

Who am I then, you may ask? Here, I do not take any form, portray no role I would otherwise be carrying in your realm. I’m simply a living, breathing individual, acutely aware of my mortality, my limitations – aware of the bitter truth that even if I sever all ties, others continue to bind me.

Is it pain that you see etched into my being?

I laugh. It is both mocking and rejoicing, intertwining bliss and melancholy. And I laugh – at you, at myself, at the entire cosmos. 

And I cry – for what I had been, for what I would become...for what I am now.

I have withdrawn and yet I’m still here. I both loathe and crave your presence. Isn’t life a beautiful paradox? To live while dying, to love with fear, to trust and yet be unsure?

So bring me back. Cajole me to return. For I long to do so, despite knowing that all I want is to be left alone.

But that is what life is. Who am I to say otherwise? 

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Ramblings of Boring Romanticism will be continued next time - you think I'll give up so easily on that, eh?

Ramblings Of Boring Romanticism - III

Second Impression: Talents charm the way to your heart

Ah, did you poor mortals think that I would forget my aspirations of enlightening you about this delusional love and the hallucinations it induces? No, I’m not talking about LSD, in case you didn’t read it right. In fact, the psychiatrists and the psychologists would find it easier to research these drugs instead of the topsy-turvy world of love which sucks in the most blatantly unemotional people from time to time.

A little harsh, do you think? Wait till I elaborate further, dearies.

I can presume you’re literate enough to understand the title of this little piece. Well, it is the second most common phenomenon after the imagination’s figment of looks. 

So, what would it be? Have your pick of the hors d’oeuvres – is it the bespectacled, soft-spoken ‘genius’ of your class who doesn’t forget a name (let alone a face and the features that follow below) or that dashing, reckless athlete, who may be a dud in real life but carelessly annihilates every single opponent, whether on track and field or in a one-to-one tennis match? For the equally gifted ladies, is it that divine singer who steals many a hearts with her soprano voice, or that exquisite actress who can plead for her life to be spared as easily as she can take one with her swift dismissal of ‘non-actors’?

Okay, I think I went over a lot of clichés, but anyway.

My point being, ladies and gentlemen, that we’re equally trained to fish for the ‘stars’ among the crowd.  Your aptitude is what will either give others a run for their money or leave you to fend for yourself. No one glances twice at an Average Joe or a Plain Jane (unless they themselves are no better or…well, no sinister thoughts shall be mentioned here.) So you can forget about the dreamy Hollywood scapes of a girl-next-door turning into ‘the one’, or the poor lonesome boy suddenly transforming into the next hero of the day. (I don’t know if that’s what it’s like in the movies, mind you.)

Exceptional ability is always attractive. You don’t have to be gifted with looks to garner attention, if you can make a killing with your skills. Let my readers be forewarned that I, the humble author of this prose, is no exception to this stage. If you (the prospective singles, yes,  I’m talking to you) have a way with words and can as dexterously snare me with your enchanting poetry as you can cleverly talk like a proper intellectual and have an astute opinion to offer on nearly everything under the sun, then I’m all yours.

 This stage has its charms, if one goes by the logic that a person is always seeking to better him/herself and thus seeks people who seem more capable. There is no harm in learning new things or picking up a hobby or two. The downside is that gifts or talents don’t speak for an individual’s nature. Just because your love interest can write exquisitely, it gives no guarantee that he/she won’t use that strength to verbally (and through writing as well) denounce you every single time. Arrogance is seldom an invited guest, remember.

So think twice before you consider the mere capabilities of a person for deciding on a relationship. I’ve had my fair share of being suitably impressed by people, only to see them reduced to a shadow of their personas in real life
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Dear me, that's terrible. Call it a tentative step after emerging from a self-imposed writing break.  Feedback is appreciated.