Pursuance, Disarrayed

Within my realm

I run, for ever and ever

Chasing mirages,

Seeking illusions,

Savouring little pleasures

Of vivid imagery…mere thoughts

Perhaps more enthralling

Than reality could ever be.

And yet I look out to the world

Behind a veil, wrapped in sanctity

Of visions and dreams –

A perceived conscience

Guarding the fragile, gullible being

Enclosed within

I look for a tear

In this mythical fabric,

Fearing the brilliance that awaits

To dispel this darkness…

Numbing, comforting, dampening

The spark I strive to alight,

Endeavouring to carve my way.

And I’m caught between the two worlds

Forever running, forever seeking.

...

I didn't know I was still capable of writing poetry, although this is not my best attempt. Oh well, but I had to do something to get the creative juices to flow again. *sighs*

Rumination

You haven’t written in so long…I feared you may have lost yourself. Have the illusions finally gotten to you?

I thought I was on a path of self-attainment but I have only succeeded in pushing things aside that mattered…to me, to my previous conceptions at least, before they were coloured with promises of a fresh start, a new life, a chance of redemption and renewal. Not before I had nearly lost sight of my original ideals did I realise I had fallen for the charms of this world.

But you came back. You always do.

To you, whom I cannot see anymore. To myself, whom I cannot recognise anymore. I have changed…in so many ways I cannot even begin to comprehend. To the idealism that seems even more naïve and defeated than ever before. To the innocence barely salvaged, struggling to breathe. To my soul, once sparkling with heartfelt emotions, now burdened under a growing dispassion. To that very ocean, once alive and turbulent, now morosely becalmed.

Nothing is beyond salvage…

…except may be these insights, these realisations that hit you to the core, leaving behind marks difficult to efface, to forget. A knowledge that cannot be unlearned, a change that can never come undone. And what if I were to tell you that it is what I stand for now and I know no other way of being anything else?

You prided yourself on your resilience, nothing ever touching the base you had swore to retain forever.

But the lines have begun to blur. The distinctions have merged and what was once a convenient façade has now become an infallible truth, overwhelming the inconsonant traits into submission. I am unwilling to try and unravel the carefully placed layers, to seek what may have been lost already.

Are you giving up?

I wonder what is there to give up. A long-drawn fight that has begun to lose its edge? A quest for reprisal that seems inconsequential? I give up – not on this life, not on the dreams that have driven me so far, but on trying to reconcile the minor triumphs and the wearisome travesties, to fuel the flame of accomplishments against the ruthless, cut-throat adversaries facing me in their full glory…or so as I believe. And I resign – to my own pace, to my own voice.

But you will persevere to rise further, seek perfection in its entirety, and raise yourself beyond questions and doubts.

And yet, would it ever be enough?

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.