I have to start again , the writing that is...

Things need to be noted down for a reason I cant really articulate.

Life passes by and years get added on and things change perspective so often, you start wondering what even is all this? It is something profound and notes need to be taken, records need to be made and lessons need to learnt.

It is fascinating, the distance you traverse, within yourself and geographically and from who you used to be. The valleys of fear and the peaks of exhilaration. Oceans in between the knowing and the unknown.

But as said before, I have to start writing it all down...

 

Flashes from the past some moments frozen in golden amber of memory
that crazy boy with huge eyes of pooled hope and dreams
Dark honey colored saccharine page from the past

Hurt blue colored shoes in a store window
Never bought but remembered forever
Sepia pink colored summer evenings of warm breathing and fragrant air
Early morning sunshine-yellow colored shoes owned and worn
Like sunny smiles on my feet

Color to remember you by
purple yearning with a touch of peach and a little lavender thrown in
If we could touch colors and devour them too
Would you see me as a crimson tinged with pale gold, with a hint of shimmer?
Would you taste it on your lips and feel it in your soul

To hold another captive in a mind's prison
To hold them up to light and try to decipher
To dissect what each thought means
to try to understand meaning of life
All futile just like colors cannot be tasted and you still know the taste
You kept them on your tongue and they just melted away.

You.

Like an old bathrobe

With no significance in the right now and  right here

Like an old blanket that provided warmth once a long time ago

Now worn through  ... only memories holding it together

Yes, like that, I still pull you out from a treasure box of sorts

I remember you like you probably never were

Only me, that is who I am looking for and all that I survived because of an idea that was you

I see your sepia tinged image, a twinkle of your eyes, a broad toothy smile

A simple joy of being there with my imagination of you

A cozy cocoon of foraged pieces of dry grass, some fly away wool and shreds of cotton from a near by cotton tree - that was the nest we lived in, the utopia of an imaginative mind that often has platinum resilience

Have I thanked you before, have I thanked you enough?

Let me do it now, ritual and all, let me put some incense and bring flowers too

Let me reminisce for a while, say a prayer or two

Then I can close the memory book and try to refrain, until I feel the need to pray for your presence again

Eye of a Storm

Building a home in the eye of a storm

Isn't that what we all do time and again

And the one that chooses to live in it with us

Weathers it all in the name of faith is the one

The one meant for you, the one meant to be

Making you smile and laugh like it doesn't matter

When outside the sky is falling down

The storm is hitting its hardest

And you cant hear it at all

All because they chose to stay, when no one else would

All because they chose to stay to wait it out with you

All because they built a home in the eye of a storm with you... for you...

 

SOS into the Universe.

Tear soaked SOS into the universe
A sixteen year old broken, torn and beautiful imagination
Remember do you, being on the edge of the world with it twirling crazily behind your heart?

Dreams that made no sense at all
The yearning so single minded, it blew all realms to smithereens
Remember do you, being so young you could fall apart and come together all at once?

Language of the hands and eyes
Maybe some lips, but no words whatsoever could define
Remember do you, the gasping and sighing of becoming more than you ever thought possible?

Love songs? Are you kidding me?
They were more than that
They were life songs, the reason for living, the right of the young, the ritual of the old, the being, just being, the opposite of which is, not being at all.

Every girl.

It was written in the sand sometime long ago
It was never meant to be
The pink gold of the summer evening
The scented night mist
The heat rising off the now cooling sea
Just as the moon made his appearance
She was sitting there by herself
Half lit in the moonlight
She thought that pain was just an euphemism for life
It meant nothing to be bought or sold
She would rise again like a sphinx, she would scale the flight of the mighty and bold
She was every girl
She thought it was only written in the sand
It was never meant to be
It was the feeling of shimmering silver dust raining from the sky
The feeling of being so alive
The transcendent belief in after life
The cry of the possibilities.

Maybe I dreamed it all up...

Sitting up in my window staring at the dusty street. The air was thick always, even late at night no matter what season. The hum of the traffic was also a constant, yes even late at night. I used to sit on the ledge of my bedroom window and look out into the distance, where I knew the sea was. Yeah I had my own slice of the ocean view that I could see in the day time and hear its gentle writhing at night. I imagined the ocean was changing sides as it slept. I loved that ocean, in a city full of people, where vagrants set up home absolutely on every piece of land they could find, the ocean was untouchable, open space straight into eternity. The ocean, my ocean, was also available to one and all to stroll, to walk, to simply space out as I often did on the beach. It had a distinct smell, salty, sharp and desperation, well may be it was just me the desperation part.

It was a love and hate thing I had going on with that wretched city. I loved it as that was all I ever knew. The city was like a big bad wolf, an abusive lover, and I knew how to live with it. I also knew where to find comfort and when to run and where to hide if the lover turned nasty and cruel. After all it was home. On some level you accepted what it did to you, it made you feel tough, it made you grow up and it did all that by crushing all your dreams, one dream at a time. But no sir not my dreams, I learned then not to dream at all, you could imagine things, but on a purely external level like good things could never happen to you. But mainly you watched on taking some sick pleasure in all that pain.Yeah the city made a masochist out of you.

I wanted out. As far back as I can remember, I wanted out. I would imagine Utopia (a place like paradise, full of light and love). A lush green haven, to heal my soul inside and out. A place to lick my wounds and set up camp. Where I could dream to my hearts content. I wanted to breath deep lung full of pure air, I wanted to sit on a sea shore that had crystalline waters that resembled life and not tears. I wanted to smell hope. I wanted it all. I would look back out of my window at the city of doom, as if from out looking in and envisioned what the end of the world would look like, it would probably look like this city on any given day.

My city, I am my city, I am a masochist and I cannot help it. I am now where I longed to be, I am in the Utopia I imagined all along. I was so sure I would never make it. The city wouldn't let me go I thought to myself, but it did, but did it really? I carry it in here where my soul lives, I am cynical, I look all around me and grab at sunshine, not believing that this will last. I breath like a greedy child, I take in pure air like I cannot trust I will get my next lungful. I take picture after picture after picture of crystalline waters and crushed pearl sands, just in case I go back into the grey desperation and these pictures are all I have as a proof that once I was here, in this Utopia and I did not just dream it all up.