Sitting on a stone bench with the cool wind ruffling my thoughts, my shoes perched on the armrest, I’m gazing at the stars. This is more of a journal entry than a public post, but anyway, here goes.
The citylights are twinkling, fading in and out, just like the mosaic of thoughts in my mind.
Two weeks gone, this year does feel different. I was talking to my cousin about the accomplishments of our lives, and that put things in perspective for me. I can’t really fathom how it’s possible for things, people and situations to seem so insignificant and significant at once.
I’m listening to Lost Stars, the Keira Knightley version.
“Woe is me. If we’re not careful turns into reality.”
I try to picture my life often, how I want the future to look like. Up until last year, everything came to me picture perfect with details, now it’s all a hazy blur. But the blur doesn’t feel wrong, or confusing. The colours are a bit faded, the voices are soft and indecipherable. It feels like getting lost inside a story.
I hear a dog howling, it would’ve spooked me a little, but it doesn’t anymore. The only thing I’m scared of anymore, is humans.
I’m on a family vacation, and everyone is in their rooms. Having tea, I imagine. And here I am, alone, looking at the stars. This feels peaceful. The cool breeze of desert winters, the sky full of stars, a city twinkling below me.
Vacation ends tomorrow, but I’m actually looking forward to going back home. Going back to college. The thought of travelling for tomorrow is tiring me already. But after all those hours on wheels, then in the air, and then back on wheels would end up with me reaching home, so it’s all good.
Au revoir for now.
They live, between shards of glasses cutting them and soft rose petals soaking the blood, and the softness healing their bruises.
They live folded inside the silence of words left unspoken, of books, left unopened.
Quietly they tiptoe through empty hallways of memories long faded, the ghosts of their sounds echoing faintly.
They peek inside doors only to find fading silhouettes.
Yet they softly whisper words of love, because they know someone somewhere needs it.
They smile at the strangeness of it all, a wistful kind of happiness taking them by surprise.
Because no one expects the broken hearted to be happy, not even themselves.
When I try to recall you, you come back to me in pieces. I can’t picture your face like I used to, it’s different now. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe we both needed this. I know you would disagree, I knew you’d figuratively bang your fist on the table and yell at me that it’s not what we needed, it’s what I want. But I only wanted it because it was needed. The smell of your cologne, I still catch a whiff of it sometimes. And my eyes scan the place, even though it’s highly unlikely that they’d find you there. Then sometimes I see my bookshelf and my eyes fall on a book you gifted me, my mind reeling back to days, to moments. Flipping through the memories at the speed of a hundered miles per hour, the intensity still as hard. Love isn’t supposed to bind you, it’s supposed to set you free. And we stopped doing that for each other, after a particular time. It was impossible to accept for you, I had finally found the courage, and you hated me for it. I flip through my old journals, I had showered the pages with your praises. When I see someone else’s palm, I reminisce how there were so many lines on yours. How they matched with the ones on my palm, making me believe we would actually end up together. I think of you when someone hands me a mug of coffee because you made faces but made coffee for me anyway. I still have your red t-shirt, I refuse to throw it away. I would, like you threw away so many things that remind you of me, but I refuse to because it doesn’t trigger me. It’s a reminder of how we had good times even though things ended in an ugly place. I wish you knew I didn’t hate you like you thought I did, and that I’m not as cold as you believe I am. But maybe, just maybe, it’s okay because it makes things easier for you. I’ve learnt it’s possible to miss someone and not want them back. It’s possible to love someone, yet not like them anymore.
I remember how the birds sang when it was five in the morning and the stars were still visible.
I remember when I tiptoed out, trying to be as light on my feet as humanly possible.
I remember how the chill of winter seeped through my sweater onto my shivering skin.
I remember how my pet barked and the sound echoed into the dewy dawn.
I remember how my eyes adjusted to the dark, and my skin to the cold.
I remember when my feet on the gravel made me cringe.
I remember how the warmth of my blanket seemed like welcoming arms.
I remember running up to the terrace
I remember seeing the sun paint the sky with the color of beginnings.
I remember the day I snuck out to see the sunrise.
I remember what it felt like to be ten
I remember what it feels like to be mesmerized by the beauty.
I remember, because these winter mornings, I still am.
“I wish you knew
how I feel
as I sit
on the dry winter grass
in the golden sun,
listening to words
sung by someone
looking into the
labyrinthine maze of love songs
for a line, a lyric
what I feel.
Reading someone else’s words
Because my words
are all about you
I’d love you
not noticing me
And I’d love you
while you love someone else
Because I know not
any other way.
So here I sit,
in the setting light
of the winter sun.”
I think, but don’t say
These are my thoughts on a poem called Howl. It’s a stream of consciousness piece so it’s completely unedited and I change the topic quite abruptly, sometimes. I’m pretty sure you won’t find this blogpost very interesting if you haven’t read the poem, but who knows maybe you will find that it has intrigued you to read the poem, so here goes.
Since last night I am studying this poem called Howl by Allen Ginsberg. I’ve been writing it down even thought it’s huge, becayse I analyze better when I write. It’s a very angry poem, the poet is angry at the world, at the society, because they shun the ‘best minds’ of our generations. According to him, the best minds are the drug addicts and world travellers, not the conventional best minds we would think of, going to Ivy League and going on to become lawyers and doctors. These are the people who are “purgatorized their torsos with dreams, alcohol, waking nightmares and drugs. They even tried to smuggle Marijuana from Mexico to New York city, but got busted. They talk and talk, for seventy hours and they jump off everything: bridges, the Empire State Building, even the moon. The poet seems to have a wild imagination. He says that universities i.e. Out education system, encourages wars. The poet empathizes with the homeless, saying that the night feels like a grandfather to them as they illegally travel on freight trains to the countryside. He says they write epics in the night that turn out to be scribbles in the morning. He addresses this poem to Carl Solomon, a friend at a Psychiatric institution he made when he was caught with drugs and pleaded insanity. It’s a wild poem, that’s for sure. But I like how the best minds of this generation aren’t the ones sitting in a study, or making notes in classes.
There is this one line that I loved:
- A lost batallion of platonic conversationalist jumping down the stoops off fire escapes odd windowsills of Empire State out of the month,
That’s it. Thanks for reading. 🙂