Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

somewhere between my last desperate attempt to reach you
and your last shrugging off an opportunity to reach out
i let you go. i set you free
and now, every now and then when you wander back
i don’t know what to do with you
it’s strange
i have let go
i never thought i could or would
but the fever has left me
atleast, in as much measure as it could

the passion is now a remembered master
and a phantom addiction
i have a vaguely sad memory of remembrance
like a echo of a shadow
but the memories even have faded
this is the other side of your who killed whom story
i have truly moved on
i am sorry and i console myself
only with the knowing that you couldn’t really care
given the last two years or so
there were so many opportunities
you didn’t take many and i missed more
but whats done is done
you cannot newly break a thread that
time has gnawed so bare
so even goodbye seems like empty words
but farewell

But with the fever, the poetry left. And the words dried up too. Apparenttly, Lisa was right – if not being, it bore a gift. But what is an annoying wicked mother in law who brings a box of home made fruit cake – however divine, right? better off without. Besides I like saving the calories. And think about diabetes

But I miss reading fiction, or poetry, or music. Or anything that makes me feel. Or old friends. Or personal conversations. Or gestures of random affection. I miss feelings – sometimes. Like a amputated limb, my limbic centres sometimes remind me that I dont feel, really anymore

Though that is a lie. I feel. Thirst. Exhaustion. Boredom. Unbearableness. Hunger. Laughter – pointless jokes – Outrage, sorrow at macro levels. Sometimes affection at the young and old and dogs. I laugh and play.  And the other sorrows of Faiz

I dont even remember your face. Or how your skin felt. Or where exactly which mole was, how you hair … or the colour of your eyes. As I go about your day things you would have said or done had you been there play in the back of my head, or an occassional innocuous memory – but that is just the habit of almost a decade – and besides I am like that with all my memories – of every beloved friend and other family. But sometimes I have a dream. dont remember you at all. Not the constant moving. Not the passionate debate. Not childlike laughter. The boyish crying or even the constant twin-like resonance. Or the lies, the betrayals, the injuries

Most of the times, I feel fine: comfortably numb. And unconcerned.

“Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;”

my friends often tease me because I say I hate holidays (and weekends). the trouble is not with the holiday but the coming back to life. the peaceful rhythm of my days suddenly feels so bring and after those mad days in the city with my whole family, the empty suburbs so still

the last few days I kept thinking that I wanted to start blogging again. There is SO much to say, so many thoughts and ideas come to my mind now and then as I rush about my day but by the time I decide what to do with them – if anything – they are gone. When I sit down to write, there is nothing at all

anyway, writing after all this while feels like riding a bike after a decade or two. vaguely familiar, but very wobbly.

I dont know if or when I will come back – either tonight or tomorrow or never again …

wolfs and dogs

i dont know what hunger or tiredness feels like to you
i can go for days with little food or sleep
you dont know what boredom feels like to me
it makes me desperate – like a corkscrew turning in my soul
and this emptiness and this city of normal people peacefully slumbering
trapped in the middle of all this normalcy. desperate howling half crazed
there is a rabid wolf hidden inside my soul
and he is seething in hate at your comfortable cage

sulking words

Now that I have the time. And I head is full of things I could write about, I can’t find the words.
My heart is bursting with so many things, none of which you can tell a soul. Is that when you feel you have drifted far away from all your friendships? I used to have people I could tell things to, and eel resonance. Because that’s what we crave isn’t it? Resonance? What does that even mean. And caring. No one really cares about any thing anymore. We are all so caught up in here and now. Pointless trivialities and meaningless banalities

Actually those are not perhaps the right words to express what I feel. I suspect I know who is this monster stirring again in my soul like a long assumed dead volcano. But I dare not say the words for fear of raising him: not even in My head. I don’t dare open that box. I don’t even dare take it out if the suitcase. But he just grins at me from inside. With beady X-ray eyes

I am scared. I am bored. I am sad. I am excited. I am amused by myself. I am growing. I bump into my childhood self in the mirror. I am realising things I had buried out of my consciousness for years. I am hiding new monsters and bones away. I am dreaming of sin. I am praying for salvation. And dreading the boredom. I have danced with the devil in a dark blue room. I have chased the shadows of the sun, heedless of the world of men. I have drunk secret wine hidden in closets with brooms and dusty suitcases. I have been ridiculous. I have been drunk. I have been exhilarated.
Now I’m bored. And I’m petrified

Love is

Love is a sudden pause
In life’s voracious ambition for itself
Love is an awkward pause
Pregnant with mysterious illegitimacies
First a comma, then question mark and then maybe a semi-colon

Didn’t even say goodbye

Chances are, after this we will never meet again. But you must have known that when you left, all those years ago. It had seemed so strange, that you didnt even say good bye. But maybe that is why you didnt. Because you knew, even then

The days feel shorter in winter. But they shouldnt, right? The evening should begin when meetings are done, and I start on my own work and end when I am too tired to go on. The night should begin when I eat and collapse, and end when I wake up. But these days it feels like the darkness is stealing the days. I find it harder to ignore, or even compensate for it. As the sun sets, i feel more and more exhausted; a sense of time having run out. Something inside asks me, whats the point? Time has run out; the goal is still out of reach.

But what is the goal? There was a time when everything was defined by you. Not at the beginning. And not at the end. But in the middle.
I always thought it is the middle of a relationship where the sweet spot