It is an indescribable feeling, the cannotbeputintowords frustration, that just eats into you, until tears seem to be the only way out.
And then only a strange pair of eyes look into nothing and seek peace.
And a strange song with abstract lyrics understands you like a mortal never could, it seeps into those inner recesses evoking pain, anger, love, passion, grief, leaving you deloused, in that haze where each of those said feelings remain just that, submerged.
And then booms, amidst those tears, a hysterical laughter, a sardonic, pitiful laughter at the irony of it all. At the failed words reflected through the lyrics, not sung, but whispered, between spasms of lost breadth.
And relationships will be spoiled, over that one song. And loneliness will be spent in the arms of its simple E minor chords.
Life works that way.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
A life lived.
It was like a sullen awakening to an even dreamier existence. As seemingly happening, as if nothing happened. As if she had never slept. As if, she never stopped speaking. Even though, she pretty much had, but the words that remained absent didn't matter, not anymore. Her silence was welcome, almost a bit too appreciatively.
It was the winter of 92 that bought with it the sudden aroma of pain.
Not much like the restricted movement of the imposed curfew as with the asphyxiation of nothingness. Freedom seemed less important to fret about than the loss of life itself. With days losing themselves in minutes, that seemed to tick as fast as the will to survive, emotions were scattered beings.
It was then that the rules of life were broken and overstepped. As people worried themselves gray over changing dimensions and growing uncertainty, two wild beings overcame the laws of the land.
He and She.
Like two freckles of sand.
As separate as alike.
Sharing dreams, saliva, souls among many other things. Lost in the caricature of hatred their environment had gone on to be.
And as her fingers tastefully decorated his neck, and her tongue searched for those little spaces of pleasure on him, the world was reduced to be an abode to two lovelorn animals. Studying the wild intakes of love. Letting go of the hay from their sweaty backs, and rushing to leave as unassumingly as rushing into each other again.
And passion and love were never different. They came together, holding arms, whispering innocent nothings, and left together in the racing hearts of the two young animals, bonded, by dreams of a tomorrow that weren't tumultuous with hate but with deep rooted hope. Hope, finding it's resurrection in those secretive afternoons and summer hues.
Until man decided to unleash his rules of what is right and what is wrong onto the innocent. Rules of how life must be lived and how not. Of the ones to be loved and the ones not.
And once rules were laid out and enforced, people were separated and murdered.
Not once was a thought spared to the freedom of human mind. Not once to to self-made plans and hopes. And not once to love and its accompanying passion.
And as she sifted into silence, not once was a thought spared to a life lived.
It was the winter of 92 that bought with it the sudden aroma of pain.
Not much like the restricted movement of the imposed curfew as with the asphyxiation of nothingness. Freedom seemed less important to fret about than the loss of life itself. With days losing themselves in minutes, that seemed to tick as fast as the will to survive, emotions were scattered beings.
It was then that the rules of life were broken and overstepped. As people worried themselves gray over changing dimensions and growing uncertainty, two wild beings overcame the laws of the land.
He and She.
Like two freckles of sand.
As separate as alike.
Sharing dreams, saliva, souls among many other things. Lost in the caricature of hatred their environment had gone on to be.
And as her fingers tastefully decorated his neck, and her tongue searched for those little spaces of pleasure on him, the world was reduced to be an abode to two lovelorn animals. Studying the wild intakes of love. Letting go of the hay from their sweaty backs, and rushing to leave as unassumingly as rushing into each other again.
And passion and love were never different. They came together, holding arms, whispering innocent nothings, and left together in the racing hearts of the two young animals, bonded, by dreams of a tomorrow that weren't tumultuous with hate but with deep rooted hope. Hope, finding it's resurrection in those secretive afternoons and summer hues.
Until man decided to unleash his rules of what is right and what is wrong onto the innocent. Rules of how life must be lived and how not. Of the ones to be loved and the ones not.
And once rules were laid out and enforced, people were separated and murdered.
Not once was a thought spared to the freedom of human mind. Not once to to self-made plans and hopes. And not once to love and its accompanying passion.
And as she sifted into silence, not once was a thought spared to a life lived.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Ben.
You induce the summer in the cold, and get away with the long lost smiles of the moments seized and carefully wrapped in those hidden blushes that surface when we look the other way.
And as our fingers effortlessly entwine, we give in to the cravings that try to push their way through the many nervous misgivings we hold. And then, love is held like a child, nurtured and taken care of, only to be given wing.
Having been corrupted by the senile attempts of the world gone by, I often find myself resting my head on your shoulders, strong and resilient, capable to upset any springing emotion of gloom. And as we walk hand in hand among faces, known and disturbed by our alarming sense of waywardness, the smiles notwithstanding, we seem not to notice. As I was beginning to question beliefs gone astray, you came and instilled what now seems like the heart of a young child.
You seem pleasant, like those bright summer evenings spent on grasslands, with the birds fluttering by cooing love in the hearts of the young. Exuding charm that sends ripples through the heart of the child in frocks, carefully nestled in the heart of mine.
In the night, as your strong arms find their path all around me, gone is the child-like pleasantness of the evening. As your veins transpire and travel through spaces, craving niches on my skin, we aren't the disarmed children we were, rather, we're crafting beauty on each other's capes. Beauty characterized by red screaming lines of love, that scream out in agony in separation. And once the storm subsides, we're left smiling that very same innocent smile of us.
And evenings spent, talking our own crazy language will be our's and our's only.
Not to be shared.
Not to be questioned.
Recurring evening, spent on us.
P. S. Also, this blog has been awarded by the very generous Ajay from The Shaded Shadows.
Sheds tears of happiness.
Thank you. :)
And as our fingers effortlessly entwine, we give in to the cravings that try to push their way through the many nervous misgivings we hold. And then, love is held like a child, nurtured and taken care of, only to be given wing.
Having been corrupted by the senile attempts of the world gone by, I often find myself resting my head on your shoulders, strong and resilient, capable to upset any springing emotion of gloom. And as we walk hand in hand among faces, known and disturbed by our alarming sense of waywardness, the smiles notwithstanding, we seem not to notice. As I was beginning to question beliefs gone astray, you came and instilled what now seems like the heart of a young child.
You seem pleasant, like those bright summer evenings spent on grasslands, with the birds fluttering by cooing love in the hearts of the young. Exuding charm that sends ripples through the heart of the child in frocks, carefully nestled in the heart of mine.
In the night, as your strong arms find their path all around me, gone is the child-like pleasantness of the evening. As your veins transpire and travel through spaces, craving niches on my skin, we aren't the disarmed children we were, rather, we're crafting beauty on each other's capes. Beauty characterized by red screaming lines of love, that scream out in agony in separation. And once the storm subsides, we're left smiling that very same innocent smile of us.
And evenings spent, talking our own crazy language will be our's and our's only.
Not to be shared.
Not to be questioned.
Recurring evening, spent on us.
P. S. Also, this blog has been awarded by the very generous Ajay from The Shaded Shadows.
Thank you. :)
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Fervently hope, she does.
Her eyes sift with a fervour that is yet to be understood.
By the man who has had painted her picture in his heart, keenly brushing with strokes of passion, love, indifference, hate, anger and senile pleads. And she, lost in the hues of her own unanswered questions, whirls her eyes, silently hoping constancy prevails.
She is not the girl that men gape at in awe.
She is the girl men fall in love with.
With the diffusing smiles, hidden beneath scars of misunderstood words, uttered and broken.
With the eyes losing themselves in a disarray of innocence, charm and maturity.
She moves with the grace of a cockerel on the go. Oh no, she's a charming little thing alright, with the assumed walk of a ballet dancer gone wrong. With the necessary drama that would put Liz Taylor to shame. And a cupboard that cannot wait to get rid of its bearings. With a colloquial twang that incites squeals of laughter from none but her own self. And a stubborn want to be proven right, aptly supported by the gadget she oh so fiercely guards.
But then, beyond the pleasant smiles and the friendly overbearing lies a mystic pathway to the hurdle of questions left unspecified and unattended. Of the numerous emotions felt and the hours spent in tending to what now seems like a gamut of tears shed. From the very same eyes, that has hath infused the pleasure of life and love in many.
"But then, for once,
questions unanswered shall be aptly ignored,
and the growing wait,
shall be nursed,
with an array of words,
and touches galore.
And glances shall be stolen,
amidst the strangers present.
The questions shall come back,
nonetheless,
but the love will only grow. "
And she will smile, as her name resonates hope, and her eyes gleam love.
P. S. Shettyman. :*
By the man who has had painted her picture in his heart, keenly brushing with strokes of passion, love, indifference, hate, anger and senile pleads. And she, lost in the hues of her own unanswered questions, whirls her eyes, silently hoping constancy prevails.
She is not the girl that men gape at in awe.
She is the girl men fall in love with.
With the diffusing smiles, hidden beneath scars of misunderstood words, uttered and broken.
With the eyes losing themselves in a disarray of innocence, charm and maturity.
She moves with the grace of a cockerel on the go. Oh no, she's a charming little thing alright, with the assumed walk of a ballet dancer gone wrong. With the necessary drama that would put Liz Taylor to shame. And a cupboard that cannot wait to get rid of its bearings. With a colloquial twang that incites squeals of laughter from none but her own self. And a stubborn want to be proven right, aptly supported by the gadget she oh so fiercely guards.
But then, beyond the pleasant smiles and the friendly overbearing lies a mystic pathway to the hurdle of questions left unspecified and unattended. Of the numerous emotions felt and the hours spent in tending to what now seems like a gamut of tears shed. From the very same eyes, that has hath infused the pleasure of life and love in many.
"But then, for once,
questions unanswered shall be aptly ignored,
and the growing wait,
shall be nursed,
with an array of words,
and touches galore.
And glances shall be stolen,
amidst the strangers present.
The questions shall come back,
nonetheless,
but the love will only grow. "
And she will smile, as her name resonates hope, and her eyes gleam love.
P. S. Shettyman. :*
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