The ink of my mind has been chronically drying. Lately, in years for the first time, I have come to know what is to be quiet. Not the usual quiet. The unusually weird and thrilling kind of a quiet. Particles of stillness lumber around the room. I can see light breaking through them. Splintering into minuscules of individual suns. Suns, floating around in the room, sticking themselves to the walls and the curtain, settling on the eye lid of this lover that sleeps next to me.
I do not see his body. I cannot touch upon his hairless skin or the bush of his hair. I see only the parts, on which these million suns, like dew, roll.
For today I see eyelids. As sun sets on the west of our intoxicated horizon, and rises from the east of our yearnings. I see the the eyelids that engulf the blazing crimson at the dusk, when we soaked ourselves in a watering hole, and the eyelids that unleash the overwhelming desire, compassion and togetherness into a light breaking dawn, where we wake up to part.
His eyelids flutter too much, quietly. In the midst of the sleep, they lose the count of the time and frequency of the flinches, shutter-bugging without any stimuli. Seems like they mime to themselves, and talk. Talk in the language so quiet, that it seems nearly ignorant of my presence outside them. Perhaps they have taken a picture of me and pasted it on the retina, and then they mop my image clean with few drops of tears that have built a perennial canal of dreams and thoughts.
I am happy to be cleaned out. Wiped off. I fall short of words and I stop talking to find his stoic eyes, enduring me like any other pain, luring me. It opens to acknowledge my presence and in split seconds slams me out, fearful of my intense magnetic stare.
At that slamming, I am fevered and I shiver, outside. Just as I was marching in, into his eyes, an inch at a time, a bit at a go, he closed midway. Now my half hangs outside, and half holds within. I flutter like a butterfly, half a wing hooked between a closed door, trying to pull itself away. Careful! The wings are brittle. Might torn apart. He snarls and sucks me in through his eyelids. Leaving me quieter. From passionately twitching to be left into the arms of the breaking silence of the dawn to giving in, to be pinned down, between the tiniest pair of eye rims.
Immediately, a stillness of surrender seeps inside me. Subservience is beauty at the behest of a genuine cluster of emotions, maybe devoid of love, however stacked with the pointlessly painful care and admiration.
Tranquility comes with unreasonable quiet, and I speak too much in the daylight. I ponder flower to flower, suck the nectar, and mound it in my hive. At night, in his encompassing embrace I bathe us in the honey dew. Honey drops emulating the million suns, that were created on my quest to calm.
I grow quieter. Quieter within and without. With him, or without.
Bleed while you are alive.
As Dead are not hydrated with the blood in their veins
Or moisture in their eyes
They devour the myths of glistened skin, a rose-berry smelling neckline, a hardened muscular bone, or a creased bow tie.
Succinctly, dead lack the patience to remain flowing
They just Drop. Drop in the fire or in a corpse and become ashes. Solid, grey, powdered fine particles, atoms close together, unlike blood which streams.
Bleed words and versify while your fingers can touch the marvels of the sand dunes resting over a bridge between a promiscuous lover’s infidelity and a poly-amorous lover’s scintillating capacity to brim love to all without loving you any less.
Bleed, while you can be hurt and hope to heal.
Bleed while you have a muse who doesn’t wants to return home. As her home is a war torne piece of meat.
Bleed while politicians saddle your aspirations and crumple your dreams like a pendulum in the thin air.
Bleed while religions are belligerent, and arouse a sword.
Bleed, while you are agitated and you have read the constitution of the land to demand for your rights.
Bleed, while philosophy is not abstract but analytical, and mathematics emanates from it.
Bleed, while there is a reasonable war to fight and love to lose.
Bleed, till they bathe in the river of your presence and chastise the worms which gobbled the papers of your typewriter.
Bleed, till they stop bleeding in the name of God.
I see it as an expanse of possibilities, you as a point blank packet of facts and binaries.
I see it as an abstract, picturesque canvas, painted with a thousand colours, left in my backyard this morning, for my wild interpretation.
You see it as an object, fixed with limits of zero to infinity (mind here, I claim, that you call it an infinite limit of integration, darling it is still a limit), coloured with a thousand colours demarcating a hundred areas, left in your laboratory last night, for you to use it or discard it, do not think twice.
I see the stars, playing with the star dust in their mouths and pockets, messed up with light in the curls of their hair, clouds hanging as the chiming earrings, and pointed edges in their pants, some distance embedded in their arms, which extend them far away from my reach.
And I watch, that the stars twinkle, like the biological beating of my heart, twinkle on and off with a pause of a split second, just like the empty splits between the two knocks within my heart.
You see them as galaxies, infinite, without a starry shape, devoid of any protruding corners or edges, without acknowledging the distance between you and them, as they appear close to your pupil through the lense of a telescope. You do not see them twinkle, you say, it’s the light that refracts through the frozen layers of the past. Past that is acting like an atmosphere, which creates the illusion of star’s charming sprinkle. You believe, they just emit a continuous monotonous light, and for you such is the nature of the stardust too. Perhaps the dust comes to earth only when the star breaks lose, and drives back home to you,in that moment you can see it’s scattered filthy dust. Otherwise it seems clean to you. Holding up a romantic nose to contain itself within the expanse it chose to create.
I see people, as the misconceived experiment of a creator who wished to mystify the treasures in the game he designed, deliberately creating people with differences and similarities, of hierarchy and misogyny, of psyche and empathy, of lust and leeching, of love and preaching, of desires and hatred, of passion and dare, of emotions and cold, of satisfaction and solitude, of greed and power, many of them, in different proportions, within different orders.
People are bound to be different and foolish, they are here to only become objects of a predecided move, subject to alteration but not obliteration. Well crafted into the instruments of fun, the sadistic creator had designed them, expecting them to act smart.
He preluded, during such an act of smartness people will make a fool of themselves, and in the act of foolishness find excuses of subjectivity. The major excuse they lay out pertains to being a human being.
I let them be, because they are heavily marred by the characteristic of such a life. I do not wish to burden them with my weighted judgment of morality and wisdom. I would rather be their earthly manipulator, who plays them, without having to trust them. But trick them into their own realisation, without having to curse them.
You see people, as a means to an end. Not as an end in themselves. They are your parasites, guinea pigs, or catalyst in your equation. They are the poisons, that require anti venom of your powerful words, as if you would resurrect their dead morals, their sleeping wisdom, their uncertain flaws, their masked salvation. Your curse and swear would melt the effigies of their superficial cognitive, and make them positivist. You curse people, as it is, and expect them to bear with your insult and in return adore you. You do not consider them as alive as yourself. Believing that the air you breathe remains different from the air they exhale. For you they don’t exist at all, if they do, they are degenerates and unfortunates.
You secretly celebrate them, as the embodiment of your own emotions.
I see ideologies as threats.
You see ideologies as weapons.
I see wilderness as a mosaic of mysteries, waiting to be explored, but not in entirety. You see wilderness as the road less travelled.
I build realities in my dreams.
You build dreams to make them come alive.
I bridge the creaks.
You bridge the carpet’s fine separations.
I seek the bigger picture.You seek the finest details.
I worry about the unsaid trails. You worry about their existence.
I talk, cut open my emotional vertebrae, let you have a look at the dried up marrow and mucus, for only to stitch it back, and feel the stream of marrow and mucus vigorously brimming again.
You talk, open up your vertebrae, hinder my vision with a blindfold, take my finger and dip it in your mucus, make me feel the depth,but before I touch its bed, you zip it close, and tell me how I soaked some of your fluid into the cells of my skin.
How I saved you, of the horrendousity of “life” brimming from your bones.
You save me, from the insecurities of not knowing what circles inside your intestine. You let me know, what a man must.
I let you see, what a man cannot.
I see order as the next big chaos.
You consider order as the next big philosophy.
Chaos for me is a ladder, not everyone can climb, not everyone can even find. For you perhaps, it is a pit.
My chaos is an escape route from your chaos.
Let them make love now and belong in each other. Similar to how we have been within each other all this while, just like the ying – yang.
Let our chaos weld together. Let our chaos mate.
– From the land of mystical hiraeth
The mindless secrets.
They sprout out of my mouth, like the seedling bursts from the core of the earth, unable to tolerate the heat of the lava anymore, that was incinerating the mirthful drops of bubbles that tried to give the seedling a life of its own.
It was so dead. It only reeked of the possibility of life, that the farmer thought would benefit his fortune.
The embryonic seedling, before being born had thoughts, which didn’t matter. Had a crazy plan, which didn’t matter either. It had hopes, which were too heavenly to be real, I wonder as to how it didn’t have a brain to be rational?
The “seedlings” are the metaphors of the mindless, lifeless, powerless and arrogant “secrets”.
The washes of memories and the paint and varnishes that do not exist at all. They are well unaware of their incoherence with the truths of reality, however they love to fake that they know it at all. Knowledge makes you powerful, but the questionable stance of ‘knowing-it-all’ regime, usually leads to unprecedented wars.
Nothing can exist before it comes out of the womb. Of the earth, or from the womb of my secret box.
However, the delusion of the power to be born someday, gropes the seedling and forces a masquerade over its dead face.
No eyes. With no questions
No ears. With no apprehension.
No nose. With no air to breathe.
No lips. With no lingering tastes of kisses and smoke.
No chin. No chimples.
No cheeks. No dimples.
A dead chunk of possibilities. With an invisible crown of power and pride, that deluded the “secret” to make a history.
Secrets do not know, they do not exist for the world outside.
It’s the fire within the pounding heart, the few droplets of mouth watering lip locks, his lovers’ sunlight of multiple lies, the darkness of swollen his eyes.
That. That. That.
That gives life to the secrets. The thoughts.
To come out and breathe free.
The mindless secrets –
Become the reason of your imprisonment to another soul.
खुद से जीतने की होड़ में, मैंने खुद से ही पीछा छुड़ाया
इस धुंधले , दर्द से सने, अंधेरों से घिरे रास्तों में,
अपना सपना कहीं गिराया
प्यास ढूंढते बादलों को , हथेली भर शबाब परोसी
उसने कहा : क्यों खेलते हो ईमान से मेरे, मोहब्बत ने ही तोह नमी खाली कर दी है मेरी!
फिर उठाया मैने. रूठे हुए किसान का आंसू बंजर ज़मीन से,
सपना उस बूँद को बना कर, संजो लिया बादल ने अपने दामन में
अब वही सपना