Scribble Scribble

"I always thought I was going to be older,

That I was going to be someone, about now"

"Ananya, the only person you need to be

About now, and  perhaps always, is you."

Autobiography

I must confess
that I am infatuated
with the idea of heartbreak.
And that I have always wanted
to light a cigarette for myself.
I have felt invincible and fragile in the same moment.


I must confess
that my fickle heart
and my loyal soul forever battle.
I long too often for the unnamed-
so much so, that when I leave,
I don't walk, I run.

I must confess
that the tragic holds
a significant allure for me
What I feel is not serenity with my being
We argue too much, this life and I
But we are searching, always searching.



And while I am at it,
I will also confess
that the brave things i say at night
never occur to me when the sun is out.
And in my proudest moments,
I don't say anything, I sing.

Maybe

Maybe you will accept me
and all of my stargazing
Shall have meaning.

But maybe you won't
And I will say I'm well
Broken, I will try
And believe my own words.

Madness

A scarred, ugly face, Beady eyes-

Glittering with desolate desperation

A torn dress- the colour of melancholia- drags itself

As she speaks to the creatures on the wall

A sudden change in the eyes,

She runs across the ruined room

Finds what she was searching for-

The blue box of red rubies.

Storms settle, as she clutches them close

Fondly, carefully caressing the stones.

A sudden scowl on the face

And quietude mates with hysteria,

Haunted by a memory, she screams,

Screams as madness beckons her again.

The only portrait on the wall,

A striking woman in a scarlet dress

Breeding in her stance, rubies on her neck

A manicured mannequin of perfection

With a composure that flawlessly belies-

The madness that lay inside

Abandonment

Tremors – Once, Twice

The swirling vortex of emotions smile,

Pleased with the havoc they have birthed

I pick up the leftovers of my soul

Look at bruised Pride in the eye.

Another tremor, another maligned memory

Sunrise, Candlelight, A puritan’s passion,

And the abandonment with which I gave myself away

To Him. Always Him.

How Do We Get Out Of This Labyrinth Of Suffering

Simon Bolivar’s last words were “How do we get out of this labyrinth of suffering?”

That this world is a pitless labyrinth is not a fact I can dispute. But I did question Mr. Bolivar if I was, in fact, suffering.

The answer was a resounding yes. And not just me, but the world around me suffered from an unnamed plague. Our momentary happiness lasted for too short a period of time to heal the wounds from the battles we waged. We suffered from common cold, from homework, from poverty and from avarice. We suffered for love, for ambition, for one parents and our children. We suffered from our perpetual quest to be happy, and then happier. 

The materialist suffered from his love of all things luxurious, and the hermit from his disillusionment. (I have always thought that it must be indeed a deep gash of suffering that compelled people to leave all).

We suffer so much that suffering comes to us the same way breathing does- in a naturally lithe flow.

My mother often asked me why my writing always sounded despondent, dark and cynical, and I always dismissed her claims saying that children always sounded despondent, dark and cynical to their parents.

It was, however, silently stated that I wrote only when I felt despondency in my views. I was a victim to the populist ideology which dictated that suffering triggered creativity and art. And every time we rejoiced in a song, a dance or a heartbreakingly poignant piece of writing, we celebrated this suffering of the artist who crafted it.

Clearly, it must be a strange kind of God who underwent a strange kind of suffering to have created us – his spawns of sufferers.

Having justified that I was really, truly and ceremoniously suffering, I came to realize that Mr. Bolivar has asked a valid, if dramatic, question. How do I not suffer? How do I get out?

John Green suggested that I forgive. Now, I have never been too generous with my “It’s okay’s” so it is a genuinely hard proposition.

Add to that the dilemma of who do I forgive. My parents – who had made the champion of all mistakes by bringing me to this world? My friends, who as disillusioned and lost and lonely as I was? People who I had loved and been betrayed by? The society – a bitch who had laid down the rules to which I had to conform else I would be rejected? Words like Fate, Destiny and  Ego which forever stood before me?

It is, as you can see, an exhaustible list. But I could not forgive them all for a different reason than just large numbers.

Forgiveness implied a blame to be put on something or someone, and I did not blame any of the above for whatever they had done. It wasn't a noble sentiment that brought out this response, but essentially the self centered mind which had learnt to take credit for all things done to it, even by externalities. (Look at me, already passing on the blame!)

At this rate, I realized I had no one else to forgive but myself, but there was only pity I harbored towards my unfortunate existence and I couldn't  find any blame, even when I searched.

This forgiveness thing was obviously not going work for me, so I turned to The Buddha’s philosophies. Asceticism, as I have already stated, seemed like another abyss of suffering to me, for it was in my nature to yearn for rosiness and I wasn't really sure if giving it all up was in fashion these days.

What could I do?

I could love and hate but loving and hating were just different names of suffering.

I (surprise, surprise) suffered when I couldn’t find an answer to the question. I suffered for Simon Bolivar, but more for myself. Bolivar had died. I still had this life to get through.

Annoyance, I learnt, bred more suffering. Why couldn’t Simon just say how?

And then it dawned.

But of course he answered the question. The only way to get out of this labyrinth of suffering was to die. I didn’t matter what context we died in, for we all essentially died in a battle that we waged against ourselves, not unlike Bolivar.

To stop the endless cycle of suffering we had to pull ourselves away and the only way to do so was to stop breathing.

This sounds like a despondent, dark and cynical suicide note. But it isn't, you see? I am, of course, taking of the long term and of a world where dying were as easy as sleeping. And I am going to live a good 60 years to figure out another answer.

Until then, if you do make the mistake of asking me how do we get out of this labyrinth of suffering-

I’ll tell you – you can’t. 

Going Away

We’re going our separate ways,

Knowing not what the morrow betrays

Love has never been easy for us to find,

And people have not always been this trustful, worthy and kind.

We’ll miss those savoury days

Spent under the suns cheerful, dreamy haze.

We’ll miss those fights, those questions and those doubts

The laugh, the fun and the mock-pouts

There have been moments of stress and regret,

Hearts have been broken, promises left unkept

Although, of sadness, we’ve had our share

We’ve also met those who taught us how to care,

People who’ve made us feel better, sturdy and strong

And have corrected us when we were wrong.

In all, the journey has been great,

Two parts love, and the rest left to fate!