It must've been something to do with Belonging. Fitting into shells carved out in another's soul, meant for you. Empty spaces we keep locked up inside, afraid to show the cocoons that might just be the Cinderella's-shoe to someone else's hurting soul. Slip inside to remedies, comfort, protection...whatever it is you're looking for.
What is inner peace? Is it inside yourself or inside the cocoon within another? Every time I see him with heartbreaking vulnerability and an ache deep inside my soul, I find my inner peace is inside him. Maybe that's why they call it 'inner', and don't attach pronouns with it..Inner could be inside anyone, not necessarily yourself.

Home is where the heart is. Peace is where you fit. Or maybe, who you fit. Maybe they're all one and the same thing. Maybe Plato was right when he said what he did about soul-mates.

Maybe.


(admitting to your vulnerability when so much of it resides in someone else can be a very difficult thing)

her lips were the color of summer peaches in Quetta, the dusky gold of the sun when it set.
.................

there are mysteries id like to solve.
he's the biggest one of all.
......................

there are abysses in rainbows, and loopholes in fairy tales

.......................

 

sometimes, i paint pathways in the greyblue sky and dot them with silver.

...................................

 

crumpled lotus flower form on a grey waterbed

...................................

 

 i am overcome with homesickness while still cosy in my room..

.................................

 

things have settled down in a plastic,contained sort of way. bound in strips of clingfilm and social gatherings; we are a-okay.

............................

 

.i construct war zones and romantic interludes at the back of my eyes, in the corner in the dark where no light from my present can reach.

.............................

 

How could i begin to weave the fleshy strips of my narrative, the internal monologue constantly repeating my story to myself..to spew out of a hollow dry mouth, hoping the inky strains on paper can covey some small part of the stories through which we live.


at what point do we being to unravel the story from our own, the completely aloof fictitiuos tale from reality...transcribed out of pure boredon, burst of litereary vomit or distracted musings carefully crafted to sit on the sidelines, (but never a reflection of soul, never)
..............................

 

sweat tears and the wonderful composing ability of anguish

............................

i want to become yours too,

in a permanent unquestionable way.

..............................

 

I sit besides my lonely fire -

And pray for wisdom yet:

For calmness to remember -

Or courage to forget”

...............................

 

I swim in the bluest skies,

seas are only finite after all.
..................................

i feel my soul is decaying rotten in pieces like the peeling moldy skin of Eden's fruit...i would ask you to rekindle it with lyric and song, paint it with lilac shades of romance, the deep crimson of lips bleeding in nervous anxiousness, the yellow of tiny daffodils littering my doorway.. sunshine, passion, want...all the familiar, forgotten.

........................................

..and since by no means am i bereft yet of all that is beloved by me, contained in your embrace,
i will persist in soldering on even in this bright sunny gloom of summer days..

.........................................

Society is a masked ball where everyone reveals their character in hiding.

,...........................................


 

 

 

The nights are long and cold but for when I see your face my heart explodes with sunbeams.

........
These are some tough times jaan, but for you,
A thousand times over.

So much can happen in a space of 2 weeks. To a phoenix soul, it is several lifetimes wrapped in a microcosm.
A thousand soul-crushing deaths. A thousand hopeful re-births, spluttering, fluttering of wings, tentative first steps back into the cruel world.

To the naive, the brave, the wise say,
do not go gentle into that good night.
rage, rage against the dying light.

....................................

Dec 04, 2014

There is poetry my soul sings I cannot hear.
Days when it blazes in vivid reds and yellows,
and days when it sputters and chokes, and barely makes a sound.

..................................

Gypsy.

(reflections on diaspora)


I know a lot of people find my lifestyle rather... intriguing. The constant shuffle, the up-and-go, the ability to constantly experience the New; except perhaps that its a misnomer, its not an ability or a talent, more circumstantial . However the grass is always greener when your toes are safely tapering the other side. The instability has lead to this feeling of acute restlessness in-bred in me now; the thought that at anytime things get 'too much' I can run to a New place and build up everything from scratch again: new image, new social circle, new interests, new preferences, new hobbies, new who-I-am's.... a completely re-vamped lifestyle.

It's not half as exciting as it sounds.

More like a disease of sorts, if I could name it such; The build-up, the frustration, the final decision before the escape, the excitement, the anticipation, the hope this-time-things-will-be-different, the meticulous planning of the various components I will choose to include in the self.....and the subsequent failure. The depression. The laments. The mourning. And then the whole wretched cycle over again. Incurable.

It is not always a wonderland. The death of something you so preciously created, destruction of a work-of-art can be devastating,specially if its self-inflicted. They say there is method in the madness, and perhaps that is cliche but only too relevant and true in this case; or perhaps once was true... I am increasingly at a loss for defining what that method could possibly be? The opportunity for re-creation? Re-birth? What if you mess up over and over again?
Maybe life, and God, and fate and all those other mystical things are offering me a chance to re-write this story to perfection, except the kindness is anything but. At best a trial, which satisfies no one and least of all, me.

And of course, when you have an option to escape, your tolerance for what 'too much' is becomes increasingly small. Add to that the fact that I have been extraordinarily blessed with parents who engage in my sensitivities, and cater to my whimsical 'I-need-to-get-away's, this life is becoming a habit. A very bad habit; like a cigarette that will slowly murder me with the pleasure of evasion it offers.


I am not naive enough to not see the side-effects, but sadly cannot give this life up and settle. The unrest is deeply ingrained in me almost like DNA, and I fear it will become the hallmark of our family; my ancestors...and then my children. At nights, it wakes me up staring blankly outside at the open road, my skin can hear its call. Then the jitters, the desire to up and run, or float, or to constantly move, between Here and Here and Here. The markedly few hours of sleep I do get are poignantly woven with dreams of all the places I've lived, the people I've been, and always, always the constant chase of finding a one true Home.


It is an unfortunate realization that the dreaded/anticipated cycle will continue as long as a satisfactory Perfection continues to elude my fingertips... It entices me in kaleidoscopic dreams alone, until which time I wander hoping that somehow somewhere everyone and everything will finally click together and fulfill the restless tingling in each cell in my blood. Eventual, not defeat per se... perhaps relief.

Idealistic hopes. Perfection itself is as elusive a concept as stability in my life, and in my case at least, one cannot exist without the other.


But it will happen someday, the settling down, for more or less...or so I console myself. The much-awaited arrival of Toronto suns have yet to burn away this heart, yet to make it yearn the need to heal...elsewhere. I will not fool myself that this is my final destination; not by any means...But I hope I can fool myself long enough; enough to surrender for just this little bit.
Enough for now.

-rewind-
Wrapped in a turquoise sari, single golden bangle, austere bun; each strand of taut, silken hair yelling for liberty,
like the voice of all her countrymen.

She was gathering fallen jasmines in my palms when they threw me out. House ablaze, men caged, the wail of a lonely child in the dusk,
The smell of fire and ash and wilted, trampled jasmines.

‘You Indian Scum’

And the sounds of echoing gunshots.

-forward-

Me.
Feet resting on metal rims of the stool, fingers clutching my bottle of chilled Pepsi.
My head swims in the artificial,

kaleidoscopic advertisements, Gucci bags, fur coats,
the aroma of my jasmine scented Calvin Klein perfume I sprayed meticulously earlier in the day.