How long?

d7ca1ff1b16dc81a3cca6956861395e5Just as it lasts

Like an ember breathing it’s last breath

In future, it won’t light

In past, it wasn’t born

In present it burns, like this is it’s first and probably the last time,

Through the nostrils it takes in all the oxygen to burn in the crucible of time

 

Just as it lasts2ad95d8c800b5a9821b92941787358a0

The bubble out of the mouth and gills of a fish

Not Scared to burst out laughing as you crack a joke through it

Unaware of the vast ocean right outside its boundaries—-Where blue whales, octopus and a deep diver, swim— playing with a billion others like itself,

In present, it floats, light and sturdy, like this is its first and probably the last time,

Over the skins of plants and fauna.

Lets light past through it, glowing its boundaries.

9a388f9774c33b67ab09943c6625c777Just as it lasts

The wave, angry and ferocious, like a child out of the womb of a mother

Crying while refusing to open his eyes, in the denial of the shore

Carrying tornadoes in its lap, and a lump of star fish in the palms

Unconscious, just like you, of death at the feet of a lover

Unknown of the fiery stir, called out by a boy who came to curse the ocean for taking away his father

Forever,

Indifferent, yes like you, to “forever”

Waves do not stop coming to the land, to wipe away the last traces of tears shed on the sand.

Just as it lasts6c302abccef72f811257181eb030579e

The funny moon plays a piano through the instrument of night, placed in the arms of the universe

Keys painted with the white of your face, and the black of your mole

Tiptoeing through my window, hangs like a hole in a black craft sheet

Reminding me of my art class, where I pasted white origami over colorful drawing board

Awed by god’s forgetfulness to fill in color!

Unconcerned with what the sun did to be gold?

The moon hides, and reappears, losses in despair and revives in beauty.

Just as it lasts

We will.

Kanksshi

– From the Land of Mystica

 

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Quiet!

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.

From Inspiration collection
Experiencing Silence in parts, interwoven with his love for mountains and my love for breaking.

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.

-Kanksshi, From the land of Mystica

Bleed!

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A Bronze Typewriter from a Vintage Collection at KalaGhoda Art Festival 2017, Mumbai. Clicked- Kanksshi Agarwal Date- February 9th 2017

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.

So, Bleed.

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.

-Kanksshi

From the Land of Mystica