Growing Up Means Learning What Life Is

At the brim of intake for being schooled. 

At the cusp of accepting death for nirvana. 

At the mercy of freewill to make life beautiful.

My energy and it's constant tussle with everyday mundaneness.

My fears and their window to complete awareness. 

My disturbed disposition and its burden on my loved ones.

A compulsion to live up the present.

A tone to set things free.

A desire to write my own destiny.

That relative truth is an useful lie.

That truthfulness in a relationship is subjective.

That truth, if it could exist objectively, is only in my heart.

Never yielding to the scars of my life.

Never losing the assumptions about the simple nature of right and wrong. 

Never giving up on the purpose of my life.

I will dive in never coming up for air.

I will survive never giving in to feel.

I will wait forever searching for myself.

The Hopeful Me

The choices I make define the life I live,

The moves others make recreate their world.

Together the webs we weave,

The decisions we take, get more tangled each day.

Yet, I must persist on an uncertain path.

For every other way seems too logical.

Knowing that hurt is part of love

And taking responsibility for it,

Realizing that when your love moves away

You will only be loved more 

For when they genuinely acknowledge your love,

Will turn your love into gratefulness,

And the more grateful they are

The more love will come their way.

Governed by my hopeful heart, I trudge on.

The cynical world, the hopeful me

For I refuse to believe, or accept that this is the end,

Or it will end like this.

It's ALL About How You Want to Remember Things!

Before the pain of betrayal sunk in, 

the love captured every inch.

And I crumbled in raw pleasure, 

of that entrenched memory.  

At the weight of your words in the past,

At the seductive power of your skin against mine, 

the sense of betrayal didn’t last.

My Neglected Truths...

Should I neglect

these truths?

For I feel

I am different

not special;

just unlike usual.

Unusual isn't really

a good thing.

I am part broken,

part whole.

Many ghosts haunt me.

All the time.

Not from the past,

or the future.

Just unacknowledged

ideas of me.

Floating,

knowingly.

Normal?

I hate the word normal. I didn't realize how much I hated it until I heard it too many times. And, till it was pointed out to me of course. What is it that one means when they say "normal"? It is an "ordinary" word that really, truly means nothing. What is normal for me is hardly normal for others? Coincidentally, one might find people who's 'normal' radars fall on along similar lines. But that doesn't happen often, I assume.

Normal doesn't cut in. Normal doesn't fit in. It is a loose word thrown around that means nothing. From being indifferent about it, I have realized I need to be cautious about its random usage. Normalizing any behavior leaves space for negligence and callousness which I do not wish to entertain at this point. 

Somehow ordinary doesn't make me half as agitated, though it has a similar ring to it, for it can be used objectively as well. An undertone of acceptance and submission clouds both the words. But normal fares worse. Much worse.

I Demand The Unthinkable!

Some needs are basic and simple. 

Others are convoluted and heavy. 

As I drift away from the simple, 

I find myself clutching the nuances and complexities. 

I urge myself to believe that the simple will not do. 

I demand the difficult, the hard-to-find, the unthinkable. 

Everyone hushs and shushs me. 

Tell me I am expecting too much. 

I am warned of loneliness and detachment. 

I hush and shush them in return. 

I will not let this go. 

I demand nothing short of exceptional. 

I am willing to give up a lot of mediocre for it. 

I am willing to fight battles for it. 

It would possibly lead to being labelled crazy. 

But I am sure it will be worth it. 

Sleeping Alone? Good For You!

I am genuinely frustrated by people's nature to fake their real being and mask themselves with a style that they desire to have possessed naturally. I am specially annoyed by those who make up their social status by the number of boogie nights they had, it could be with someone they know or some random act of foreplay. Married or Single, these sex thirsty maniacs are fixated on boasting their social status by fictionalizing some of their cheap fantasies. And a rather downgraded version of these few men are those who fake an arranged marriage to be a love marriage. Why does one have to do that? What difference is that ever going to make to their life or mine? Enough I said to be myself; I couldn't for one more minute stand there and listen to that bull-crap. 

I believe that a desert is sometimes necessary. Sometimes, it is what your soul and your body need. A rest. To dream instead of do. My time with my ex girlfriend gave me jitters even in dreams but for the most period I felt solace in her company, I felt complete sleeping beside her and that had become a habit, a comfort. But when we had to move to different cities for career interests, the dreams started giving way to glimpses of her parting with me, my nightmares had visions of her being dragged away from me; I literally used to wakeup in the middle of the night, frantically search my room and on not finding her, call her and confirm she was safe; maybe it wasn't love, it was obsession, I was truly n madly missing her by my bedside, and that habit had to die and eventually it did, for the good or bad. Since that time, I have hardly slept with anybody for length, and honestly, never felt the need to (sometimes my flatmate manages to creep in, but that doesn't count, does it?). So believe me, when the body really wants the skin of someone else, it knows perfectly how to behave. You will look into someone’s eyes, and nature will take over. No matter how old you are. No matter wrinkles, or norms. 

I think a lot about privacy. I realize privacy is not about what you are doing so much as about what you are not doing. Privacy is that which you can hide — which, in our modern society, is not much. Sexuality is completely on display. From where I come, children know about their parents’ sexuality; parents know about children’s sexuality. Where is the treasure of silence, of things not shown? Where is the mystery? Our openness is a good thing, for many reasons (of course!), but it has made indiscretion the norm. Everywhere, the question of “Who are you?” is answered with an explanation of sex. This is silly. We’re more than that. We are poetry, we are floating creatures, sometimes happy sexually, and sometimes in a desert, even as we share our lives with someone. 

Sometimes I took pleasure just by staring at women’s lips. Sometimes, their buttocks. And sometimes, just by listening to a voice. It is libido, trust me. It is desire. But society doesn’t recognize this kind of felicity. It’s too much! I’ve learned that most people mainly want to prove that they are sexually functioning, and that’s all. And strangely, what I have learnt from my experience, people are ashamed to admit that they are alone in their beds, which I discovered is a huge pleasure.

Unmasking Relationships...

I was trying to think of the 'perfect' relationship the other night and I just couldn't think of one. It's true, everyone seems to be fighting their own battles. But as much as we struggle to float and find a state of contentment, we forget one very simple thing.

Social psychology has a concept which is so simple that it roughly translates into an English phrase. We mirror our expectations. Unknowingly, we behave with people like we wish them to behave with us. If we want someone to go out of their way and plan surprises for us, we plan surprises for them. If we like to be cuddled, we cuddle. If we like our space, we give space.

And herein lies the fundamental problem of human relationships. We need to do to a person what that person likes instead of what we like. And in return, communicate clearly what we want them to do for us. Subtle suggestions through behavior don't work often. If you like to be told that you are loved often, merely saying I love you to the person won't help. Instead, just communicate that you would like to hear it once in a while. Likewise, if you think a candlelight dinner is romantic, do not plan that for their birthday or your anniversary. Think of what they like, whether it is clubbing or being with a larger group of family or friends, and plan something around that.

Relationships would be much simpler if we asked simply and gave selflessly. This only works in rational relationships where the partners care about each other and are compassionate. But if achieved, it can save many a hearts from ache.   

My Deepest Secret Made Public!

My tattoo is my deepest secret made public.

It is a confession I carry around on my body. It is a scar I have willingly gotten. It was a spontaneous decision that I over thought for ages. When I got it, I couldn't imagine anything else as my first commitment. The tattoo began as an attempt to embrace the circle of life. It ended up being a way to remember the lessons that a particular period of my life taught me. But honestly, it just was so I was no longer ashamed of my lows and what even I perceived as weakness. Many times I am reluctant to flaunt it. Simply because a tattoo is meant to have so many deep meanings that I am overwhelmed by the questions people ask. I haven't yet found a way to explain why a rose. But I assume I will get there eventually.

It is on my body for life right? So I have time to find the correct words.

Whose Power is Greater?

Some moments in life, I feel I am reliving a previous occurrence. Over and over again. Not in beautiful relish of the moment. But in sheer agony that the same moment has presented itself again. And nothing seems to have changed. 

My reaction, my thoughts around it, my emotions. All crumpled up in a similar fashion come pouring out. It isn't a joy to analyze it later to choose what to change, for clearly, I have learnt little from the previous moment. 

But the familiarity of those wounds, the recollection of those memories, the recognition of the repetition, make it frustrating and revealing. 

I wonder what attracts these moments to me. Or what compels me towards them. Whose power is greater?

So. That's NOT Exactly Why It Ended.

We were in love. But we weren't the only ones. Everyone was in love with the idea of us too. We kept getting advice on 'How to make it work?' She loathed advice; such advice ticked her off further. So she resisted listening. She asked me to dismiss it too. But I told her that it wasn't so easy. We weren't the only ones in it. She glared at me and marched out of rooms. The audacity that I include others in our somewhat private, somewhat public love affair! But it was the filthy truth. They, were involved. Not just without our consent but without our knowledge. They judged when we fought; they argued on why we fought. They watched our love grow, too. They gossiped about the bedroom secrets. So when our love affair ended abruptly, like mine so often do, they continued to be a part of it. As unwelcome, unwanted guests.

It wasn't just our relationship. What happened in that relationship wasn't even the same for both of us. The others drew their conclusions, made their assumptions and retained their side of the story. A story that wasn't enriched with what happened behind closed doors and within our minds. It was a popular tale that they wished to spread from willing ear to unwilling ear.

So, I wasn't wrong when I had included them in it. For their version would be the one remembered despite her resistance and my submission.

The Eccentric Me!

Sometimes I wish I could put an instrument into anyone's mind and see exactly what they are thinking. The ability of the mind to dilute the politics in order to sound remotely diplomatic is exhausting. Obviously, I am guilty of this practice too, not all the time though!

Or to take this forward, another option would be that no one could ever say anything that they didn't truly mean. If they did, they would automatically grow mushrooms on themselves. (In my head this sounded funny.) So, if I accidentally met someone I couldn't stand, my facial expressions and words would show exactly this. Often, I cannot control the expressions my face makes in response to a person I don't like. The pointless point I am trying to make is that it is exhausting to decode the "political correctness" of everyone. If everyone said what they truly felt, the pain of figuring out their veiled contempt would vanish. I would be at ease. But I suppose earth would no longer be a happy place. Even though it isn't really one at this point.

I am perhaps no longer making sense. But the attempt is to envision a world where people would speak openly. Then murderers, closet dictators, ill-tempered souls, two-faced folks and bigots can be identified easily. And I can proceed to not be associated with them. For now, I have to engage in a strenuous decoding process which quite frankly I am no good at.

However, I guess I am asking for too much. Maybe I should attempt to practice this honesty for a while. I am bound to ostracize myself for not being socially acceptable anymore. Sometimes, that doesn't seem like a bad plan.

"Memories" - A Free Verse

Revealing itself to me,
was it a dream? An illusion?
Or a suppressed memory?

Feels like the present.
The edge of pain.
I bury it,
preserve it
from perverse
penetrating vision.

Incapacity to deal,
pushing it aside,
I discard it.

Intense living
forced these
repressed memories
to life.

Not an illusion,
not delusion.

Memories
they haunt me all the time.

My Way of Living Life, Only Sometimes!

Does anybody read these ramblings in abstract time and space? Does it change even an ounce of somebody's belief? Does any of it matter? Will it ever matter? 

To say, I write only for myself is an outright lie. But I admit I write to spend a little more time basking in the immense pleasure it provides me. I write to spend a while longer in a world I wish existed. Writing about realities is often stressful and pain inducing. But it reminds me of my deep connections to the larger than me, life. It deepens my understanding as my thoughts are never as clear as when I write. And that means something as my writing itself often lacks clarity. But I fail to understand the need to always make absolute sense. 

Sometimes, my writing wanders aimlessly from one strange thought to another. It drifts in the time and space of my creation. I love the feeling that I possess the ability to mold the stories anyway I want. It is something I have created from what I have read, what I have seen, the people I have met, the women I love, and the cities I have been to. And it might be powerless to everyone else who reads it, but it is intimate, powerful and passionate to me. So maybe, I don't write for external benefits, people or accolades. I write to feel that intimacy, every day, to feel a raw and unadulterated connection over and over again. But it isn't easy. Being intimate with something means having my guard down. It means I am vulnerable. I have set myself up for ridicule, mockery and harsh criticism. Honestly, I don't take these very well. I am a volatile and sensitive person. I care deeply about everything I write. I am attached in an intense way with the material I produce. But that doesn't change the fact that others' opinions can make you grow. So I put myself out there. I take that risk. Sometimes, I fail and I pull back into my shell. Sometimes, I can see for myself the potential that could exist. I build, I break and I build again.

Writing for me is my way of living life, sometimes. It is the way I deal with society and its crude ways. I write about my angst, my pain, my happiness. I write so I can empty my mind. I write so I can gain clarity in my thoughts. I write to be able to be. I can push myself a little further to reach my dream of being a good writer. But I struggle a little to acknowledge this. In fact, I struggle a lot.

Even as I scribble these incoherent thoughts, I am struggling between my understanding of political and personal; between the lines I have drawn of private and public. But writing helps bridge these conflicts of interest. For that side of me, I need to keep writing. If not in a blog, then just as drafts; At least for myself!

Moments Worth Reliving!

I have always felt like I wanted to freeze some moments for eternity or whatever it is that lasts forever. Not just a mental picture of the moment but the emotions and people that comprised the moment. When I look at my childhood photographs, I find the emotions in the photographs always led to long re-telling. Most of the time, I don't remember the people in the frames.

People change as does everything, I just wanted to grow older.

If I happened to find a photograph at random, on the road or in a house I rented, it would be more of a mystery. The photograph is of no value to me Neither are the memories captured in it.

But, I avoid getting to the point and digress.

If only there was a way to make each memory from every photograph come alive and play a few seconds of those moments before you. Then, when I am 90-years-old and senile, I will still be able to remember the

moments that I wished to immortalize.

Slide on next to me, just another memory, to keep me company.

But doesn't that take away a little bit from the essence or magic of a photograph. The many layers to it apart from what the frame essentially reveals? I presume so. I cannot help but wish to be a speck on the wall of not just the memories that I have created but also the many others in the photographs that I passively encounter. It just seems like a memorable journey to take, through the frames of people's lives and their memories.

For, the saddest and happiest moments always seem worth reliving