I am not supposed to be writing this or thinking about it. I should be sleeping. Dreaming up new dreamy concoctions. Living my many parallel, fictional lives. Stretching out on this cool, breezy veranda as all the stress and anxiety of an ironically uneventful day ebbs away from my body. But here I am. Body and mind- thinking, stressing, being anxious.
And my heart? That’s somewhere else. In some far foreign land that my mind and body have not had the time to explore and to demean forever. She is meeting new people, turning new stones over and over again in her hand till they become smooth, making her own path where the grass is yet green. She is living the life I never had. She is still crying over the death of a stranger she has only imagined to resemble a scorned lover without much basis. She is still clinging on to the hope that another day will bring news of this attractive stranger finding his love and of their story ending like all others do, Happily. She is still not ready to dig her unkempt hair out of the many letters and verses and rhymes that are caught up in it. Just like her disheveled self is not ready to cross over the parapet of this pool of absurdity to dive into the bone chilling, but quite necessary reality.
My heart, is still pressed between the pages of some book lying neglected somewhere in the clutter my body and mind have managed to ever so skillfully procure. It is drying away its tears and drowning out its importunate laughter. In a last sigh dragged far too long, it is trying to find a medicine for both the heartache and the happiness that these dog eared, coffee stained pages have brought upon it.
And soon, it shall join us again. On our mindless touristic peregrination. Only till I send it off, again. On the real journey whose path stretches across the length and breadth of this book rack. and another. and another. and another.
Like the tip of a needle stained in blood houses a million units of life. Each unit so stable- unmoving – but so alive. Always in motion. Yet never letting surface the struggle of the positive and the negative within. Only peaceful coexistence for one to see. The opposites, the anti-forces forever trapped in such proximity. Yet never questioning their fate. Ceaselessly working to resort calm and order in all they are part of- The flowers your admirer sent you and the tears you wasted when young, first love walked out and left you a broken heart.
Born out of nothing and vanishing into thin air. Dying without as much as a sigh. They are everything and almost nothing in the same string of reason. They are the way she smells and the skin draped on her body like the most elegant, custom- made pashmina, priceless. They are the words you etch and the many questions unasked, just left unattended – floating in a myriad of other unfulfilled desires. They are the promises you made and the burning scars it stamped on the canvas of her memory. They are the unsettling eyes that haunt your every dream and the ring you slid on her finger – fake, like your many promises- not kept.
Sometimes, I wish we were the cell. You, the matter. I, the anti force. So close that we could be one. But far enough to not repel the other away. Opposites that do not attract. We would work together to never let our struggle be seen. Resolving all conflict without a ripple of disorder on the surface. Our bonds made of thoughts or just thin air. We’ll be in everything and in nothing. Uncared for, like the backbone of life. Taking each other for granted.
But were we to separate, if ever such occasion came..we will melt to nothing but set on fire the entire meaningless universe with us. Destroying, the way we created. Life, this is. Death, this is.
Were you not planning to offer me your seat on the train I missed helping the old man with directions?
And I was sure we’d meet at the Seven Sisters concert that I bunked to stay cooped up in my room filled with the scent of someone who hasnt been here..all alone but for Sinatra to take me all the way to Paaradise.
Didn’t we cross eachother on the subway just yesterday? But you were with your brigade of friends and I was in the middle of a bad, bad hair day.
Or the week before when you were too preoccupied passionately discussing politics for tea in the cafeteria and me, wrinkling my nose up another sneeze.
I’d bet you frequent that chicken corner we dont eat at. My roommate is Vegan.
When it rained and I wouldn’t dare walk out sans an umbrella. You were waiting for me by the tea stall on the road to dance to that Bollywood song about the thing with love and rains.
You are petrified of blood and needles, aren’t you? And of all the professions in all the worlds, I picked medicine.
On that test, You needed my help on the solitary question I wasn’t sure of.
Or maybe you didn’t.
Just the way I did not look at these signs with enough deliberation.
Sometimes with a tad too much hope..so turgid… if your thoughts saw mine, my fantasy would burst right out and undress the many sleepless nights weighing down my eyelids for you to see.
On other days too flaccid…without even a sliver of hope of running into the person with a shameless ball of golden light shining over his left shoulder, the person I am not a fraction, a part of but the whole. Since forever and towards eternity. The person, as some people from some age would know, is a Soulmate.
If my voice swelled with emotion gets caught up in your unkept locks of hair, Come and Find me.
Or make me find you lest its too late. I dont want to end up buying any shoe for the simple excuse that the right pair for me was stacked up too far and too high in the store. Dare you pluck my song out of your hair and send it free in the hope that it finds me someday and brings me home to you. Don’t you leave “us” to Destiny. Trust me, she has no idea what we’re looking for. And you know who she runs with?
“If it doesn’t work horizontally as prose,
This quote is the inspiration behind this blog’s name and a lot of other things in my life.
To be here..it doesn’t matter if you are poetically incorrect or not. Doesn’t even matter if you are poetic, to be frank. If you respire, if you’ve created a carbon footprint (both of which are certain if you’re reading this) then you are a poet in your own sense. Everyday, every minute that you live, you create the stimuli for a string of words that, someday, will weave themself into a lyrical beauty some may call poetry, others song. The way you curve your lips into a smile, the sharp tip of your nose, the eyes you safely encapsulate a million dreams in, the hands tired from carrying on the random routines of existence, the legs only ever moving forward with the fluidity of your thought. Your every action is reason for celebration. And what better celebration than immortalizing that moment. And what better way of immortalizing than painting a picture with words? For it will not change with the dynamics of your growth into something else for someone else to immortalize in a pictue of words.
But some may say its incorrect to write more and live less. Then dont! Live more. Live each moment more deliberately. But write one word more than that. Write as much as you can. Dont worry if it is wrong. If it really is, All you’ll have is The Life of The Poetically Incorrect.