Buried Deep

Triggers.

Old songs. Old photos. Old stories.

Buried deep inside a forgotten corner.

Triggered, out they all come. Soaring and flowing. Caught in a memory breeze. Swirling colours. Spinning wild. Now they shoot right at me. Out of control. Like a hurricane.

Hurling themselves, speedy rapid memories.

Hurting me.

Gone are those days. Gone are the streets. Gone those small, cozy corners. That state of mind is dead.

Slow were the walks. Time was crawling. Sunny were the days. Waiting for someone at a designated place and time. Pre-tech era. No mobiles or texts or smart tech. Just spotting them at a distance, seeing that anxious waiting expression. Seeing that bright smile when they finally see you.

Feeling lost without a wrist watch because that was the most reliable time keeper. Proudly owning multiple watches, to go with various clothes. Branded, non-branded, cheap imitations, formal watches, casual ones and also dressy-dainty ones. Bought in branded stores and from street vendors. The full range.

Simple local restaurants. Not chains. Each with its own speciality menu items. Hidden spots in the city which only we locals knew. No tourists, no internet to reveal these secrets to tourists.

Ambitions were within reach in those times. We didn't ask for much. Debates used to be healthy. Friendships didn't break over political discussions. We used to have brains.

Hours spent in just passing time at favourite places - Archies, Planet M, Crossword - with their soft music adding to the afternoon lull. There was no hurry to pick something, pay for it and rush out. We could stay there forvever and buy just a couple of greeting cards without being judged.

Greeting cards! The joy of making them. Writing more personal notes on store-bought ones. Giving and receiving simple wishes in colourful envelopes. The amount of joy experienced in that small piece of paper cannot be expressed in words. Each of us still has kept these cards from ages ago.

Watching movies before the multiplexes arrived. Gallery, stalls, front row.

That time before rampant consumerism. That time when we used to just walk up to friend's or family's house and knock to visit. No need to call or text and ask if they were available. We all were always happy to receive unexpected guests. Especially when a random crow cawed at the window and someone visited that day. We just wanted validation that the old wives were right. The crow heralds arrival of guests.

A large part of me still lives there and wants to be in that time. There was so much more I could have lived. There were so many things I could have done. There were so many places I could have visited. Alas!

Will life ever be easy going again? Old days are spent and dead. But can we at least hope for a new age which could have simpler joys, grounded dreams, genuine smiles, lighter hearts...?

All I hope for is regaining my trust in another human, not having to be alert at all times, having a peaceful and wholesome life, living out the rest of my days with genuine happiness.

Madness of Happy

While the throng rushes

Towards their escapes

I sit and ponder

Watch time pass me by

Crazy is me

Mine is a weariness

Unburdened by sorrow

I hear crescendos

While worlds are deaf

I see rainbows of 24 colours

While creatures of habit turn blind

There are worlds

Inside golden clouds

They have riverbeds, too

And still waters which reflect gold

Earth breathes, you know

If you stay still for just a moment

You will breathe

With her

Crazy is me

I belong in the indolent

Running is pointless

I would rather stay still

Calm in my wakefulness

Peaceful in sleep

I don't jump in joy

I don't cry in despair

I just stay calm

Flow in the freeflowing

Life-river

I love turbulent seas

But I live mirrored lakes

There are deep oceans inside me

But my surface is a cold sheet of ice

Crazy is me

Ever contrary

Ever reclusive

Ever inconstant, too

Skies ripple

Winds fall

People scream

But I sit and ponder

Let this life pass me by

Crazy is me

I thrive in calm

Who were they?

Empty hallways, crumbled walls, cracked floors, roofless structures. They used to be homes. Libraries. Arenas. Stadiums.

All we see now is ruin and destruction. Time. Time is what went over them.

Who were they? Those men, women and children? Pets and cattle.

Which birds nested in the trees and flew over those ancient skies? What flowers bloomed in their gardens? What fruit did their trees bear? What did they grow in their fields?

These living, breathing people walked the roads. They made cities and ran governments. They had a religion and a deity they worshipped. They had festivals and celebrations.

They lived just like us. In those houses which are now bereft of warmth and shelter. In what tragedy did the city fall? Was it war? Earthquakes? Volcanoes? Fires? Invading armies?

How I wish I could, just for a few moments, watch their life!

Visit their homes and eat their food. Live in that era. Study their customs. Wear their garb. Read their books.

What would my house look like thousand years from today? Would it even remain standing or would it stop existing completely? Will it fall into ruin, for future generations to graffiti my walls, take pictures and selfies in my roofless living room. Grass creeping out of the floor tiles. Kitchen utensils lying broken and bent. Would future archeologists study 2020 and beyond by looking inside the ruins of our homes and offices?

When I watch the ancient ruins, am I alone there? Are the ancient people still walking the earth unseen, unheard, unknown? Watching it all with wan faces and broken hearts? Or are their Souls free from their earthly binds already?

Will someone please lift this thick veil between past and present? Will I be allowed a glimpse into the past? Will I be able to look at the future?

My present is beset with bush fires, religious and political upheavals, hate crimes, murders, a pandemic, and terrorism. How soon till we are also just another civilization destroyed by the ravages of time? The pandemic looks like an innocent child, when compared to the pure hatred that humans have shown to be capable of.

The cancel culture. The misinformation. Slandering. Rumours. One community killing another. One race killing another. One country attacking another.

How long till it is all destroyed forever? How soon till we become total chaos and anarchy?

Maybe this time - oh powers that be! - finish the human race entirely. Rout us out of existence. Let the other beings survive. Let the planet breathe a sigh of relief. Let my planet breathe, finally!

We have created this pattern of destruction around us since thousands of years. Surely, someone is watching over us! There must an entity who sees what we are doing! Someone must be in charge of this Universe! Or is it just empty space and trillions of living creatures bent on killing each other and themselves?

Surely, that can't be the be-all and end-all of Life as we know it! Please tell me it isn't so!

Gaping Silences

Tides come and go,

Sands shift, waves dance.

Leaves fall and grow

Birds fly-die-fly.

People meet

Then walk away.

That's the thing about time.

It changes.

Hearty laughs, loud parties,

Shared shoulders, long talks,

Turn, oh so quickly, into

Gaping silences.

They creep upon us unseen

Unsaid resentments

Smiley faced disdain

Unspoken jealousies.

Incommunicado.

Gaping, staring, sad silences

Yawning chasms

Bottomless pools of regrets

Happy, merry times

Torn asunder.

Pieces disintegrate

Into ashes

Which are never reborn.

A funeral unattended

A mourning done alone.

Hiding heartbreaks

Behind a mask of ego.

Feelings of neglect

Bidden away with smiles

Gnawing bitterness

Pushed back with wit.

Unshed tears

Coming undone

At inopportune moments

Squared shoulders

And straight spines

Egos petted

Hearts beaten down.

And we learn to let go.

Whatever that even means

Does anybody really know?

Reduced to guilt trips

In surreptitious visits

To the attic of memories

Tucked away in musty corners.

Gaping Silences.

Twisted

Apocalypse

Comic strips

Super heroes

Magic and fantasy

Ghosts and spirits

End of the world

Crises

Stories

Tales

Parallel worlds

Ideas.

Do you really think these come outta logical, rational, analytical and thinking minds?

Naah! These come from twisted minds. Like the rope of the hangman, beautiful to look at. That fine line between, destruction and creation.

The world conditions us to be wooden blocks. Every classroom, though, has that one lunatic who is lost in their own world. The troubadour. The doodler. The painter. The flautist. The wanderer. Refusing to become a cube. Happy to be an amoeba.

The round pegs in square holes. The ones who break frames. The disruptive minds.

We make the world bearable. We are the creators. While you are busy making calculations, we balance with emotions. We make colourful art, on a dull grey canvas.  

We are the bright, printed umbrella, surrounded by black and boring conformity.

We are not going anywhere. We are the reason you exist. We are why life is worth living. We create your music. We create your art.

We create your escape.

We are the philosophers. We are the artistes. We are the quiet existence of your conscience. We help you survive. We are the reason you breathe.

We are the makers. We are the amoebas.

Unformed Ideas

Sometimes my mind

Goes rough and tumble

Lurching into wilderness

Hurtling through expanses

Of thought and memory

Of feelings

Fleeting glimpses

Brambles entangled

Nettles and willows

Daisies aglow

Freefall of ideas

No strings, no shackles

Vast loneliness

Of unending snowscapes

Pure and pristine

Like white unwritten blanks

Rainbows in oil spills

Rainbows in soap bubbles

No rainbows in sky

Just grey droopy fog

Sliver of sunshines

Slithering away slyly

Crazy maniac meandering

Never making sense

Just let them be, let them stay

In their suspended dance

I pick them one by one

Piece them into threads

Of imaginary worlds

Like ethreal strings of pearls

To form coherence

Or to just remain insane

Damaged

There is a garden in my apartment complex. My apartment windows face this garden and I stand and gaze out many times during the day.

Early morning before sunrise, there is this one bird who talks alone before anyone else wakes up. He is the first bird, and he talks incessantly - repeating the same sounds. I am not sure if he is happily chatting or cursing us, but I love his talks.

The squirrels keep scurrying along all day. They have a tree of their own right in the center of the garden. They even visit our windows daily. The sparrows also have their own tree, so do the wild parrots. Each species claiming a tree for their community - to live, build nests, bring young ones, chirp and sing and hop around and fly - to LIVE!

It's a busy garden. So many small creatures calling it home.

Watching them is like stepping into a parallel world where there is no memory of pain and struggles of human existence. It is far removed from our ego issues, tax issues, money problems - the constant push and pull of just about making it far enough to survive.

To what end, though? What are we acheiving exactly? This garden will continue on, this apartment complex will have the residents, the road outside will remain busy, the shops will keep a constant flow of goods and humans. Nothing will change. Whether we continue to be or otherwise.

The sun will rise and set. The waves will ebb and flow. The tides will keep their schedule. The winds will blow. The rain will continue to fall.

Life goes on. People stop existing. More and more of them nowadays. Falling sick, snuffed out like so many candles. Today someone woke up in the morning and went about their routine. Tomorrow's morning will rise without them. We will look up to the stars and remember the absent. Then we will snuggle into our beds and silently cry tears of regret and pain.

There is so much loss. Loss of livelihood. Loss of homes. Loss of love. Loss of life itself. Wherever you look, it is a story of strife and struggle. Humanity just trying to cope.

Broken shards of glass, living inside each heart and constantly piercing with reminders. Millions of hearts bleeding inside living bodies, going about their mundane existence with a smile on their faces. Wounds which refuse to close. Refuse to heal.

Some rainbow emerges for a while, giving small hopes and strength to go on. It takes you a little further, only for that strength to be depleted, and then sputtering this happiness to a complete halt all over again.

The feet drag on. The day rises. We get out of bed and continue. Yet another day of waiting, anticipating - either a new hope or an end to everything once and for all. Neither arrives, and back to bed we go, spent and defeated.

Day after day after day like this, only feels better with views of our small garden. This parallel world which doesn't care about diseases and depression of human minds. This world continues its peaceful existence. Nature in miniature. This is the only constant, in the daily changes around me which I can't handle anymore. Escaping into this innocent world is the only hope I have which keeps me going. The grassy pathways, the verdant foliage, the chirping and twittering, the tiny lives which are happy in their little existence close to nature.

The various colourful flowers which swish, sway, scatter petals, attract butterflies and bees. The rain which patters away on paved paths and grassy mounds. Washing and cleansing everything in its wake.

I remain enclosed inside my home. Waiting. Anticipating. Something should turn up soon, something happy, something hopeful. Dreading to know of more loss, I unplug from society. This conflict pulls me both ways until I split into multiple pieces.

I gather the pieces and try to mend myself. A shoddy repair work. Damaged and shattered. Pieced together by mere existence. Living is long forgotten. All I now am is, I exist - and that is all.