Love

A cold winter morning, a sky full of fog,
An empty street, a couple there, and me,
I walked my path, it led nowhere,
And somehow we ended up in the same café.
I looked at her, her deep blue eyes,
They had so much to say,
I looked at the boy who sat with her,
His eyes, empty, like a novel burnt to ashes.

Since there wasn’t anyone else around,
And the coffee was taking only too long,
My eyes kept wandering back to them.
They both seemed indifferent about me;
And that was alright, but alas!
They seemed so indifferent about each other.
Their fingers intertwined, his hand in hers,
But never a look, nor a smile at each other.

Who were they? I wondered,
Waiting for my cup of coffee.
I could not imagine why they would want to be,
The way they were, together.
For I believed, love was spoken,
Not with words, but through the eyes,
But alas! Their eyes never met!

And suddenly those three words were said,
“I love you”, whispered the boy,
“As do I”, she said in return,
Yet still neither faced each other,
Though now they were all smiles.

The waiter arrived, a bit later,
With my steaming hot cup of cappuccino,
“Isn’t it weird?” I asked him,
“How could they not see each other,
And yet say those words all the same?”
The waiter looked deep at me,
Smiled and said,
“Sir, they both are blind.”

And that day I realized,
How true it is,
When they say that love is blind.

Absence

Far away in a different world,
Where the moon glows bright and the sun sleeps throughout,
You cuddle in my arms and lull off to sleep,
Whilst I stare at you and learn what love is about.

I appear strong and tell you it’s okay,
And you ask me to chill out,
For things will get back to how they were in a while,
So what is this fuss all about?

But like an overdose of alcohol,
Which people remember never to repeat,
An overdose of your absence,
Is killing me underneath.

It’s about the fact that never have I ever,
Loved anyone as much as you,
You’ve sunk deep into my thoughts and my dreams,
Of which left in my life are very few.

So tonight before you go off to sleep,
Imagine you are with me,
In a world where nothing else matters,
And where our hearts are free.

And I’ll pull myself a bit closer to you,
You’d come a little more closer to me,
And I’d smile and keep my brows straight,
Like you’ve always wanted them to be.

I Love You

For the world may not care,
And the seasons might not stop,
And the rivers could keep flowing,
And the song in my mind,
The song in my mind,
That could keep playing,
And those words you said,
Those would keep ringing,
And come back to me every single night,
This one thing,
I cannot lose,
Or simply put,
I cannot afford to,
For the world may not care,
And the lights keep turning,
From red to green to yellow to red,
And people may think,
That within my heart I’m dead,
But you know,
And that’s all that matters.
For people might hate me,
And I couldn’t care lesser,
And the world could loathe me,
I wouldn’t bat an eye,
But you over there,
Standing in the shadows,
Never turn away,
Or I might die,
For I love you,
And that’s the only truth.

What is Love?

I pine to see you yet again,
And though you were but only a friend,
Now I feel you have a part of me,
Which I want to steal back,
So that I can become whole once more,
But can it be done,
Without you by my side?
No I don’t think so,
And if you ask me, my friend,
I would tell you exactly what I think this is,
But I want you to ask yourself,
Ask for once and see if you,
Get the answer to this sweet question,
Is this love?
For love is distance,
For love is being far away,
And not seeing each other for thousands of days.
For love is being upset,
At things which were funny,
Once upon a time.
Let me tell you a story,
Of a boy who thought,
Love is but a figment of the mind,
Never to be true, never to be realized,
Yet when he fell,
He fell so hard,
He came into his senses and he learned of love.
Love is the pain,
Of being separated,
And love is also the joy,
In being separated.
Love is a paradox which none can solve,
And love is a crime, which I absolve.

Lilies

Dreams are in fact the only way of repose, in my understanding. Because that is only time when the mind is at rest, even if not fully. No, I do not mean to evoke psychologists to rubbish my thought by saying that the subconscious is awake at all times, and so is the unconscious during dreams, but as long as the conscious is at rest, you have an option to keep away the worries of the day piled up lazily in a corner like dirty laundry to be washed the next day. And that is exactly why I like to sleep. Because I love to dream. To dream of castles I’ve never been in, and races I have never won, and meadows I have never lay in and lilies I have never smelled.

Unfulfilled dreams and the urge to fulfil them or at least keep dreaming about them until they get fulfilled is perhaps one of the main ways I keep myself happy. Happiness is a rare thing, and looking for it is indeed difficult in my world. Don’t assume me to be a sad person, I am in fact a very jolly and funny guy who can crack the right jokes at the correct time and make those around laugh merrily. I can also bring a smile on a child’s face by giving him a chocolate or an old lady’s face by helping her cross the street. To say I do not derive happiness from these small acts would be cruel. Indeed I do. They do make me happy. And if that surmises to happiness found easily in the world, then by that definition I am indeed a very happy person. But there is more than that to life. There is a personal space, and there is an ego, and an ego needs to be fed, and food is expensive, and it comes at the cost of happiness, inner happiness, not the joys of the world that can be experienced ever so easily.

I sat by the river one day, looked into the water and saw ripples of my reflection smiling back at me, as if it almost knew what went on in my mind at that time. It is funny how reflections are just what we are, but devoid of their own emotions and feelings. They feel what we feel, they show what we ask them to. They do not have an individuality. And many people think that individuality is in fact one of the foremost important things in this world, but indeed in the case of reflections, it is not. So for shadows too. Shadows and reflections. It is such a nice thing to talk about. Shadows, darkness, reflections, brightness. Shadows do not smile or be sad, they are stoic, they are our internal selves. But reflections are what the world sees, whereas the shadow is what it needs to see to learn what is really going on in our heads because at the end of the day, what we show and how much we smile doesn’t count a penny.

My set of posts is almost at an end. Only one more post to go for this series to end. I do not remember why I had started writing this, so it would be difficult to tell you whether or not I feel that I have justified the need of these posts, because I cannot remember the reason why I began in the first place. But sometimes it so happens that we must be happy with the way things end even if we don’t remember the beginning and even if we don’t remember the entire journey but only parts of it, for the end is what counts. They did have a saying, “All’s well that ends well”, and if that is true, then I should believe all is going to be well for me, and that might be the subject of my dreams when I sleep tonight.

Roses

Roses are red, violets are blue. But violets are violet and roses can be of any color, so why do we say that?

It seems sometimes that all the paradigms upon which this world rests are but imaginary statements made to confine our thoughts and jail our passions and cut our wings to stop us from flying high in the skies. Skies are blue but they can be red and maroon and purple in the evening at twilight, and twilight is my favorite part of the day.

When we were small I remember we were taught (not by our teachers, but by friends), how red roses meant love and yellow roses meant friendship and white roses meant peace and blue roses were so rare that “as rare a blue rose” was a simile that was taught to us in Grammar. Growing up, I realized that all of this was just a cover up. Everything surmounts to love. Whether it be black, brown, yellow, red or white, every rose symbolized only one aspect of human life. And that was love. And that was the most important thing in the world. But this was my notion in high school.

By the time I started attending college, roses meant nothing to me. They were just flowers, like the chrysanthemums and petunias and bluebells and daffodils, pretty to look at and made a good show at a nursery, but nothing more and nothing less. Obviously, love was overrated. To have a flower just for one emotion and not for the other seemed unjust. Love was injustice. Hence I should not love. My conclusions were very hand-wavy, but they seemed to fill in the void that had been existing in my life for a while now, and helped to make me happier than I was, and I thought it was important that life should be this way. I never fell in love in college again.

Alright, that was a bit of a lie. I did, but I didn’t pay much heed to it.

And somehow whenever I talk about roses, at the end of the day, it is all the same. It boils down to the same color. Black. Someone once asked me whether I named my blog such because black was my favorite color. I did not know what to say, for I did not have a favorite color until then. But I thought, maybe, this is a good thing to think about. Maybe I should have a favorite color. So I looked at all the colors in a crayon box and tried to figure out which one I liked best. I scribbled them on empty sheets and painted images. I painted the skies green and the waters pink and the houses blue and the people red. My friends laughed at it and told me what a weird person I was. When my parents saw, they said it was the prettiest drawing they had ever seen. And that made me happy, because my parents liked it and if your parents like something it means that is good and you should therefore love your parents because they love you too.

What about the color, you ask? Well yes, I did figure out my favorite color. I’ll tell you about it in my next post.

Lavenders

For it is only a coward that hides his face under wet palms in the wake of even the slightest adversity in his life. And it is so that she reminds me of the smell of lavenders, much like she reminds me of the smell of love, of the smell of the sand after a rain, and of the smell of defeat.

How sweet is the taste of being defeated! Of lying on the ground and knowing you cannot get up how hard you might try. The puddles, the water, the soiled roads, you take a step and you fall again, the slippery grounds, the muddy footpaths, the heavy rains. Always it is the heavy rains. They wash away everything in their wake, and drench you so that you are wet from head to toe. I remember those rains, always slanted, so that even my umbrellas would not protect me from it.

I was driving on a road which was being repaired. It was being doubled in width, and for that they have been cutting down trees on both sides of the road. What earlier looked as a small path inside a forest, the trees providing shade to the road from both sides, now looks like a street in a city. Places change as much as people. I cannot connect with that road anymore because it is not what it used to be. It seems as if, along with the trees, a lot of my memories have been cut down as well, deforested, and piled up in a corner, to be carved into furniture or burned as fuel. At least the furniture still has the marks that the tree bore, but being burnt for fuel must hurt. It must. Because I have seen people burning themselves and I know it hurts.

The gardens in my house grow flowers no more. In my absence, they withered without water, and now they are but thin veins of what earlier looked like forearms. The flowers have died absent sunlight, and are now black and hard and crumple like paper. But somewhere at the back of my mind, despite all of this, despite the fact that I won’t be able to see so much anymore, that should I think of it a little more, a part of me would die and never return, much like my garden, for what is a garden but a manifestation of the soul and the materialization of the wishes that one pursues in life, yet sees them fulfilled in the planting of the root, in the growing out of a shoot, of the first bud in the plant, of the smell of the fresh flowers and the bees that hover them and the honey, and the memories attached with them which persist for so long; like the time when I waited ever so patiently for the first rose to bloom to its fullest so that I could give it to her? And yet, for all the roses that I gave her, she still smells of lavender, and enchants me into dreams which best remain unfulfilled, for then I have something to look forward to in my sleep.