The Big Bang (alternatively titled ‘Inconclusive Poem’)

We will explode. It may not be today,
not a few days hence. But certainly
sometime in the future,
We will explode.
Because our composure in
life is lent to us, temporarily:
Look how complacent we are
with being nothing, doing nothing.
This satisfaction we find
in idling away sounds
like the slow trickle of ambition going out
of our lives
and falling flat
into nothingness.
We will explode.
Because in that nothingness, all lost ambition
takes form again – of disappointment.
It trickles down
and pools up
right where we can see it, like a dark portrait
of ourselves.
Like a time bomb, ticking away
(Only, time bombs change themselves
elementally
before they give way; and we
are fireworks propelled by the mounting
pressure
of feeling around for reassurance. We
will combust with
out changing a thing
– nobody else will light us on fire,
the fire will stem from within).

The world was ended by a flood once. We
are already 70% water, carrying the flood inside of us,
like a souvenir from the past. We
Are dams ready to let loose
Even as the rivers we carry are pools
of stagnancy
(Staring back at us, living paradoxically)
– Everything is a metaphor for life.
We were born to this world and it has ever since been
One step ahead of us:
The earth is 71% water
Most of which is the tears it sheds
for our future:
One we look forward to, but don’t bother
To look at. But Atlas
has too much time on his hands
Time more perhaps
than the weight on his shoulders
From holding up a sky pregnant
With clouds as heavy
As our despair in merely rotating
on the same axis,
day after day.
When Atlas decides to shift
The sky to his knees, we will see
how one escapes any punishment
By mere volition, and let
the flood gates open, because we
don’t believe that free will exists.
When we
Decide we can’t help it
and continue to punish ourselves
We will explode.
And explore
the world as fire and dust
Water and rust
covering the debris
of our caged past, now shattered
and liberated
(For atoms disjointed from one
another
Will find something to bind themselves with)
We
will find a way make something of ourselves
When there’s nothing left of our selves

But pieces halved
and halved again.

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An Emotion

I am no great conversationalist, and sometimes I have exchanges with people which I end up concluding in epiphanic letters to the known and the unknown – to people, places, objects, thoughts or emotions. So, when I ask you about whom you want to be, and you think about what it really is that you want and respond with ‘happy‘, I have this to tell you:

Being happy is an emotion, not a second skin you can slip into and forget to ever take off; and emotions are volatile – especially this one – and you can’t ever mistake them for the complete person you are. You have it in you to be happy, but happiness is a wanderer – it comes and goes.

I think you have to be okay with happiness being fleeting, with it being just a mood and not something as permanent as the indestructible refuge of the house you build for yourself in your mind; because the bricks you stack upon each other to make it stand aren’t mud, sand and cement – they’re sadness and loneliness and ecstasy and love, they’re the gold and silver of your experiences, and they shine and sparkle differently when the rays of the sun hit them from different angles.

It is important for the sun to beat down on your mind from different angles for you to know just how radiant it is. Each little memory you keep in there is like a tiny memento from the game of life which you see in a new light every time your eyes gloss over it. Maybe happiness can be the dust that settles on these mementos as time passes by, maybe it can be what you find beneath the dust when you pick them up in your hands to reminisce. Maybe happiness can be the reflection you see in the many mirrors that hang on the walls inside as you run along to whichever corner the butterflies of everyday life lead you.

Maybe happiness can be a passing moment in the journey you take – the glimpse of the face you catch in the sideview mirror as your car speeds by it – and not the destination itself; because it is already yours and you just keep letting it loose to take itself on morning walks, because happiness is all the more happier when you find it again and again.

House of Grief

The grass is always green on the other side of the glass. Your side is a trap, a greenhouse – it traps you in with the heat, with the helplessness, and it chokes you. The glass is soundproof, and you, like a caged animal in a zoo –  they can all see you, no less as a spectacle, but none can help. None want to, either, for it’s too risky a business – these animals are known to have a sharp bite.

Your house is a funny place, full and empty at the same time – you crave company but won’t wish for anyone to go in, or through, it. You find a new door every time you go looking for the key out of another. It isn’t your house anymore. The house renovates itself. The house owns you, just you – one rentier, one tenant, no boarders allowed.

Maybe a distant lover is your best bet.

So, when the moon peeks through your window at night, you get used to it. You wait for it – the guest knocking on the sill – without even knowing, not aware that your own vacancy signs are alight.

But it knows. It sees, it hears, and one can see the ghost of recognition on its greying face. It suffers, too, silently telling the story of its own plight.

The moon gets smaller and smaller as it consumes itself to satiate an inherent appetite for self-destruction. It takes a holiday ever so often, trying to digest the meaning of its own being. It disappears. The world – your world – is plunged into darkness. The harsh daylight hurts your eyes. The never-ending blackness numbs you down. You wait. It’s cold in here.

The moon reappears, vomiting itself out, forcing growth; all because you’re alone with the night. It walks with borrowed light, always beside you even as you try to run away from the house – especially when you try to run away from the house.

The winds tell you that the moon is in love. You do not believe them, for they do not exist in your world – the window is shut, and nothing comes in or out of it.

Wolves wail at the sight of your white-faced lover at his prime, they say that the shadow on his face is beautiful too. If you listen carefully, you see that the sounds of laughter and wailing are indistinguishable without the emotion. You know how to tell them apart, for you’ve been roommates with grief for a long time. Some say that the moon is friends with her.

You’ve lived together for so long that you think you are friends with her, too.

And how it hurts.

On some day suspended in the time after you stepped inside; the floorboards creak under your careful – but unsuspecting – footsteps as you go looking for the feeling you have been living with, but she is gone. Your lover has wished her away. Your lover, a mere reflection – of your worshipped suitor, of its own daring enemy, the Sun – lacks the heat which makes its competitor dangerous. But he has wished grief away. He has pushed her out, and in her place, there is nothing. Nothing.

The moon never decided to come in himself, either. It stood on its perch in the sky, your lover from far away.

Grief packed up well. She left without a trace, like she was never there. Like she never set foot in a place you verily named after her. And now there’s no reason for your sadness. Now, you’re just alone in a house with no name, waiting.

The grass is always green on the other side of the glass. Your side, it is but a memory.

The Poet

Far beyond the maze of words 

That ensnared him into loading his pen with ink 

And made him run it over

Sheets as fresh as blades of grass

There is a boy who doesn’t want to write:

His whole life was about putting his thoughts to paper 

And letting them bleed till they materialised into 

worlds that existed only in his head 

And sometimes behind the doors he closed.

But now he lays down the gun 

With which he shot down his demons 

Whose blood made the stories his heart sang for him 

And says that he 

He doesn’t want to write.

He hid his journals somewhere out of sight 

And thought he could let the pain out of his mind 

And try he did, and die he did 

The death of his brightest smile.

Like a bird who built her nest into a cage 

In the confines of his own mind,

The grey walls bare and unforgiving 

His palms pressed against them, feeling for a crack 

Waiting for some light

The boy says he doesn’t want to write. 

His faith hangs onto a fraying rope

Despondence breaking the dams to rush into a river 

Of sorrow, of the inability of words 

To tell himself what he wants to speak

Or to tell me, through his letters 

The little windows to his soul,

The musings of his mind, if it were musing at all.

Sometimes his mouth opens 

And he lets me trace the words on his lips 

They sing, to the tune of his melancholia 

That dejected, he doesn’t want to write. 

The boy sits alone in his cell 

Mulling over the things he left unsaid, unwillingly

Rolling them into a dough of handicap 

Eating them up, to keep himself from retching 

The liquid remains of his shaken hope

Heart suspended from the very same rope. 

Now the tears well in his beautiful eyes 

And the ink of his poetry runs dry 

He curls his mind into a fetal position 

The poet says he doesn’t want to write.

And so,

I’ll do it for him.