Thursday, January 19, 2012


shit, shit, shit...arrrr####******
need to come up with neatly typed five pages, full of sense, with footnotes, bibliography and other adornments.
The five pages will be a little passport, a pair of wings, a door to another life.
But, how much weight can you make words carry? They screech, yawn and tumble all over, spilling coffee over crazy mornings.
It doesn't work. The idea is half cooked, the words are all over. Why don't you lie back and be Rip Van Winkle for another year?

Sir, have you ever sat and watched the solemn funeral of years? They are capable of running in the same circles over and over again and die their customary death standing in the same freaking point where they began. So, you need to push them off mountains, drown them in rivers and sun them on islands-hoping that they will learn a thing or two. May be swimming, may be zen, may be new grammar, may be disenchantment, may be just anything.
There is never any spring which fills your inside with colours, never a rain which drenches your very being, never a touch to hold you here or there. The high of the long distance runner, the promise of a change of scene, another backdrop-hey words, can you behave for once, for the sake of new road signs?

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Learning to Fly

" Phir se ud chala...."

The strong bursts of wind brushing past...the clouds, the heights, the seas...
Stay still...close your eyes..bring up all that is in you into these moments..and give a go at flying...

Another life, another place. Grey mornings, the absolute silence of nights, the smile of comradery with fellow worms, stacks and stacks of books...a few stray tunes here and there.

"I never stopped at any scenery,
I never met even myself,
I have this complaint but I am not angry,
all cities are same, villages same,
people are same and same names.."

Culling meanings from here and there, trying to build what you know not of. Long bus journeys to the wrong museums in search of footnotes. A few words amidst all the translations over dinner tables, the hearty laughs and the sweetness and loss of words which become chinese whispers.

" I flew up again,
these earth-like dreams, however much you dust them from eyelids,
they come back..
So many dreams, how should I say I have-
broken, left, and why..

sometimes from branch to branch, sometimes leaf to leaf,
sometimes day is night and sometimes day is day.."

May be the wings are just a figment of your imagination and you will fall, fall and fall like a stone. But still may be you need to give it all that is left in you, carefully packing away anything which might hang like weights on the imaginary wings.