"There is nothing so black as the inferno of the human mind." 

I had been thinking about permanent gifts or things that would last. Not forever but at least maybe longer than I would exist. 

The answer came and I stumbled answering myself. 

It is immaterial. 

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

“Be loved, be admired, be necessary; be somebody.”

Naively, you always hoped for support and encouragement from your loved ones; even if it does not sound like it would work out or even if it does not make sense to them. It could be the choice of faculty, the type of job you are applying for, even the funky hair colour you picked, quitting your current stable job or picking up a new side hobby. You just wanted to feel that your courage meant something or it is real and that only you can make it happen. You felt invincible coming up with that decision which you definitely did not make lightly. 

So you hoped. 

And you got stabbed by hope. 

And you were left bleeding out without hope. 

Helpless really seeing her frail and just lying there, looking small and sunken in the giant bed. You don't remember how did she get so old so quick. For that moment when the bed gets pushed into the ward there is a silence that fills the space and you are just standing there taking it all in as everyone was making way. Mortality. 

We don't live forever. And this tiredness of the flesh is temporary. 

This is another kind of prison. A self induced one. You are in it with strangers. 

"If I created the constellations and the earth, the galaxy, the clouds, measured the earths foundation...count the clouds and send the lightning bolts on their way.. If I can do all this... What is your worries or troubles or issues that I cannot do for you."

An aggrieved soul makes the body run longer. It produces an anaesthetised effect.

There will be days like today. Where you would feel it all raw and intense. You become so disgustingly delicate, fragile and sensitive. Because your darkness or the fact that you shoved and gave everything the benefit of the doubt, that the doubt decided to cheat and manipulate you to feel the immense sense of loss; making you it's fool. And that becomes the haunting truth of today. It is crystal clear and you are unable to let it go; not today. It demands to be heard, to be felt. 

It grips you like a knife going through your body and you hold on to the person's hand who had just knifed you. One hand clutching the bleeding gap in your body, one hand on the murderer. Your blood pours out smudging the clean marble floors and it soaks the rest of your shirt. The colour red is too red and the warmness of it too warm. 

You look up.

You. 

What have you done. 

"In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

I used to hold a fabric to rule the world. It was comfort, home and sleep. Everywhere I went it went and I was never alone. Familiar and safe. But I let it go. To attain what the world calls it; maturity. Fully developed in body or mind. We were not ready then. On whose benchmark of maturity were we gauged on? 

The wrong thing for the right reasons. 

Today I am aware that she is back. The itch to write, the ache for a cigarette, the silent intentions. 

Who could know what time would show. 

Who could know. 

Louder than anything we ever mention. 

You wish they were dead. You wished they were dead. It would had been easier. All this too seems familiar. The same demands. We need to claw our way out of here, right now. Let us pack and go. Hop on the next flight out. 

Naive. Little wishes to get by. 

Sometimes the music is not loud enough to calm dreamed violence. The shake and shatter of a body. 

Scary isn't it. 

Some form of sadness takes you to places. Alone. 

Rare moments like these. That I am ecstatic. Knowing the impending finality of life is in death has an ultimatum and comforting release. 

Even if it was one drawer left as a weak attempt to own just one thing. Even that little heaven is taken. 

Let it go. 

Don't you forget. Don't. Forget. Remember me when I don't feel remembered anymore. You took too long to feel what the days have carried into the present. So you accept it all in drips and drapes as it comes in waves. 

The loudest shatter is one that you do not hear with your ears. It is clean, crisp and one of the most tragic signs before it's final fall.

You ran back to your books and pages to put it out there in blue ink and black words. Encasing it. Let it all slip away. 

They had a home consisting four walls and a simple routine. Carrying her on her back like a child; she was broken. That moment felt like infinity. She was the centre of her everything. She was spoiled and you were giving. She needed that moment again when she could throw everything out the window. Knowing that you will always be on her side no matter how irrational or unreasonable she sounded. But that can no longer happen. She is not prepared to be forgotten.  



I miss you every time I am not understood.  

Yes you got shot. It was unexpected and it will always be that way. Because these paper shots made the intangible tangible.  It seeps in and nestles comfortable into your gut. Each breath absorbs the impact. 

And I... Don't have a time machine. 

I'm in disbelief. Of my number. Saying it out in the open from my very own mouth does not seem correct, does not seem real. Am I joking? It sounds like someone else speaking in my proxy. 

There are ghosts all around me, where I walk, the walk ways, the train station. How many people have I walked with here and left behind. Do we ever grow up?

In case you forget. You are glad that this occurrence and chance only took shape and cast in reality now. Because you wouldn't had understand any of this during your adolences and amateurish self of self invented disllusion. You wouldn't be able to keep us here. 

Inner words are scrambling like ants, headless all over the invisible battlefield. The same old rugged, well worn out mat, fraying at the corners, it got tugged and pulled off its usual comfortable spot. Again. You could even see its stained marked frame on the floor. The human instincts says fight or flight. Both are release. Do you allow the chains of comfort hold you down to keep you safe and grounded or. 

It is subtle and present.

Your auditions makes you aware of what you can and not do or have. It is all but a shell on that platform, leaving it barren seems less tragic. Your shadows gets replaced, they call you by another name, your face will never catch the same shutter. You do not linger. You became nothing. 

Just because you do not show the world what you have, does not mean you do not have it. 

Photographs have knifes. Not butterflies. This playlist pulls colored memories into the present. Sometimes we remember wrongly, distorted versions of the past. You are greedy and demanding, deceitful and hurting. Because it was easier to be the one hurting than inflicting. 

It was easier to forget. 

You have known. Always known. That this day would come. It came. And it hurt. 

Dark is the way, light is a place. 

There is much truth to it. Hands blindly tracing the walls. I find myself stumbling and hitting out at the darkness. 

Clearly I remember. I need light. Just a little.