Conversations

“How tired can one get?”


“I’ll ask the shadows underneath your eyes and alarms that go off too soon.
They might have the answer.”

~

Exams make me productive in ways I shouldn’t be.
I may have a slight problem.

Love,
Until We Meet Again.

Ghosts Of Your War

What do you write when all that your heart can offer is radio silence.
In between the frequencies, listen and search
for the lost words that were swallowed up by oceans.
Don’t look for them on the surface.
I never trusted the wind.
I was far too much in love with it, you see.
Verses got off the train home and dug themselves a shallow grave.
Sometimes, usually after midnight,
they scratch the headstones of the past when they call me up
and tell me they miss me.
Wars make soldiers out of poets.
I’ve found a gun in an empty diary in the drawer.
Maybe we’ll need it when ghosts crawl inside our chests and call it home.
Close your eyes and pretend
that it’s ten years ago from now.
Go back to the time when you didn’t believe in ghosts.
Go back to the time when you didn’t need to believe in ghosts.

~

This post is a promise I made to a friend. I am forgetful and sometimes things are too overwhelming, so I have been terribly tardy in fulfilling this promise.
But here it is, and I hope he likes it.

Also,Happy New Year everyone.
I know it’s a bit late, but perhaps the excuses I made above will make up for this too.

I thank you for reading till the end of this post, and I hope your resolutions of this year get to see the dawn of another. But don’t fret much if they don’t. If you’ve been able to keep them the past week, you’re better off than most.

Love,
Until We Meet Again.

Prologue

Like the initial months of an affair, October and November make me fall in love with the idea of winter.
But I’ve realized that my true affection lies in these sixty days, in the slightly chilly dawns and the windy evenings that arrive five minutes earlier with each passing week. This delicious prologue to winter is what lures me into thinking that maybe this year it won’t be so bad when my toes freeze each time I step out of the blanket.

But I believe I’m biased towards these months for a few more reasons

In the gated community, in which I live, there is a stretch that is lined with this specific type of tree, and I will google the name of the species as soon as I finish writing this post. Anyhow, these trees bear small,white flowers during this time.
They start blooming as the sun sets and if you come up to the terrace or stand in the balcony their too-sweet smell will make you stay there close to an hour.
It’s what always happens to me, at least.

The smell of these flowers also means Diwali is just around the corner.
Who cares if the calendar glaringly tells me it’s almost the end of October. So what if the date of the festival is being casually mentioned in everybody’s conversations.
For me, it’s close to my favorite festival only when I’m humming on the swing of my terrace, taking in the too-sweet air, wishing I’d worn a full sleeved t-shirt.

This time around though, there is something different. In the coming months I’m supposed to bury myself in the depths of my academic books, to surface only when it’s absolutely necessary. It’s twelfth grade you see. This year, I won’t have the time to do nothing or everything with careless abandon.

This time, October and November are shrouded in a whisper of worry for the future. Worry for the coming changes and ofcourse, for the life determining exams.
But as I sit here with a song by The Cinematic Orchestra playing on my headphones, worrying seems to be postponed for tomorrow.
Thank you for reading.

Love,
Until We Meet Again

When You Can’t Sleep

So when it’s midnight and you should either be studying or sleeping, do neither.
Update your blog with something old and random instead. Like me.

I make good decisions, yes.

~

These days I have nightmares about shadows.
Not about shadows that linger in corners, or hide themselves in dark crevices.
Not about shadows that seep through cracks and churn poison into the air of the room.
Not those, no.
But I wish I did.
Because they’re the sort of nightmares that I’m free to wake up from, screaming.
The shadows I dream about live and breathe and talk and sleep and occasionally look at me.
They sit next to me. They don’t try to hide in dark crevices, and they don’t disappear when I pull back each and every curtain of the house.
These days I wake up with a stifled scream caught in my throat.
You see, I realized that I stopped having nightmares years ago, after that bottle of dull white pills.
And I can no longer tell myself that it was just a bad dream.

~

These days I worry I’ll never be able to write something new.
Ah, new nightmare.

Love,
Until We Meet Again

Ashes

I desperately wish to post something here regularly.
But considering the fact that my exams are just two weeks away it doesn’t seem all that possible. So I shall cheat and post a poem.I hope you like it.

Come home to me my love and I’ll make sure it’s warm.
For each and every flame that you used to ignite your unholy love, bows to my command.
I no longer need kindle wood to drag myself through months of winter,
cinders still smolder inside my chest, the place where you put your coals, hoping for destruction.
But my love, I am no house I am no dried forest.
What are a few drops to an ocean
of fire
that flooded my veins
when your empty silence stepped into the house
Come home to me but you’ll find ash in the bedroom,
and in my heart.
On second thoughts,
don’t come home to me you fool.
There is no home, and there is no me.
Your hands still reek of that last cigarette and gasoline.

I would like to thank anyone who reads through this post.
Love,
Until We Meet Again

Presents

I love looking at a person when they open a present.
The shooting up of the eyebrows, the widening of the eyes and the gleeful smile that our lips naturally spread into when it comes to free stuff.
Yes, of course, the sentiments count too. Pfft, obviously.

But honestly, apart from my sad attempts at humor, I can be the most sappy, emotional mush when it comes to gifts.
If you gift me a book that I’ve been saying I want to read, you shall have a part, if not all, of my eternal affection. I’m not even kidding.
And handmade gifts and the people who make them are my weakness.
I’ll save even the random things someone makes me. For instance,during a class in eleventh grade one of my best friends, out of boredom, made me a bookmark out of a folded strip of blue scrap paper. She doodled some patterns on one side and wrote “A Silver Afternoon” on the other.
I still have that bookmark.

The reason I’m rambling on like this is that just a little while ago a friend of mine messaged me about how he’d found me a very nice present for my birthday, which is still more than a month away.
When I asked him what it was, he told me it was a small, rechargeable clip on light I could use for reading in places where light is erratic (like in the car when there isn’t any daylight and I’ve received countless scoldings from my mother in the front seat for doing precisely that). And he was worried the gift seemed too practical.
I mentally wiped a tear when I read that.

This is a wholesomely random post and if you’re rolling your eyes right now I wouldn’t be surprised at all.
It’s just that thoughts and gestures like these make me smile like a total goof.

Love,
Until We Meet Again.

Characteristics

A few days ago I was thinking that I should probably post a poem here.
So I chose the following.
It’s something I wrote two or three months ago I think. I hope you like it.

Poets are weird.
And truthful.
And they burn.
They’ll talk about how the stain of red wine
on your white, white shirt
could be the blood from your wounded heart.
They’ll laugh,
steal your pen,
and then scribble things about misery in metaphors.
Poets have no use of coasters,
desk blotters
and erasers.
To them, mistakes are so fucking useful.
If you ask them,
they’ll tell you why
she left,
why he wrote that letter,
and why the photo frame was shattered when you got home.
Make sure you don’t believe them.
Poets are messy hair and crumpled paper
empty houses and cluttered rooms
and a secret notebook everybody knows about.
Look closely.
Look again.
Don’t blame me if you fall.

Thank you for reading through this post.
Love,
Until We Meet Again.