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floatingstories

From the lone wolf’s track

As she walks from those different sequences of the same sidewalks she moves her lips as if chanting something so religious that she is deeply devoted to. And then she looks up and sees people and she sees those stories floating above their heads or sideways. Those aren’t necessarily real ones, but they are what she wants to believe they are. And then she does what she has been doing for so long, make it all up.

She makes up stories of how it could be, how it must be like to… or how it would be and she smiles sometimes but sometimes she wonders too long for her to notice she has reached her destination. Her stories come from her everyday journey, on different tracks of the same mind.

These are the stories from the sidewalk (the name was already too popular and copyrighted for me to take it as my title) which come literally from the sidewalk on the way back to her home.

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The mist

And I chase the mist at times
hoping perhaps to find a place
where I can hide completely from the world for once
but as far I go into the mist, there seems to be none left

until I can see a corn field with a path right in the middle
I tread the path thinking it was meant for me
hoping perhaps to find another coming my way
and so I will be complete, saved finally
but as close as I seem to be getting, the stranger the person seems to me
it sure must be weird keeping a mirror amidst the fields

This one boy

There is a young boy, who wears an aqua green textured kurta
that reaches just a little below his waistline
with the kind of fabric that has wrinkled on the elbow fold of its full sleeves
It fits him a little loose on his thin physique
A 5 year old boy, wearing this and walking around with his tiny footsteps
that try to cope up with his eyes that pace in all directions simultaneously
He is far visioned, not predicting the future
instead predicting how the road will embrace him next when he falls
because he looks everywhere but down

 

His tiny feet walk on mud, grass and concrete and love each one the same

And I know that his walk has the purpose of chase
Now he could chase anything, hair, hand, legs or shoes

But he chases only the shawls of kurtas red, green and yellow

And the falls of sarees black, blue and white

Some things to grab on, perhaps the only things he remembers of her

 

He walks on, without destination

Sometimes he doesn’t notice how far the chase has brought him

And when he gets tired he sits somewhere on the top of a hill

Staring somewhere at infinity trying to find out exactly where the horizon is

Trying to find out the answers to all of his questions

Questions of why, how, why not

Questions that no one has the answers to

Maybe that is the reason he wishes to inflict pain upon himself

To maybe search what he looks for in blood and bruise

Touching sishnu with love as if saying you don’t have to be alone

I’ll take the pain if it makes you feel loved.

 

But as he walked one day along a bricked street in his old chase

He was lifting his hands up and following when he noticed his hand change its color

So he halts right under a sun kissing red translucent plastic roof

Followed by more such roofs that make up a rainbow sky

His skin ignited with candy colors and his eyes widened

And he ran across the street over and over again

Noticing how quickly the floor changed the beautiful colors

With him as the 8th one from the collection of seven

 

His moment of beauty ended when the street did

But that rainbow sky became his thing of beauty forever

And he no longer chased memories of past or future

He chased colors of now.

Stay

A little bit of blue on your grey skies, and I’ll stay
Conditions on my love, dear, then I’ll stay
Selfish is my love, only then can I stay
Because selfless I tried once, and I lost myself
And I left, so now I will stay with the self that is left.

Promises

Spend sleepless nights with you
This I promise, to befriend your insomnia
I promise to fight your nightmares
Because I know they are the reason why you don’t sleep
I promise to rescue you from yourself.

(Dedicated to K, the happiness)

Skies

I was taught that the sky was full of stars,
Then I learnt that the stars too had their own skies.

Divine

A beautiful buddhist monk
She had hair as short as the time she spent with her family
Skin, flawless with the black moles the only things reminding of her past life
She had beautiful raised cheek bones
Baby pink lips that needed no paint
And teeth perfectly aligned, as if in a formation, as if disciplined

I must have saved a life at some point of my multi-lived time
that I so happened to catch a glimpse of her right outside a shrine
From a distance I was pacing forth
While she was placid, just there inside a shop
as normal as one could be, as divine as she could be.

And I wished when i was back home
To see her sitting statically on my table
I would clad her in all God’s clothes
For her to wear the beautiful robes
The thick maroon fabric like blood that would run diagonal from her shoulder
Diagonal to her waist, diagonal like the sword cut
The smoke that emerged from incense sticks
So ironically mocks her unliberated statue

She would be counting rose beads with one hand
And hold a beautiful lotus on the other
And one somehow more gently on my head
and I would sit there bowing, when everything would just pause
And echoes of the bass of a gong would still me for a while

Then I would cry in the overwhelming feeling
Of her touch on my soul
So I can cry on my sins
So I can cry on death

The kind of death that was the only solution
for things that perished, for beauty that faded
The kind of immortality that could only be caused by my psychosis
The blood cannot be seen through the robes, i swear,
The smell of rotting doesn’t rise beyond the incense

 

 

Killing me softly-A Sinatra story

It all started with the setting of a lavish restaurant where Sinatra entered in the most extravagant suit complimented by a hat along with the company of more extravagance. The entire room smelled of champagne, caviars and diamonds and he was trying to find love in the fake laugh of the beautiful woman sitting before him. Then he noticed the singer who had been singing in a moderate volume with a music which failed to match the setting and was more real to the ear than Sinatra could expect from such a place. In that split second glimpse of the band, the background blabbering of his wife and the twinkle of all the crystals that her cherry blonde hair strands wore took him someplace he remembered the most clearly.

Everything was brassy, the chairs, the tables, the bar and the drinks. An old place that felt young as it hung music on its walls that rung there permanently in there own spaces and with time each one got its chance to come forth the loudest. And here Sinatra entered with a group of boys wearing faded and stained shirts and trousers with suspenders. Each of them having a drink to hold and their youths painted on their faces.

It all began rapidly and ended even quicker. He saw her there dancing and singing, laughing through her dark maroon lipstick and eyes closed as she lived in that second when the beat jumped through her flowing cherry blonde hair. He went to her and matched her rhythm and they danced like it had all been choreographed before, the  conversations. He told her what he was and she could understand exactly, his pain and hurt. She could make people cry with her voice but he was susceptible because he had her and so he had control. A studio apartment, instruments, bliss and them sleeping together on a mattress.

The split second ended and he was back in the age when the face reflected lesser than what he had lost in time. The singer wore a glitter dress and sang like the nightingale did, and he sat there looking at her singing his life. The love and hurt; the smile and pain; him and her; everything. His love still dissolved in her youth once married to music, and he desperately wished for her to sing him back to the time. Her voice was killing him softly and he was no longer immune because he did not have the control, he could not have her.

“She sang as if she knew him in all his dark despair and then she looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. But she was there, the stranger, singing clear and strong. Killing him softly with her song, telling his whole life with her words, killing him softly with her song.”

via Daily Prompt: Brassy

Fireflies

I have seen dots of lights all the time. I have been seeing them embedded permanently on the blue fabric right above my head; I have seen them sparkle my eyes when I look at the Sun through the web of branches and leaves, and I have seen them suspended on the vertical plane making outlines of hills to separate them from the sky. But today I saw something that I had never seen before. I saw dots of light, the same yellow sheen that recurrently twinkled, floating. I saw groups of such dots that illuminated the grass on which I rest at a time of dusk when its not bright enough for them to not be out but not dark enough for me to not be out either.

Fascination

“Do you remember how in our childhood we would get fascinated by anything and everything?”, she asked me.

“Yes”, I gave a transient chuckle with a mix of happiness and sorrow, and realized how nostalgia works, it gives us happiness from the recollection of the joy of past and then there comes the knowledge of how we can never get that back.

“What do you think happened?”

” I think maybe we just stopped looking from the same kaleidoscopic eyes. What do you think what happened?”

“I think we stopped stopping to give time and just see. “

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