How do i know?
How do I know that the bridges I leave behind will still be there when I look back from your side?
How do I know your side will not surrender to the will of our southern winds and alter its features entirely, as the dunes wantonly modify the beach every season?
How do I know that the beach we keep in our hand knit dreams will be the same beach we see once we arrive, the idyllic sun and sea we strive for each day?
How do I know you are not the sea and will tide away?
It was, and she was
Certainly aware that
In the forking paths
Laid before her
A chance hid
In the secret forest.
I once read that Samuel Beckett wrote 'Waiting for Godot' in French because it forced him to be more attentive to the lexicon and grammatical structures he employed in his masterpiece.
Some time ago I sent a friend of mine (who can speak English and who is also a colleague) a poem I wrote for them.
I had encased my chaotic thoughts in the finest glittery English words, knit as delicately as grandma would knit a lace shawl or a baby sweater.
I had checked once and twice that my poem felt smooth to the touch, that there were no yarn ends left loose, and that I hadn't forgotten a pin somewhere as I struggled against the needles to craft the gift.
When I finally presented my work to my frien...
A beginning and an ending.
An A and a Z.
An Alpha and an Omega.
The sparks in your eyes and my dreams.
The Big Bang and the Big Crush.
A welcoming hand and your indifference
The cover and the back
Your introduction and my epilogue
The ingredients and the banquet
The first and the last
Not the everything.
We created a world, you and I.
We invented a language and its syntax, its lights and its shadows, its satellites and its stars.
We created a world with our hands as we explored the boundaries of our past experiences, tinged with the complexity of our realities.
We created a world as we made sense of our feelings, of a love that made a sudden, unexpected entrance and has grown stronger ever since.
We created a world, you and I
I walk down these corridors and the place is empty. The sombre rooms, once brimming with joyful exchanges, are now devoid of meaning.
I wonder where all those spirits have gone. I wonder why they decided to abandon what had been built with so much effort.
I walk down these corridors and their words hang from walls neatly arranged by colours and moods, an assortment of feelings stranded deep where light doesn't reach.
Every now and then one of us comes back. After exploring the dusty kitchens, the silent living rooms, the dry gardens, this lone visitor sets off treading over past memories, wondering where all these spirits have gone and why they left their words behind.
Sunsets like you are meant to be free.
When your silky pastel shades pave the way for the sun to seek refuge at night, you tinge life with magic in the pinkest pink of cherry blossom and orchids.
Who am I to lay claim to your iridiscent smile or your gleaming eyes that spring out of the nothingness that surrounds us?
All I can do is treasure each transient ray of joy you mysteriously choose to gift to this project of being, and not wonder when, or why, or even how. All I can do is let myself bathe in your aureate light as you beam in every possible way.
When you focus on who you are
And what you have achieved,
Life seems easier.
The attentive ears
You used to borrow
Were for you
To grow from within
And not a mere
When I kiss your lips, I forget everything around and in this world that dissolves once our eyes turn irrelevant.
In your arms, the irrational becomes strictly logical, and the gaps left by incomplete stories become part of something meaningful, something greater than ourselves, structured from the prologue to the epilogue by unconditional love.
Earthling (me Charu)
My goal for this year is to strike a balance between work and the rest of my life, between myself and others, between duties and fun.
Believe me, it's a daunting challenge for someone like me.
Last day of holidays. Tomorrow I go back to work, where we are supposed to prepare our annual planning.
My plans to survive post holidays interrogation and fake compassion comments:
When the dramatis personae page of your life gets crowded with secondary characters mushrooming in every scene but having an insignificant role in the plot, it's time to rewrite the play and allot more lines for the protagonists who do make a difference.
What does 'holding on to you' mean?, you asked.
Well, basically it means that when I'm on the verge of tears at 3am and I write to you, you just help me put things in perspective.
Basically, it means that, although I'm not depending on you to solve my own problems, you are a positive presence by my side as I try to come up with solutions.
Basically, it means that I trust you, with all the weight of the term in mind.
I choose to trust myself to you, today and every day, in joy and in pain, not because you are my saviour, but because you're the best companion to share the journey of a lifetime.
For a long time I have
Erased and rewritten
On the same sheet of paper
Words that get refined and polished
Just to become vacuous
The moment I bring them to surface
Now this sheet threatens
To self destroy before my own eyes,
The language unclear
The lines blurred beyond hope of recognition.
A story worked and reworked
with feeble foundations
And a lost identity.
I'd better forge
With a blank page
And start from scratch
A more profound plot where
My name isn't nowhere near
The secondary character list.
'Don't leave me, please.'
' I love spending time with you'
'The hues of your hair are beautiful'
'I'm here for you'
And yet, these words were nothing but a dazzling costume designed to conceal the nothingness he had carefully woven in his soul, perfectly crafted to catch an unsuspicious passer-by.
Now that I'm on holidays, I have more opportunities to think about my life, where I am and where I'm heading to.
Sometimes I lose direction and fail to tell the relevant apart from the useless. On my last working day prior to the holidays, I was stressed out. For the first time in my career I had a managing position this year, which means endless work hours on bureaucratic school paperwork and angry and frustrated parents. I accepted this job thinking that I could make the difference, but time proved me wrong.
Like Oedipus, I hurled my voice to the winds, but my call echoed in the nothingness of the empty halls around my office. That last day my body, which isn't as fond of metaphors as m...
Sometimes memories strike you like a thunderbolt. Sometimes they don't tiptoe into your conscious state, they simply clear their way with a sledgehammer until they become visible.
That was grandma yesterday.
Every shared smile turns the fabric of space and time into a seamless work of art.
When I inch my way in the crowd, I often feel lost in a labyrinth of pieces of glass, each tinted in a different shade of the light spectrum.
Some fragments dance in the breeze to their own tune, some mirror others' moves, some intercept the sun beams and alter the reflection of the rest. Some swing menacingly over the others, some are shattered in uncountable pieces on the ground.
At the center of that maze is you, a crystal as transparent as nature allows, standing serene with all the hues carefully kept in your pockets, inviting me to be myself.
Thanks for your response dear...
Sorry for Mah late response...
I wiSh U will get everything u love...
Keep smiling always ☺ T. C. Urself
Love & care from India 🇮🇳
® Sinu ™ 🗿
Wanting to run aimlessly, Forrest Gump style, until every worry is left behind and I'm only breeze and light.
As the last sunrays trail off this evening, I look through my window and see the tall faceless buildings surrounding my backyard. Their orange and pink tinted walls stand around my cherry trees, fully blossomed in white. Even though I know my neighbours, their lives remain shrouded in the mystery built out of bricks and mortar, painted in pastel shades.
The sunset has tiptoed away from the day, and I simply walk back to the familiarity of the strident yellows in my kitchen, where I am just another human behind my own walls.
When the daily quicksands of uncertainties threaten to devour you, the only solid structure that can be built is a bridge between two souls.
Has it ever happened to you that some people seem to have an aversion to you, and you don't know why?
Most humans are hieroglyphs for me: alien but also feasible, for understanding the symbols written all over their reactions is not unattainable if you have found the pattern underlying the intricate combinations of tiny drawings.
However, for some people, the Rossetta stone is useless.
Some of the dumbest questions people asked me:
1) Why don't you have kids?
2) If you don't have kids, why don't you go dancing and have fun?
3) Why don't you drink alcohol? Is it forbidden in your religion?
4) If you are a teacher of English, how come you have never been to England?
5) What do you do all day, apart from working, since you shouldn't be so busy?
6) Do you really understand when people speak in English?
1) I don't have the foggiest idea. Neither do you.
2) Because I don't have fun by going dancing at a club.
3) Because I don't like the smell of it. It's like I'm a vegan, but with drinks. Only that Vegan sounds more chic than teetotaler. I should come up with a coo...
El sonido necesita un medio en el cual propagarse.
Esto implica que en el vacío, en la ausencia de toda sustancia, prevalece un silencio puntilloso, preciso y sostenido.
Quizás por esta razón soy una supernova más del universo insonoro para los rostros que gravitan graciosamente, cada uno en órbita alrededor de sus propios soles, mientras mis gritos son devorados ávidamente por la nada.
You move in circles but time pushes you forward.
When you look back, smiles have faded into tears and, regardless of how you retrace your steps, the resulting image is blurred, a mishmash of expressions. Nothing is crystal clear anymore.
I wish I could see the light in your transluscent soul, enough light to help me make a leap of faith to the quicksands you're standing on.