Slinging scribbles

I ran as fast as I could, only to realise that the race wasn't about running. T'was more about knowing. Knowing, there's a plague that makes you run. The plague, that scares you to run, but alas!Not knowing makes you run harder.... All of us must have issues, Issues for your perusal, no? learn to mock patience! Run, let your house burn, flames purging hunger, zeal, while its silent out there, all of it! Atleast you nod rightly, 'hang' in there, right? Sorry Snooty, not the challenge I picked. And yes I ran, but stopped clocking the time long before I finished. Knowing, I ran and knowing I must stop. Chuckle, chuckle,

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...

For me, a paint or a picture, none that is real, relegated to a bench, monotony is the new stench. Judge; crisis! A quiet insider in me, tatters, a little shy, shudders, all that was true is all, for true? The veil of hypocrisy unveils unfailingly, wailing at sorrows that are none. Create; bereave! Silence is the new confusion, torn apart by the age, says a savage, bound by nostalgia of ages, Wilted, wasted wanderlust in wonderland, for worse? Drop;dead! Pleasure preys on the thirst of greed, greed is the new breed, breed forms the unholy grid, finally succumbs to the dreadful deed! There unfolds a trail of paths searching for the light, bigotry, lies are all it finds, for there are many lights, those ones that delight, oh yes, many, but none that claim to not provide the house of light! All that discipline is gifted, or a practiced chain, Sane, but banal for the bane! Time ricochets backtracking shame, Now flame the blame and hug the lame! Insanity bred by ins...

There lives a sinner not in Sinbad, He thinks he sins but not so much as much he sees, Much lesser, lesser than a few, purer than the impure, to him, it seems, He doubts a lot, over him, over her, over all for he is not sure, For the soul purest on earth regaled in him, for the only admirer of truth and providence was in him, as he would like to believe. 'A sinner overlooks the sin, not the saint, until he sins', he scoffed in disguise, The world was a farce, a morbid reality of the degeneration of humanity, corrupted by intentions, maligned with actions! And, the sinner, who thought himself as a saint, thought he knew it all! To him, he was the judge who examined the crime, knowing there was one! He knew the truth, in his own graveyard, But alas! he forgot he had committed a crime, convicting none but innocence!

Threads woven with ever changing needs, wants wanting with ever changing wants, the thread that separated needs from wants seem thinner than the thinnest of thoughts, the brouhaha over life that was supposed to give and take but never laugh for lover's sake! The bulleh shah of love laughed at our love, for in happiness, we saw bliss, the childish nature to love some and to forget some, to address the needs, to demand the wants, to chase, to get first, to forget then Where is your will, he asks! To plant the seed and then let it grow into a fine tree, to nurture and caress it, further let it breathe free, of course lost while you gave up, your pretentious love and your pretentious suffering! He laments, this generation will never see love worthy of love, for there is no love that retained the fringe of time, But, I, rock the boat, and I make an unabashed claim. I make a promise to promise my love, one love, forever.

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.

I performed a soliloquy of us talking. You perched, poised on the couch narrating a story, and me listening as intently as my ears can, eyes stuck to your gesticulations for they might disturb your exercise. Not a movement is made for your dear attention is at stake, I dare take a breathe to live longer to hear the peculiar lady's tale! The convivial has defied time but has revived faith in honest intentions, the propinquity caved in to the temptations, that had been kept at bay for so long have been surrendered to a lout, my lady, you want to make an ideal companion out of me? How lucky could my luck be? Pray, tell me, why you took a prime number when composites were never afar? I performed a soliloquy of us talking in your presence, for I made a photographic memory of our schmoozes, for its those moments of absence, for its these moments of presence.