Terrible to be me

It has rained since morning. Or probably since last night. I woke up to a hazy Sunday afternoon. Distilled and quiet. The balcony is inviting. Shades of green around. My morning (afternoon?) cuppa beside me. I sit with a book, losing my sense of time. Glancing up occasionally at the beauty that only the combination of rain and silence can bring. The contradiction and yet the truth of this.

I choke almost. At something rising within my chest. A longing. A memory so fierce. For someone. Someone familiar? Maybe. Maybe not. Of wrapped arms and intertwined fingers. Of disillusioned realities and opaque dreams.

A longing that could pin you down for hours, or is it days? Who knows. I have already lost my sense of time, remember? Smoked out my rationality. The kind that brings a twinkle in your eyes so bright it could make the stars looks bland. All you hear is silence and your heartbeats. So loud that you fear he can hear them from where he is. Far far away from you. In every sense of the word.

And then maybe he would know what it is like to be me. But let me tell you darling. It is terrible, terrible to be me.

Cigarette Memories

Night sky burning with my vulnerabilities

I see my being rising up in flares

Slow at first

And then it sets ablaze

As I inhale 

Your words that meant a lot

And my naivety as an afterthought

The smoke of our moments inside my mouth

I clench them together

Till my eyes begin to sting

And mist begins to form in their crevice

As I try, I try

To imprison the hazy memories inside my lungs

They smolder me incapable

To breathe, to exist

A bond that ‘once’ was

Begins to seethe

And I choke on my gullibility

And your latent abilities

While I finally release you from me

Trailing behind is the ashen taste

Of bluntness that could nip associations

A bond that was envy of the town

Which now

Has slowly died a slow death

How I wish

Terminal worries too could be exhaled in thin air

Right there one moment

Becoming invisible the next one

A bond that was an intoxication

Left behind a bitter aftertaste

That scuffled with other senses

Blinding, effacing, burning

A ‘me’ a ‘you’ and maybe an ‘us’ too!

And the sky bled purple

And the sky bled purple like her heart. Probably it weighed like her heart too. Maybe the sky was attached to earth. Somewhere, maybe, they mirrored each other. Somewhere, far away, in the corners of earth and near the expanse of the sky, they were alike. Maybe they were cold and withdrawn on the outside but warm in their insides. May be they were a collection of pieces from the same broken vase. Scattered far away from each other but they knew their connection. Maybe her heart was the sky. Scattered and shattered but was aware of its connections.

P.S. – The pictures above were clicked by me a few days ago. They are a bit hazy and do no justice to the breathtakingly beautiful riot of colours that day coz they have been clicked from my stupid phone camera.

Coffee date. With Myself and some untold stories

Wooden flooring. Wooden furniture. Muted colours and yellow lights. Sunday. Coffee date. With myself. And some untold stories.

Father and son in the diagonal corner. Quiet middle aged son and a cranky looking father. Giving life advices. Maybe finding faults in the way he has been working on his finances.

A newly married couple on their right. Their dewy eyes. The way her mehndi clad hands brush against his. Unknowingly. Or rather knowingly. The eagerness in him to see her eyes smile.

On the next. A college group of four. Too busy in their own selves. The only worry is attendance in the college enough to let them appear for the exam. Crushes. On friends. And teachers too. An overwhelming age. When everything seems possible. When your friends are your therapists and relationship experts.

Four friends again on the next table. Girl gang. Women who hold you at the time of your first heartbreak and also save you from your fashion disasters. Women who share the same impulse of buying shoes. May be bags too. Of choosing wrong guys as well? May be.

Farthest corner. Strangers. I can guess from the stiffness in their body language and also from the regular hot cappuccinos on the table. A chain marketing effort. There are pens and notepads. Ferocious scribbling. ‘For example, if you invest …’ a voice from that table.

Exactly opposite. An occasional look around the room. An occasional longing to hear what others are saying. But mostly in his own self. With his laptop and headphones. Like me. Probably a loner. Like me.

The place smells of coffee. And of untold stories. Only if you are keen to smell. The smell of brewing strong family bonds, of fizzy new love, of warm friendships, of promising business opportunities and of being complete in oneself.

Sunday. Coffee date. With myself. And some untold stories.

I am my Heartbreaks

I am a collection of my heartbreaks. There is no single tragedy that has been strong enough to break me. It has been a series. Persistent and deep. One after another. Each one different from its predecessor. Each one teaching a harsher lesson than the earlier. Each one burying me deeper in my own self. Each one teaching me about my own strengths.

Image Courtesy: Google search

There was no pattern in this series of heartbreaks. Nothing was consistent. Except Me. I was the pattern and I was the one consistent.

I played it with all my heart. Every single time. There is nothing called moderate in my dictionary. The passion that can scare even my own self. Still I do not learn. Still I do not relent.

Heartbreaks. Where each one longed to be my last. Because it's the last one that gets the credit of breaking a person, isn't it? But there is room for more within me. There will always be room within me.

I am a collection of my heartbreaks. I stand drawing collective strength from my heartbreaks. I am my heartbreaks.