Slinging scribbles

For the past few years, I have reduced my writing to pretty much nothing barring a few poems. While writing for me essentially is to share my pain, it hardly means that I haven't been sad, because that would mean I beat the crap out of the World Records for being the happiest guy in the world. Perhaps,I was being human, being lazy I mean. Also, the 'me' time has been taken over by lot of formalities that  are either been self-inflicted or perhaps, had something to do with 'being Indian'. There is something about going to office day in and day out, It is called monotony. All your dream find spaces, not in the cubicles. actually, only in your brains. Perhaps, offices are meant to give you that 'kick'. They are meant for you to realise your worth, and thereby, your work, equally montonous.  The only way, we break the monotony, is by changing jobs, then bosses, either or all, till you are forty. Ofcourse, but before breaking into forty, you do read a lo...

There lies a twig which longs for the leaves as also the roots, There lies path, somewhere middle, which has two equals, One that started till the better one found its way. Its here, where lies the sun, who loves the east as also the west, Both, in two equals, yet in the east it rises and and in the west it rests, Perhaps, two loves can never be one, perhaps, two equals can yield either one, To love one you need to sacrifice one Duh!The simple math in which two never makes one. Split in love, Regards, Smith.

The world started with a womb and it grew bigger, From the words 'given' to 'make', relationships were made, Solitary confinements were reduced and yet pursued, As we knew, so did we forgot, What's for us and what we could accumulate, Eventually to the need, we all succumb, That's the only hay that we make. Its a meaningless trail, to find meaning and mean the findings, For we find nothing but a vapid play of emotions and drives, No cry will last, no smile will ever fade, Its a psyche's call, cycle byfar, Till the last breath and then again, the womb till it grows bigger......

Sitting on a leaf, thin, light, weak, not me, its the leaf, Its tender, carrying a baggage, treading cautiously, not the leaf, It might break, it does; it might fall, it doesn't, its just me, Breaks at monotony, suffers at the stroke of impatience, but its the leaf that guards, not me. Stories that have turned old, experiences that have turned sour, Nothing that surprises anymore, not to the leaf, not to me.  The tragedies of future have already been eroded by insecurities, As the leaf is living, leading, carrying, driving my speck. The speck is just a synonym for space and time, Tiny yet a black hole, clinging to the leaf like a body to a soul, Let's name the leaf, shall we? Or is it just a mystery for both, 'you' and me. There is a sudden euphoria, a strange mirth in floating and flying with a leaf, There is no achievement and yet there is accomplishment. Its me and my leaf, or perhaps its just me.

We are that weather, Rain by now, noon by then, Light absent, light present, Still classified by the months they make. She made a call, she touched my chord. Clouds, they gathered, solemn yet bliss for the plants, I know how it will end, but it must not matter, What matters is what makes both happy, the leaves and the rain. We don’t live in time, we love in time, Says, the plant, dried by noon, In life, we must enjoy not one, but company, Like the wind, sun, cold and not just rain. Its rhythm by noon. It’s a thought pouring sun, Its music calling soul. Its rhythm. Its noon…… I thought I would stop, Like the rains for they did, I found my joy, I wrote still, Like them, they found their mirth.

My will is beyond anyone's reach, even beyond mine; My hopes are scattered in the oblivion, offering unsolicited sleep. As I hear the melancholic mogwai, I am thrust into a space of trance. I surrender my soul, dance at no fright, Happy at the journey that has been made, Traversing several roads, waters and persons in the process, We either talk about past, present or future but a question simmers, Is there anything apart from this time? Is there? That sets everything apart or remains a confluence of three? There is, a point where all three are one and that one a subset of all three. That is my will. The will to bring all three into one, to believe that I can make that happen. That will will not surrender and will encourage me to break walls of weaknesses.