I need my pen

Do you remember your first fountain pen? Or your favorite one?
That feeling of being old enough to own a pen.
Moving on from Nataraj & Faber Castell.
Truly jumping into the world of words.

That was a time when paper did not come cheap.
Blank papers from old notebooks became new notebook – Rough Copy 🙂
This copy had papers of all shapes and sizes. All colors and tints.
Square boxes of maths notebook. And three lines of Literature notebook.
A souvenir, a gift, from last year to this – jumbled up, yet so simple.

Words
The cure to boredom is curiosity

All the thoughts in my head. And all the thoughts in yours.
Will be ink one day. And paper and pen.
And then, at last, I will write us a poem.
And a love song, maybe.

Sometimes my mind is like a dangerous storm.
And my heart is thrown away in all directions.
I need to look beyond the eye of this storm.
I need to write it all down. I need my pen – The one that is lost now.

Vice

Turmoil caused by a blackened heart
He was busy fighting an inexplicable opponent
One who never showed up
One who has never appeared before. And never will.

There was a whisper. Like a cold breeze.
Brushing past his shoulder. Down his neck.
It tells the signs of a new age, colored by the vagaries of past.
Frozen in time. Unaltered. Unwavering.

All of his vices.
All together. And all at once.
An incomplete purpose.
A broken trust.
A failed faith.

Does this lie within his comprehension?
Or somewhere beyond.
He must move towards the unsettling consequence.
Burning out with regrets.

He cannot go back now.
We cannot go back now.
The turmoil within us will stalk us.
To the end of space and time.
And the opponent will have the last laugh.

A web of memories

A good memory is like a gush of fresh air that feels smooth and pleasant against your skin, completely engulfs you in a blanket of thoughts and you find yourself smiling at the very touch of it.

But when a bad memory visits you, it doesn’t visit you alone. It brings with it all the interconnected memories that creep up your mind and pull you down. You keep trying to escape from this quicksand, but the more you move, the more you inch towards drowning.

What is it about bad memories that make them so powerful? I had been thinking a lot about this. Opening my arms and mind to all the memories that visit me – Experiencing them, studying them. Can we cut emotions out of these visits? Can I invoke my emotions when a happy memory visits, while behaving like a spectator sitting in a farm house, watching cars running across the newly built highway when it’s turning for a bad memory.

When I say ‘good’ or ‘bad’, it’s all about perspective. A memory which could have been haunting you some time back, suddenly transforms into something good, which you embrace whole-heartedly. Thereby meaning that memory in itself is not good or bad. It is just a reminiscence of a time gone by, child of random circumstances. It is not real. A ghost from the past which has settled in your subconscious and refuses to budge. It is how we decide to face these memories when they momentarily jump to your conscious, that makes them good or bad.

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Full Moon 🌕

I looked at the full moon from the flight’s window.

The moonlight was shimmering all over the clouds.

The pilot made an announcement about the turbulence.

A turbulence which was temporary. I hope all the turbulences are.

Even the one in my head, which I have been trying to fend away for a long time now.

My thoughts have always revolved around her.

Even now they do. Not romantically. Not with a longing to come back together.

I don’t know how to explain this. I think of her. The old incidents. And trying to make out if she was what everyone thinks of her.

Or what I used to think of her.

But I always had the bias for the ones I loved.

I will keep this one fruit hanging as of now.

It’s not that ripe. Let’s give it some more time.

Till then I would just look at the full moon.

And the light all around me.

Life is good. Or is it? You tell me.

Shadows

That time of night when everything is in a state of limbo, stuck between the wish to stay, and the need to retire

I look at the sky. The moon’s wisdom seeps into me like a river of dancing lights.

I am restless tonight. Standing on the grass. My feet become roots.

Is the moon conversing with me? Are the stars trying to reach out?

I am not sure. Still I reach out. And wonder. On which one of these days will they take me away.