If I looked at the Sun long enough…

If I looked at the Sun long enough, can I be transported into another dimension?

A place where troubles would fade into oblivion.
Some place where the mind stops thinking.
A realm of certainty.

If I looked at the Sun long enough, can I be pushed back in time?

An era when science and technology were only budding.
A period when life was worth more in war.
A time when I could still change things.

Those writers of TV and books – they lied.
If I looked at the Sun long enough, I would only turn blind.
But I would still try to disappear from my own life, today.

 

looking up from a well

looking up from a well,
for help, you yell.
but they glance and turn away.

laughter and smiles abound,
in pain you’re bound.
their joy is all but betray.

Life hasn’t been kind. But it hadn’t promised it ever would be. So why should anyone hold such expectations?

A slew of difficult situations have deprived me of decent sleep and the time to write. I began to contemplate how life is presented from the perspective of the ‘victors’ – those who have not been hindered; those who have not faltered; those have had a smooth-sailing journey. Social norms dictate our actions; public opinion weighs more than personal choice. Yet when you’re stuck in a rut, which of these voices shall be responsible for your fate?

The feeling was like being stuck in a well and which had walls pressing in. The fear of losing those we care was enough to crush a soul. In desperation, calls for help were greeted with disappointment. I wondered how people could take, but never give; how they could share your laughter, but never your sorrows.

Maybe as George Carlin puts it, “Scratch any cynic and you will find a disappointed idealist”. Who is to blame then, but the faith we had once put in Man?

masking those words

In the words of Stephen King – “The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings – words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out.”

Falling into yet another cycle of uncertainty and unhappiness, I realised how common it is to keep our deepest feelings from emerging; in words, we find solace, but in spoken words, we expose vulnerability. We walk alone; because we are afraid of company. Maybe it’s the fear of losing the company that we once had. We listen alone; because we do not wish to let others hear what we hear. Maybe it’s the fear of not hearing again. I mask my thoughts behind the shadows; crafted in stories, whispered in songs.

But who are we to demand that others find time to comprehend the obscure feelings hidden in a string of words?

Hit the bottle, it’s time to go again.

Story: girl in the story

The tip of the pen gently grazed the thin sheet of paper; but this time the ink wouldn’t flow.

He sighed, and walked away.
So much had happened, yet so little has changed.
He had written for the past twenty years, of anything that inspired, saddened or brightened his life.
But he had never written about those that truly mattered.
Today, he wished to try.

Her kisses fell like snowflakes; chilling the fiery impatience that boiled in him.
It hadn’t mattered to her that they had sold their last pieces of spare clothes; it didn’t worry her that their roof was just the naked skies.
But he had turned away then, just like he did today. He had walked away from her in pursuit of his dreams. And she had let him go; with eyes so red, they burned through his heart.

He had slept under bridges; hid behind shadows; fed on stale air – but he held one belief: some day, they would hear his words; they would buy his story; it would bring the luxury he wished to bestow upon her. And it all happened – they turned, raved, and marveled. Success found its way to him.

He returned, but she was no longer.
They say unknown diseases had claimed her,
They say she had left in convalescence.
He asked, but no-one knew.
He cried, and no-one heard. 

Definitely a best-seller; most definitely a deal-clincher.
This man must be a genius, they say
But they had forgotten his past, or theirs –
The days when they had once mocked at his poverty. 

For this girl, this girl he writes about today – they ask –
Who is she? What had she been? Where is she now?
Why did she deserve these lyrical text
When each he wrote could draw millions?

What was to them a pecuniary tribute, to him was pain that could not be compensated. And all there was, were words that described and detailed his eternal loss.

they say, they say

they say – you give some, you take some,
they say we can even make demands.
they say in life all comes and goes,
they say tears are also part of the fun.

can you tell that a soul is broken?
am I still within your sight? 
do you hear the words unspoken?
will these thoughts remain unwoven?

they say – memories don’t fade,
they say feelings won’t abate.
they say my fears are unfounded,
they say my thoughts have been mislaid.

can you still remember?
am I who you used to know?
do you sense my constrained behaviour?
will this memory last forever? 

yet I fear you will forget,
as you cross the bridge and take the step.
I watch as age soon catches up,
and all that grows is more regret.

can you tell that I still care?
were you ever angry?
do you see now life is bear?
will this pain some day repair? 

“willst du einen Schneeballen?”
the shopkeeper kindly questioned.
but festive as the dessert might be,
I knew again that tears had fallen.

can I take back what I’d said?
have i made you suffered?
did you know what laid ahead?
were you feeling once betrayed?

they say – life is over, it is too late,
they say you’ll be fine at heaven’s gate.
they say there’s nothing more to ponder,
I should’ve known – they could never relate.

they say – they say… but they never knew.

when words once meant something

There are people who speak a lot and sound like they care.
There are others who don’t speak too much and do what it means to care.
Yet people often like to hear it rather than sense it.

But talk is cheap. People say things they don’t mean, because they are seldom held accountable for empty promises and figurative expressions. For the sensitive, walking away becomes harder, because those words muttered meant something; erasing memories got tougher when words could lure the shadows of memory hidden in the corner of the mind.

Those spoken words once meant something to the listener. But that began to fade, and it came to light that all was merely glib talk.

Good things come to those who wait – Not.

They say, good things come to those who wait. I have never believed in that. I am impatient. I need work to be done days before deadlines. I see everything as a task with a process that can be expedited.

Today I re-confirmed against the statement. In personal and life issues, I am that procrastinator; that person who thinks thrice before taking action. That waiting did me no good.

People liked to ask others for advice on all kinds of things. Sometimes it helps us to see from a different perspective, but oftentimes the ultimate decision must come from within yourself. After all, who can and will be willing to take responsibility for an advice once shared and taken seriously, but resulted in a negative outcome?

Watch it slip through your fingers,
Watch it all come to an end.
Listen to the last note that lingers,
Listen to the voice that will speak no more.

We needn’t jump to make decisions, but don’t, don’t ever procrastinate…

Story: The Comedian

They smiled when he appeared; but he wasn’t smiling.
They laughed at his hilarious performance; but he didn’t laugh.
They loved his appearances, but he didn’t love appearing here; in truth, he had never loved anything, or anyone.

With an unrelenting air of dignity, he exudes a pensive mood in that grim unsmiling face. Keeping up with an austere life, he entertained everyone yet did nothing to entertain himself. He had little confidence in the intellect of most and kept everyone at arm’s length. Pleasure was such a rarity that this staid character remained so over thirty years.

He returned, with unchallenged composure and formality. He questioned his ability to amuse or impress. There was no humour in his overpowering cynicism, yet that was what made it so ideal for the role. He found it unfathomable that he had thrived in a character so contradicting to his true self. For whatever it was worth, the crowd still loved him as the comedian they knew him to be.

As sixty years elapsed, he winced with every reminder that he had yet to lead the life he wished for…
And he knew too that there wasn’t too many days left…

Story: Valentine’s No More

She listened to every word he whispered, so gently reminiscing the past that had yet to fade away. In a melodious ballad, he recounted the memories and fears that had surfaced over time. Every step had been a battle –  age, income, career – any possible demographic became a source of attack. But they had overcome the onslaught without once retreating from the verbal assaults. The lingering smile unwittingly revealed her inability to forget.

But it all came to an abrupt end. She raised her head to face that otiose empty photo-frame standing barren, glaring at her in cold mockery. He is the past. Their story now only existed within the lyrics of a song; his voice only audible through the mechanical device. Ironically nothing could last forever, but their memory had been eternalised within a choice of words. She pressed her ears against the speakers once more, imperceptibly taking in the last notes of the sorrowful tune, before flicking the switch.