Friday, February 14, 2014


It was a long time back that I had finally encountered the realisation.

Over the following months, when the sky remained nonchalant about changing its hues and the season seemed to live in some sort of lackadaisical movement, I had prepared for the realisation to remain constant.
Until, I confronted you, of course.
Akea had an important observation to make about the entire situation. In her word, and strictly hers, "You have gone cuckoo over the games that man, ever so often, plays in the spirit of vengeance. And what bothers me more is your sternness to adhere to that very same emotion that you had withdrawn from, not so long ago."
My spirit animal rose in mock flutter, a little disenchanted with all the silliness and obscurity its host had subjected it to.

And now, while I furiously type and re-type at my system, I have an important analysis to conjure up. Your lack of perseverance has added, a rather dispassionate end to an otherwise sped up tale. Everything had rushed past so far ahead, that we stood, two lost animated children of ambiguity, with contradicting words, emotions and ends.

Which brings me to the goodbye.

I walk cowering under the morning sun. A stern lover of the night, I do not understand man's need to dispatch fluidity to his activities, during the day. And while I walk, in rhythmic monotony, I carry my spirit animal, fiercely stoic to the atrocities it witnesses. Because how are we to survive otherwise? The cosmos is trying real hard, at every possibly attempt to give us the shake of our lifetime. If I could have blinders over my existence, I would.
But I walk. And while I do, my spirit animal notes down furiously, your constant mention. It's a little troubling how passionately you are thought about. But that is for later times.

You never said goodbye.

We decided in apathetic vigour that we would concede. That your man, has been nothing but a practical, tedious bore. That the art that you gave birth to, was nothing but a mock excuse for your banality. And that the songs we shared were nothing, but my music exploited. Because you know, darn too well, how quickly I take songs to heart. And knowing thus, you conceded.
But you never said goodbye.

A couple of empyrean transgressions later, I shall think less of how you shook my realisation, albeit for a short while. I will choose to listen to the songs, with an indomitable spirit. And I will think of how enduringly small we measure in the largeness of the universe, and toss your memory to the side, in favour of chaos.
But whenever I will be forced to recount your tale, to an intimate audience, I shall be reminded of how you never said goodbye.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

The Year.

Spaced out loves,
far too many,
but none, the extreme,
and most,
A noble lover,
lost to a virtuous cause,
guileless, nonetheless,
walking on,
walking on.
Drifty veils,
but none worn
in mock cover,
or closed pretense.
A rush of lights,
speeding past,
in a spaced out vacuum,
too spaced out to contain all,
containing little,
rushing past,
rushing past.
Mountains, you can touch,
stars, you can see,
water, you can drink,
and swim in too,
swimming naked thoughts away,
a childlike lover,
alone in peace.
A haze of smoke,
lost in a maze,
too mazed out to spot true love,
or true ambition.
A haze of smoke remains.
Eyes that see,
yet refuse to recognise,
the blood running the hearts of men,
out to kill,
the spirit young and wild,
and wilder away, she does,
the running thoughts,
the running thoughts that sleep,
and awaken the deepest desires,
fervently put to sleep,
by the ungrateful host,
a silly lover, is she.
And so it ends,
without as much as ending,
and began, thus,
without as much as beginning,
a start, looked forward to, not,
an end, not cared for.
If not a limbo,
where would she be?
Oh, where would she?