Hope

So I remember from a time.

It was one of those illicitly lit streets, that resonated the pitter patter of touristy feet. The backpacker, the ones looking for enlightment, the city dwellers looking for a perfect weekend getaway- all of them.

I remembered you again.

She was there many years ago, walking those very streets, singing those songs which are now in places of her memory that get unlocked only from the smell of certain t-shirts, from an occasional sentence that is phrased in a familiar style, from an old photograph that still clutches hard.

Last night, you were in my dreams.

These city dwellers were the strangest of the lot- came to places like these so unsure of what to do and expect, and yet they arrive by the bus full like clockwork, on Saturday mornings. They even get their own food for breakfast- all neatly wrapped in aluminium foils. What do you make of these people anyway? What can you say except how weird?

This is weird too; that I miss someone I have not met.

Needless to say, she was one of those travellers- running away from the madness of it all, if only for forty eight hours. The dark streets were so full of promise, the promise of anonymity can make you feel giddy and high.

I wrote to you a couple of times, I remember. But the email is now too painful to open.

They did what the entire lot of them so typically do: they came, they fell in love, they got hurt and parted. It is now considered very typical of a generation that swears by the microwave and instant gratification. Some forms of gratifications are like that, the hangovers keep fading in and out a number of times.

You were in my dreams last night, you were. Like Hope.

And then there are terrible nights, stormy nights. Where the nice fat book some how seems lacking in the promise of its company, and the purple blanket does not really keep you warm. The mornings following them are the worst of all- the heaviness from within, the haunting memories.

Maybe I can dash off yet another email today.

Uncertainty has this wonderful way of darting in your life, it maybe likes to party with the heaviness that has washed over you. Like she were a person, and he would hold her by the waist and saunter into the anonymity of those streets again. The smells of happiness that is so far away, that manifests itself if only through the screen of a computer, smiling those toothy ones at some vague party you don’t want to know about.

It’s like that, this crazy game. Sometimes you do not want to be in it. And sometimes you thank your stars that it happened.


Crazy hope, how I miss you today...

Tuesday Morning Blues

The greys
Portend
Rain
Always

An email
Seems
To portend
Something similar

Deadlines
Are grey
As well
As ever

Smells
From
The morning shower
Have not
Worn off

The stray
strand of hair
still hangs
close
to the neck
still damp

And yet
There is
Nothing
Close
To freshness

A bit
Like life
New life
That is born
But feels
That
There is
No promise.


You are right. I need more Coffee.

For Symphony, where ever you are

They say
That fairies and elves
Are not real

That
Happiness
Is short lived

That
We are all
Forms
Of energy

Also
The grass
Is green
On any side

That time
Waits for none

They didn’t say
That you
Don’t wait
Either

Time
And you
Blowing out candles

Similar
In your transience
Similar
In your tenacity
To go away.

Greetings

In many business models and offices and classrooms around the world, it is considered as the epitome of a hard worker. There also is a poem built around it, I remember reading it sometime in junior school. It is about an ant and a cricket. The cricket spends the summer singing its lungs out, while the ant works on and on. Come winter and the ant has food but the cricket goes hungry.
Thus it is that many a tale and song sung about the ant teaches us so many lessons. I found one this morning, thanks to a sting on my leg that woke me up with the rudest of shocks. There was the culprit, walking about like my sheets were but its fine summer ground.
This little squirt needs to be taught a lesson. One that he will not forget, if he lives through it at all.
So I caught the little guy and put it in the glass that was at the foot of my bed, and put the lid on it. The little guy went walking up and down in a spiral like somehow if its little feet tread all over, the lid will magically open itself into freedom. I decided that it deserved a feast before its fate came knocking. In went a dribble of honey. But the wise one around whom business models are built, did not have anyone to share it with. Knock out destiny, yeah?
So when I thought Beaver had a fill (that’s what I began to call him, all little beings surely deserve names) of yummy Himalayan honey, I took it to my favourite haunt- the store room, and put it on the spiders web there. It must have screeched in its Beaver like way, for these are sounds my ears don’t hear. All stuck in the web, not knowing where to go. Along came the spider and sat down beside him and ate Mister Beaver away.
But then something told me that the busy guy may not have really died, and must be doing the rounds inside the spider’s stomach.
So this time the spider with the ant inside in went into my glass. What would be a fitting ending to a spider that has swallowed the ant that gave me a rude shock on a fine morning?
Then a scheme came floating into the otherwise vacant thoughts in my head. Should I just crush him under my feet? One giant stomp and squish will end all the misery.
I instead chose something more elaborate.
Out came a board and some drawing pins. The spider went on it, and the little spindly wicked legs did not really get pinned to the board, I simply cut them off with a pair of scissors and pinned the rest of the soggy being on the board.
The perfectionist in me begged for elaboration.
So I got out a little candle- the ones that go on birthday cakes and a little piece off the top, with the wick in it. This I placed on the spider.
I blew out the candle and sang Happy Birthday Kafka.