Free

The sky holds my inspiration. When there is blue, ideas flow and everything dries up in the gray. My writing is quite often about the sky. They are repetitive lines that describe what I see and they usually are about the fact that I can see. As a child the night sky fascinated me and made me dream big. Later in life, I remember naming shapes in white clouds and thought of who put them there. More recently, colours of the sky throughout the day fascinate and make me feel the need to write.

Changing rooms

I decided to make it to the stores. I had to buy a sweater and there was just no way out of it. The store I entered stretched out in front of me and the impact of the task ahead hit me in full force. I could already feel myself giving up slowly. Sweater I thought. Wool. Let's find wool. I wished the store would just make things simple for me and put all the wool in one single corner and let me just dive in for a moderately non-flashy weave of something that would last at least that winter. Of course, it is a private brand of hell where I find myself and there are sweaters classified by some mysterious formula, that suits most of the other shoppers around me of which I can make no sense. I find something that looks decent and is not priced the moon and a few stars.

I head to the changing rooms that makes the store look like a playground for kids.

Colours

A streak of orange and purple stretched across the portion of the sky that I could see from beside the massive ugly building in front of my window. The fact that I woke up early enough to see it, was as good as the vision before me. A squeal of delight and silent thanks to ice and dust high up in the air that spread the sunlight out. As the day went on, the orange and purple gave way to pink and light blue - gently fading into each other while remaining distinct.

Failing projects

Like so many before
You have failed this one too
It wasn't as though,
It was too tough to do
At first you were riding the wave
And then trying to get thru'
But in the end, on the way
Life took over you

Recipe for hot drink

Crush a little ginger
(It is a spice, if you didn't know)
(It is also a root)
(Wikipedia says so)
And gently drop it in a cup
Boil water, make it piping hot
And dribble some honey
Right into the water pot
Drink it, take a big swig
Take deep breaths
Look out the window
Let your face portray depth

Pictures of her

And with that, the ties that bound her to being a picture of what the world wanted her to be were gone. She turned around and faced the rest of the crowd with her real face, her game face, the one that said that she owned everything that was in her mind, even the silly thoughts, even the ones that were ill formed, the ones that were not formed, the ones that she was ashamed of. They were hers. And she would stand up for them, because they were hers.

Not a question about my blog though

If in some dark corners of the internet, there is a blog that screams at the TOP OF ITS VOICE and no one hears it, is it still filled with witty, funny, happy, silly expressions of the person who writes it?

Dialogues

She: (cracks knuckles, rubs palms together) Lets get this done today.

The world, the universe, everyone every where: Hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha

Award acceptance speeches

"Who could have predicted that the silly album that I put together with my friend in my garage, with nothing but a cheap recording device and camera, would become the world's greatest hit ever? I am glad I actually used my time to do something productive. I will remember this and remain humble and hardworking all my life."

And that's  how she spent her morning. She put off working on her silly album with her friend, planning her award acceptance speeches that she would receive for it.

Definitions 2

Procrastination: The job description of that part of  your brain that will find everything on the internet extremely interesting at all times, except when you have no important work to do.

Definitions

Laziness : An immediate payoff with immense negative consequences in the future. But to hell with it, tomorrow is far away still.

Foretell

Must be honest here
I am writing with hindsight
I know what has already happened
It is not a happy time ahead
This needs barely a thought to tell you

Me

I am no mystery. I am just consumed with myself. This blog is an exercise in ego-feeding. Everything I write is about me and my point of view. The way I view the world around me, the things I see, the things that interest me, that trouble me, that annoy me. There is just one thing that it conveys. If you just squint a little, you can see. Every word on this page and every other is just : "me".

At the hairdresser's

It is almost hypnotic as I sit and watch the scissors moving swiftly in and out of thick, dark hair. It falls all around the chair and she stops often to sweep all those thick locks on the floor. I glance at her and see that she is consumed in her task. She stops to measure. She stops to find what must be chopped next. An act that she could do with her mind in some other world. I look again at her and I know that it is. And slowly my mind drifts too. As I am sure is the person on the chair.

We meet

The thought forms in my head
Like a small white cloud
Puffing up in a dark sky
And it is magic
Because that idea reaches a form
In your mind, separate from mine
Far away , and maybe
I have never laid eyes on you
Nor you on me
And yet in this cloud
We meet

Fireworks show

As the music lifts me up to a high and all I want to do is to be one with the world and dance. The words were written for this music like a match made in heaven. And then I saw the fireworks, magical at the other end of the vast expanse. Was this my imagination, could music even that divine cause explosions of light and colour in the dark sky?

Picture from outer space

A view from up above
A darkness forms the base
And bright spots light up
Where marks have been made
By the human race
The man who takes the image
The image is entirely his
But he leaves no trace
of taking this click

Painful pasts

A day to forget for ever
Or one to remember
For the million lives
That were taken
For mere fanciful ghosts
In the minds of men dead inside

The reason art is and touches

Art touches the observer most when there was deep sadness or immense joy in the process by which or due to which it was made. This type of art comes from a place inside the artist where he feels something beyond words or means of straightforward communication. This kind of art is rarely inspired. The artist has usually experienced a feeling or an event that has pushed him over the edge, burned inside him to be expressed out to the world, possessed him so that his life exists for the reason that he must say what needs to be said. And it is this art that you and I view or listen to or read. Barely acknowledging the suffering that the artist went through in order to express it. Rarely understanding the emotions that drove him to create it.

Confessions

I am an impostor
I am barely there
I am not all that I say I am
I am not what you think I am

Moderation

My attention seems to stretch and stray towards these polar opposites. I read articles online about daily happenings and news that are scholarly and almost snobbish. On the other hand I view pages and pages of gif-based 'memes' (I hate that I put those quote marks there but I can't help it),  pictures with punch lines in bold Impact font and the infamous cheezburger pictures. I am afraid that my brain will split in two pieces: each of them will mock each other with contrasting language styles: long, pedantic snobbery versus misspelled punch lines. The battle that will rage on between these warring parties will blow everything around it up and then from the ashes will rise the mediocre writing that I myself will create. I can haz sum hurrays pleez?

List

Things that I have learnt

1. I was a better thinker when I was young
2. The world cannot be changed for the better
3. People lie horribly, but it really is for good
4. Don't eat junk food all the time
5. Stupidity has no bounds - especially mine
6. Life is worth living no matter how much it stinks
7. Sisters with chubby cheeks are crucial

Poem

Powdery blue skies
Puffs of clouds delight
I just can't go on
I am bored out of my mind

Don't

Wise men have said before
Everything that I have to say
And  yet I will continue to gab
Until I come to the question,
That I told you not to ask yesterday
Just don't.

Never ask this one thing

Question everything
Ask till they hate you for asking
What, why, where how and when
But never ask yourself or anyone else
What does it all mean?

Pearl of Wisdom #398

If you have a problem with everyone and everything that is around you

It is you

Little by little

My memory is fading away
Little by little a chunk breaks off
And falls into that hole
Where memories go to be lost
And never be recovered again

It is your perspective

That which is perfect
Appears to you
As that which needs to be bettered
Just change the way you look at it
It is perfect, your vision is not

Either or

If I must work hard
To capture the bright side of life
Does that make me a positive person
Or just a control freak

With you

I wish I was there with you
As you play your little games
As you climb higher and swoop down
As you playfully plunge a little
And then chase each other around
I wish I was there with you
My lack of wings holds me down

The bus and the flyover

A single push of my leg
And the bike cruised forward
As I sat one with my vehicle
The breeze lifted my mood
And I sang with the wind
As I climbed up the flyover
And at the same pace at which I moved
This giant bus moved under me
A little bit of poetry in motion
Is it weird that I want to blog about this?

...in my own image...

Day 7, Hour 3
My virtual world is heaven. I have filled it up with creatures and happenings that are very much like real life. In fact, being a person that lacks much creativity, I have made my video game world just exactly like my real world. Of course, barring the fact that I hardly do much other than gaming in real life. In that world I am a well-built, courageous, resourceful and charming guy. And in this life I am just me, munching crisps and sipping cola after another, occupying this sofa for 20 hours a day.

Day 7, Hour 10
I cannot do it anymore. The fear of making a decision that will in anyway affect my perfect virtual world is absolutely terrifying. I cannot destroy it either. I cannot face the idea of such a perfect world going to waste. Or that such a perfect world become like mine.

Day 7, Hour 100
I have done it! I wrote out some artificial intelligence code for my character in the world. Actually I think he has some thing more than what I have. I also put in a girl in there. Wonder if this world will give me some way to figure out how I should live my life in this world.


Day 3285000, Hour 30
No. Big mistake. Should never have let this happen.

It creeps closer

I know that it is coming
I can feel it in the air
It is barely moving
But I know it is there
Tomorrow it will be here
And I wish I knew what to do
But I have perfect vision when  I look back
And am blind as bat for what's ahead 

Wisdom from the fool

Unease, dissatisfaction, unhappiness
If these were constant states of being
Why would we the world work at all
Brief moments of small joys
make the world go around

No longer

That little girl
In a yellow summer dress
Wild hair and wilder mind
She reminds me of me
But I am no longer her

Your turn

A sob story
A sad day
All that you will hear from me today
Instead why don't I keep it to myself
And hear your tale?

The side-effects of binge eating

I lay in bed
Filled with regret
Looking for a way to stop
the voice in my head
Tears have been shed
But the pain just wants to make me drop
That's it I said
Never again will I eat chocolate

Purged clean

Small bits of silliness
Add up to explode into
a long and arduous process
of cleaning up and dumping out

Purged clean of decades of trash

Too little too much

A bit too self-assured in her actions
Too much self-doubt in her mind
A recipe for disasters

A little world

I look at the little world below
I see little ducks swimming around
A few tyres float in the water
And  shapes loom inside the pond
It is a little messed up...
 just like the wide world around it

For 10 minutes or less

This blog: 
An effort to be clever
For 10 minutes or less everyday

Burn

His eyes follow you as he scrutinizes you intensely. You can feel the gaze burn down on you and you sweat uncomfortably. There is no escape. You try to get away but there is nothing you can do in the barren landscape that lies ahead. The ground below seems to do nothing but increase your discomfort as you wriggle to shake some sweat that is collecting on your back. Finally an oasis emerges on the horizon and you rush towards it. But the more you pedal, the further it seems to get. The thought of getting to the oasis, just to get back on the road, under the harsh Sun to cycle back home on a long stretch of shadeless roads makes you cringe. But it is done and you live now to tell the tale.

No joy

Gladness
envelops the heart that knows
There is no joy in numbers

Summer and childhood

The smell of mangoes
A starry night
A sister's hugs
Branches bending low with fiery red flowers

The river does not run dry

The river does not run dry
The fount that feeds it runs eternally
The mouth that drinks from it moves on,
to other streams and falling rain
When it moves on, it cares not
But the brook tumbles by itself
And by itself.

Lady outside my window

Like one of the clouds she floated in the sky right outside my window. She even looked like them. Among them she appeared to gently bob up and down. Soft white with light blue daubs and flecks on her. As clouds passed by she lingered on. A little while later I looked up to see her radiant, rising above as the sky darkened. The darker the night, the brighter she got. Now the world is dark and the light that she emits lights up my dark room. Good night sweet moon.

Every time

A little disappointment
Trumps
Remorse and regret, every time

Blogger's subject

There is a moment in the day
When there is a pause
There is noise
But there is a thread of silence in it
A sudden awareness
The mist clears and the blog writer awakes
Her mind marks that moment in the day
That moment forms her subject that night

Dirt within

Scrub a little to reveal a lot underneath
But beware, it is not always gold under the dirt
Sometimes it is something you never thought was there
Sometimes it is that which you never wished there would be

Paper

Going through each paper,
one at a time
 memories come flooding back
 from some of them
while others take a while to recognize
Then like the hand of a massive hauling machine
Each paper goes into the dump

Nothing

What do you say when the people that you trust to know everything make choices that you knew were obvious mistakes?

What do you say to people whose trust you seem to have failed because you were helpless in the sidelines?

Nice talking

I am there in that higher level of consciousness when what you say reaches not just my ears but my brain as well. The modulation of ideas from your brain, going through a million transformations from raw ideas into concrete ones, from concrete wordless ones into worded ones, from worded to well-worded, from well-worded to voiced, from vibrations in the air to those of my ear-drum, from my ear to my brain, to demodulation into wordless pictures that form in my mind. It was nice talking to you.

Mundane

Mundane makes life
One boring step after another
Mundane makes ...
... a philosopher out of me

Being

Just being me
Just being free
Life the way I live it
Love if I want to give it

My World

The world bobs up and down
Turns from side to side
Then I realize, how silly I sound
It is me who is sleep deprived

Underneath it all

Return to initial state
Carry on as if nothing changed
Only you know
The current that flows underneath

Be alright

At times like these I know
That people will last forever
Because as long as there is love
And even a tiny little tune
Everything is going to be alright

Useless Knowledge

A drawer for useless knowledge
Stowed away just for today
And when I use it to educate you
And give you something worthless too

One with the world

Take a minute to think
What is to be
Utterly one with the world
And then forget that scary thought

Dialogue

Dialogue that absorbs different people of similar intellectual pursuits is what keeps the world going up. The needs of people to be happy also depends on their need to share thoughts about higher ideals and so on. Most people who have been in these conversations would disagree. They would tell you that these conversations make you unhappy - they accomplish little, they bring home the fact that things don't really work well in the world. It brings out the flaws that are in you and the world around. Yet once you have the taste of this type of dialogue, you know that you are going to go back for more.

Cities and people

Don't dismiss people because they are not cool or funny or stylish or hip. Dig deeper and you will find something surprising and interesting there. But don't try to find a way to measure the depth of a person and give him a yardstick to measure up to. That doesn't work either.
Just as with a person, a city needs to be understood a little. No digging deeper, no scrutiny is needed really. You just need to be a bit interested, walk around a bit and just allow the city to give up its secrets. Enough interest and patience from you and cities or people will throw so much character at you, you won't believe it.

Takehome messages

A feeling of awe
Declining invitations
Talks of falsehood and lying
Social inability and awkwardness
Jubilation over successful survival
 

Experiences

Who'd have ever thought
that being here would be this way
I know you didn't
You thought it'd be a rough day
You were right you know
It was a tough time in a way
In the heat in the Tube
And when flying over the bay
But the time here
I wouldn't be ready to trade
Share it with you I would
This is how experiences are made

Two sides

Looking forward
Dreading it at the same time
Two sides to the same coin

Memory Mirage

Reach back into the depths of memory
And my mind spits out a blank slate
Anything put in there is going to be true

Wrapped tight

Softly those words
Wrap around me
And put me to sleep

Unheard words

Can you hear me?
I am calling out to you
In words that you can feel

Dry

The river that runs full
Is now run out and dry
Even as rain pours down 

Idea hits

When that idea hits you
that's when you feel alive
The fog lifts and ears ring
Words flow as the clarity of it hits you
All is right again

Small Talk

Conversations scrape the surface
Of what we want to say
We want to scream from rooftops
Of how we would be anywhere else in the world
Rather than in this chair right next to each other
The way we say this is fake smiles and laughs

And Small Talk

Tear jerker

The wells of my eyes began to overflow
And I wept for everything
I cried for the moon rising above the lights
Of that faraway town
I sobbed at the clouds that fogged everything

Failing at it

Most of what I will do, I will fail at. I have come to terms with that now. There is no shame in that. Everybody fails, but will not tell you that they have. It is a secret that they would like to keep. It is also a lie that they tell themselves.

We do go out and quote the greats. Failure is a stepping stone... Failure means that you are trying. He who has never failed has never risked ... so on and on.  But when it comes to actually failing ourselves... it is a disaster and a disgrace to us. We would never agree to accept it.

Starting today I am going to go out and fail mindfully. Failed conversations, failed thought processes, failed attempts at being a better person. I will acknowledge this failure and feel proud of it. I will analyze the hell out of that failure and try to build theories around the reasons for me being so bad at whatever matters. And I will know that it is what I am and accept it. But you are not going to catch me feeling sorry for myself.

True Effort

Make a true effort
To find your final goal, Then
call it destiny

All you

When I sang to you
I took another's words
I took his tune too
I just brought along my voice
And delivered the tune
But the intention was mine
The love in it was true
The feelings in it right
The rest was all you

When it's right...

When everything's right
I fight
To find something that's not

Unfair judge

She bangs her gavel on the bench
I would rather be hit with a wrench
Than listen to her
She is the unfairest judge of all
She magnifies every minute fault
That's within her

Time capsule

Old friends are time capsules
Combined memories
Some you want, some you don't
Some that take you to a world apart
Some just take you apart

I stop

I sing
The emptiness brings
my voice back
to me and smacks
my ears
Just as I feared
my tune is not
In any way what
it should be. I stop

Why she tries

She tries too hard
And gets nowhere
But I know now
Why she tries

Today's things

That tune
The moon
Potted plant
Angry rant
To do list
Nothing  done

Worry some more

Worrying is the mind's way of making you stay awake and active. Worrying makes you a better person, because it helps you decide what is important and what needs to be done. Of course, worrying beyond a point is useless. Having this kind of worry is like being in a wormhole. You worry. Your body goes stiff. You can feel your mind racing and the whole world goes round at a faster pace. Your heart jumps into your mouth and jumps like a fish out of water. A burning flame clutches your eyes. These sensations make you worry harder. And work lesser.
Worry holds your mind hostage. Suffocates it and ties it up. Holds on so tight that after a point you give up. Worry takes on a form. You give her a name. She nags and taunts. She points and laughs. She grows fangs and horns. Then just as the situation that caused the worry eases up... you have Stockholm syndrome.

You miss worrying. Actively find situations to worry about. She is so much a part of you that a moment spent away from her shadow... is just frightening.
 

Daily habit

A daily habit is easy to make
Easier to break
Tough to restart
So stick to the first part

Terrifying beauty

Softly night falls
And sleep brings dreams aplenty
None so beautiful as what day brings
And none so utterly terrifying

June Sunday

Food, good company
Sun that goes down late
What isn't to like
On a Sunday in early June

All fun and games

Lazy mornings, lazy nights
Lots and lots of lazy fun
Early mornings and daily runs
A feeling of utter and true delight

Time and you

When you are here
Time goes like a merry-go-round
When you are not
Time beckons from far beyond

Sleep's arms

Sleep sprinkles her magic seeds
And urges you to turn off the screen
And float into her arms

Floating

Floating above the ground
And then on it
Wishing for time to fly
while I remain firmly grounded

Torn in two

Torn in two
Looking forward
Glancing behind
Waiting impatiently
Sighing at memories
Deliriously happy
And so sad that the heart breaks

Flashing flying lights

Lights flash in your eyes
As you look into them flying by
I am sure their reflections reflected in mine
As I looked up into your eyes

What flows over and still remains?

Overwhelmed and filled to the brim
A little bit more and it could have overflowed
Never would have cried over spilt milk though

Because you are

How like me you are
You could take my place
And none would be the wiser
I am me because you are
And yet our likeness is a surprise

A job is done

A job is done
Another begins
When the sun rises
So does the dust

Nothing sacred

Nothing is sacred anymore
No niche to keep what's dear
Nothing makes sense any longer
Even if all I ever owned is right here

Inactivity

Fervour and fever
Sometimes best addressed
By attentive inactivity

Tossed plans

Plans are made
Meticulously,
To be tossed aside with disdain

Temper tantrums

Temper tantrums
Harrumph harrumph
A big big bore
Let's have no more

Modus Operandi

Manipulations
To induce confusion
And generate
An obedient crowd that fears and hates

Memory marvels

A decade and a half

Have passed by

Those memories still linger

Partially in my mind, partially in yours

Softly she says

She looks so deep into my eyes
Disoriented, I peer back at her
She pushes my hair
away from my face
And softly says
"Wake up. It is late."

The short story

The short story format allows one to write a short scenario that fleets across the mind, without reaching a conclusion. There is no moral, ending or purpose with which it is written. There is nothing except a scenario to convey. It is the result of a flash of something in the mind that needs to be put down with little thought to how it should end or what it must represent. That is the beauty of it. Pure imagination that draws the reader in to imagine a bit with the so-called story and formulate the rest of it by himself/herself. 

Better still ... is silence

Efficiency's key
More words do not convey more
Than what fewer would

Shopping

Fabric and colour fly across the hall

Of this shop inside the mall

Smiles spread across your face

A sight to recall and smile about, for days

Picture on the wall

It was a simple picture. There wasn't anything to interpret in it. It just portrayed what the artist saw. There was not much to talk about it. A landscape. Nothing unconventional or novel. Nothing striking, bizarre or shocking. Some would say it was not even attractive. It did not even catch attention.

It was this characteristic that was desired in a picture that hung on Hotel New Sree Sagar's walls. Nothing to draw praise. Just a means to do away with the drab wall and the need for a fresh coat of paint in the future. 

This too ...

This too shall pass
Because all this is
Is a part of the cycle
Whether joy or sorrow
This too shall pass

Live your life

Live your life. Find your destiny and fulfill it.
Don't try to fill in blanks in another's definition for you, of you.
Weakness is not the inability to do something. Weakness is when you try to point out reasons for why you are or were bound to fail.

All that needs to be done

What joy it brings
How the heart sings
If all that needs to be done
Is to sit on a swing
And do nothing

Life-ku

A perfect cycle
Creating and restoring
A divine balance

By your side

As dejected as you feel tonight

Know that I am with you

I know I am not

The best friend you can have

But I am all you've got

I promise to try hard 

To be by your side

Your struggle

It is a struggle
Every day, in every way
To hold on to what is dear
To let go of troubles and fear
But it is your struggle
You shape it, you make it
You create the path you take
So go on for your own sake

Change, but don't

Years have gone by
Yet you remain much the same
While I keep wishing
That you would change for the better
I am reminded why I first loved you
Flaws and all

Taste buds

Goodness in every mouthful
As diverse flavors meld together
New ones are created
I knew there was a reason,
I have taste buds

Sweet Breezes

The slight tinkle of hanging bells
When the wind blows gently
Sound and sensation
Intertwined irretrievably
In my mind

What would she think..

Recalling one evening

Of many uncountable ones

Just a glimpse of that wall there

Never would she have thought

Here she would be...

Wish I could hear 

What she would think of me

Free

I see it was no smoke at all

Not a remnant of fast moving bodies

There were just cobwebs

Caused by the lack of motion

Causing all under it to freeze in time

Pushing them aside we are free

To rejoice and see stars shine again

Ocean eyes

Where I love to see a twinkle
Today I saw a hurricane brew
As it swept across the ocean of your eyes
I catch my breath and wait for it to pass

Storms

Frenzied activity
Dust is wiped away
Kicking up a storm in a tea cupboard

Rejoice

Let every care and worry
Waft away into the air
Feel it leaving you
And rejoice
at fresh freedom

Vendor Calls

Cries of vendor
Strange and bizarre
To the outside ear
Rarely decipherable
Services provided
Entertainment derived
From decoding their
unique advertisement calls

Aubergine

Flavours explode
Permeate onto the palate
I know there is a party
in my stomach

Wipe the dust

Wipe the dust away
And what remains
Is the home that I return to
With love and longing
With hope for the future
And everything that I belong to

Miniscule Giants

Snow covered mountains,
Gigantic masses of Her innards
that can be scaled
but never conquered
No goat or herd ventures
upon these giants that shadow over
But when observed from the sky
The giants reduce to mere spots
Pimples across the face of Mother Earth

Travel Anxiety

Long ago I received a lesson
The importance of which
today has not lessened
It has injected in me
A deep insecurity
And I worry endlessly
Over baggage to be carried during travel

Weird Princess Story

Queen steps down the throne
Princess she is, to everyone so dear
The tiny nation she ruled over groans
And wishes that the new king had a beard

Would you like to listen?

Let me tell you this story
It is interesting I promise
It has a girl and her time machine
And a lot of plot twists
She is on a quest to conquer
The world with an evil, evil plan
And all she has to do to make it come true
Is to write and write as much as she can
At the end of the story
You will be pleased as punch
and rejoice for this scheming girl
Who cackles and rubs her hands with glee
As she towers over the world

Would you like to listen?  

How long

Ink is slowly running out
Of the pen with which I create
But I shall write and never stop
Till all I can do is to scratch
out my words on the earth

The dance of the cranes

Slow and graceful 
With the precision of an egg-shell artist
But with the strength of a horde of elephants
The crane lifted its load above our heads

More than precious

A blade of grass :

A celebration of life in the harsh desert
Not to be cradled and protected as precious
But a herald of possibilities and hope  

Stand tall

Stand tall
And let the wind pass through
from in between your branches

Let your leaves gently tremor

In the face of gales,
that threaten to break your very being,
Flex lightly

Let your trunk yield just a little

Your fall
is impossible, when your roots
entwine their fingers through earth's

Let them spread deep and wide

Downhill

That's it. It all goes down from here.  There is nothing more that you or I can do that will ever make any single thing in the world better. It is not your responsibility to change the world. After all, never mind changing the world, how do you comprehend how big the world is first? It is such an easy thing to do - opting out. Just throw your hands up and say, "I give up. There is nothing that I have done, am doing, or will ever do that will ever make anything in this world any different from what it is right now." Every good deed is met by several bad ones that nullify it. So why even try!

Now that was liberating. When you give up and just face failure, things look a bit brighter.

No dance, only sing

I cannot dance to music
I recently realized why
My love for sweet melody
Comes from deep inside
Moving my hands and hips
Is quite a shallow show
When all I want to do
Is to sing and let it flow

Will and Wont

It breaks and withers slowly,
leaves - uncared for - drop to the ground
Habits untended and forgotten,
As time goes by, the aging process further ushered on
It isn't my fault
Habits have formed
They are now enjoyable and mine
The matter is not of will, it is now my wont
Connections to the outside world
 are slow in coming in,
Just one exists now, that leads in
None that lets the voice be heard outside
Yes, it is true, I have a TV line at home,
But I have no internet at night

Warming up

The mind longs for warmth 

That home can give

And the heart warms to the very thought

A new beginning

A new beginning
A place-filler leaves,
making way for definite things to come

Random conversations

High roofs and low tables
Little conveyed,
but laughter fills the room

Floating will

When there is no gravity

No force that pushes or pulls

Nothing that holds you in a place

What defines which way you float?

Nostalgia

Nostalgia is weird

Memories of joy flood in 

Leaving none behind

Crosswords (and bad metaphors)

Filling in letters
Into grids and boxes
Guessing thoughtfully
As the puzzle becomes
More complete
I see more answers than before
I see the reason why
The clues mean what they do
And why that letter goes
exactly there
But I know that if it fits
It was meant to be
And if it doesn't
It must be changed
In the end I never ask
If there was any meaning
In the puzzle or my solution
I am content to finish it
And move on to the next

Anger

Bubbling frustrations
Overflowing with anger
Heat is turned up high 

Bore

It has all been said before
That's it, I can say no more
Whatever I try to make up
I will label me a bore

Scent of Mays Past

A hint of it in the air
Comes wafting to me
And as I breathe in
My heart races

It races like the wind
And the fragrance it carries
My mind picks up the baton
In this strange relay

I travel back to May
Many years ago
When cool summer breezes blew
Laden with flowery delights

Late at night
When the lights went out
And it was too hot indoors
I built castles much like today

Castles with rooms and rooms
Of invented games to play
Of strange lands to go to
And best friends everywhere

Today's castle I build
And fill it with an assortment
Of bittersweet memories
And a little girl's playthings
From long long ago

Upstream or down

Conversation flows
Either gently in your away
or harshly against

Fairy

She just spreads her wings
And takes just one last deep breath
Then sails like the wind

Apathy

I learnt something about me
And it shocked me immensely
I never thought it could be true
But sadly it is
It shook me more than I can say
And I fear this shock won't wear away
I wish I could forget all this
I know I never will
I cannot take anyone telling me
That I am wrong or can be
I cannot lose an argument
So I run away
I wear a mask of apathy
Or act holier than ye
I turn away lest I may lose
But it's the same story

The view

Honestly

I have never had this view before

While I saw the world 

As I chose to

Then one day

I saw it through your eyes

Cause I thought 

I must learn

Yesterday 

I was blind to these sights

Today, they pierce my eyes

As I weep for the world

Ignorance was bliss

Don't argue with strangers

I had an argument today

A long and tense one

It was with a stranger 

I've never met and never will

I had a lot to say

And when I was done

Intelligence endangered

And the result worthless babble

Avoid internet arguments

Unknown Controllers

Signals in the sky
Seen or unseen, felt or not
Dictate our stories

Out of my mind

Procrastination
I stick to you
I make you my pastime
But I know, yes I know
You are just a waste of time
I must pay no heed
Must not think of you any more
Because doing so, just adds
To perpetration of this crime

Balance

Red streaks of anger
Spread across the calm blue sky,
A balancing act

Sing this in Jim Reeves' voice

Love can heal your pain
As the wind blows
It will save the world again
This I know
You better believe it too
Love is coming for you

Perceptions

Perceptions differ

From one man to another

Intentions/ tensions

Sign

The large block letters shone over the city in the dark. It hovered above buildings and trees like a beacon.  It was seen from everywhere and stood against the sky and above the earth like a permanent fixture. How it glowed, with yellow letters that stood distinct from the blue background. From a distance it was the flag of an empire and a source of not just light and advertising goodness, it also emitted the pride of the store.

Right at the foot of the giant sign, the shadow that it cast shrouded the place in darkness. 

Do both

Talk
And the mind shall think
Deepen its reaches
Listen
And the mind shall have
Something to reach into
One without the other
Is knowledge without depth
Or vast meaningless emptiness

For the faint of heart

Start a project like this and daily thoughts and feelings are recorded for you forever. But is this something that you would want? Do you want to remember the days when hardly anything happened? Do you want to record every single day when you tried to think deep thoughts about the weather or write witty poetry? Think about it, this is not photography. This is not just an act of clicking a device when even pointed in an arbitrary direction generates an image worthy of oohs and aahs. So writing is going to be you capturing monotony, running out of ideas repeatedly and shrinking in your seat thinking of the trash that has been written in a predictable rhyme the previous day and the day before that and the one before that...

Are you ready to face the truth about your lack of originality? Are you willing to write out the best of your thoughts on blank canvas literally everyday of the year and then have your worst, most cruel critic look it up the next day and judge you for it, be unhappy, throw epithets about being the most boring blogger on the internet? You better be, because this person is you and there is no escape from you. You better realize this before you start and stop if you think you cannot take it.

If you have gone through these questions thinking that you can take it, it is easy and don't know why I am fretting so much... This exercise is not for you. If these questions scare you and make you feel uneasy, take this project up. You will ask/feel/hate/judge, but it will be one of the most liberating feelings ever felt.

I shall

Somewhere in the world
Friendless and forlorn
You wait for a helping hand
In my day, you shall have it

Impatience

Time stretches slowly
From nights into longer days
Still no spring flowers

Wicked weather

Summer taunts me

from its warm vacation place

Winter laughs in my face

 

Cat Call

White patch over his eye
I would've named him Patchy
Had he been mine
The wily graceful feline

Maiden of the night sky

Like a long lost friend
She makes my face light up
I look adoringly up at her
And the very sight warms me
I admire her for long, I sigh
At beauty that glows down at me
She calls out to the poet inside
And a tune pops in alongside
The moon she is, ladies and gents
The subject of my love song

Lessons

The longer you wish for it,
The longer the night seems
As you long and yearn for it
There is no sign of sunbeams
There is the shadow of darkness
 in every utopian dream

But stuck in this long night
I ask you quite simply
What is life if you don't
Hope and love deeply
Night and day are but a cycle
Just as I repeat to you, what you taught me

Will you spare an idea?

I look to you for some inspiration
Give me some fuel for a fire
I am going to start a revolution
I have but one desire
What I need is a direction
And a small bit of a clue
I can find my destination
And redraw the maps anew
So do a bit of thinking
And share if you have a spark
The amber light's ablinking
And engine's about to start

Will you spare an idea?

Reach out, draw in

Webs of lies woven
ready to be spread around,
ready to ensnare

Outside and in

When push comes to shove

The wind blows your head right off

Inner turmoil's matched

The girl who chucked the plan

A routine
Like an oiled machine
It's a boring scene
And she knows it
Haphazardly
And happily
She is lazy
But she'll do it

In you, through you

I'll paint you a picture

With a sweet string of words

I'll make you live that dream

If you breathe in with me

You will smell the divinity

In delicate flowery perfume

You will close your eyes and see

Beautiful sights inside and out

Fragrance that fills rooms and hearts

Such is the power of my brushstroke

I'll paint a picture with words

But it will come to life in you, through you

Let go

Breathe deep and let go
Monsters are just dust bunnies
That grow in your head

Picturesque Words

Let me paint a picture
with nothing but words
This canvas stretches out
plain, clean, untouched and open
for me to sully with inky thoughts
Dark, disturbing, persuasive and blunt
Or for me to decorate fondly
With pastels, sun drops and smiles
Let me paint a picture for you
And you can read it the way you want to

Disappearing act

Fleeting memories
Linger a while,then vanish
Like wisps of grey air

Where

Where does my inspiration come from
From the blue skies
From sunsets
From star light
And everything else
Where do my words come from
From your words
From you

Fools rule!

Irrational behaviour

makes the world go round
So while they're perfect for labour
it definitely sounds 
absurd that someday
machines will rule
And listen to me when I say
Contribute. Be a fool!


 

Meanwhile in a parallel universe...

Somewhere in another universe
She writes better verse
She lives a perfect life
She thinks about me
And what I might be
Just about the same time as I

Well, I know this cannot be true
Yes I absolutely do
Because if she was real
She'd be infinitely cooler
Maybe a world ruler
Definitely not writing babble

Blog's anti-block support

When a block like this
Spreads its tight hold on my mind
I turn to you for comfort
And though you are blind
And deaf, you support
with words - even though they are mine

Hope this is true

Trepidation and
Excitement cancel out but
Hope grows stronger still

Musical mysteries

Simple tunes and beats ring out
But when I listen and understand
I know that those words will carry me
To a lovely summer wonderland
Where strains that echo happiness
Speak with sorrows and joys unknown
Fruit of seeds of secret thoughts untold
To me, that in these songs were sown

Gotham's got him

A mask covered his face
No one would ever know
What hid behind it
His true self wouldn't show
People lived in fear
Of what he might do to them
He was beyond the law
And universally condemned
Just because he showed
No open face to the world
His every move was suspect
And at him epithets were hurled
He bore them all with strength
Like a mother would with her child
Who was tended to with care
Yet in fear recoiled
From the love and tenderness
That he showered on his subjects
Every night he fought evil
But he was held suspect
What egged him on to continue
To save people who wouldn't believe
What caused him to give his all
And in return get no reprieve...

Race Won!

A race against time
To speak deep and profound thoughts
Before it strikes twelve

'Vial' away

Time flows into seas
of vast and wide emptiness,
From a tiny vial

Don't do it

Dear Mr. Singh,

You have not heard of me. You don't know and will never really know for sure if my position really exists. But we are a large team of people who work tirelessly doing our jobs to make sure that the world runs the way it does.  No one knows that our team exists, not even our colleagues at the other government offices. This is the only way we can work. This protects everybody from potentially dangerous and hurtful information.

I am going to let you in on this secret because I think you need to know this. It seems to be the only way to stop the eventualities of your actions.

You remember that application you filed last week? Doesn't matter which one, they are all connected. My job was to simply make sure that your application did not get through on time. This caused you to be angry at our offices rather than your wife and we saved a lot with the help of that. I will not elaborate. Draw your own conclusions.

But we never realized this event would cause you to come upon this solution that you are poised to implement. You have the perfect idea to change the system and get it to work smoothly. If you do this, you destroy the world.

Our message to you is very clear. Don't do it.

Sincerely,
MMTSTW

(This is an electronically generated message and hence does not need a signature.)

Puzzler

When I am happy I hum more
And feel better than before
But when things are down
I can only frown
And even humming becomes a chore

Miss

As I snooze away morning hours
I miss seeing your dear face
On my rectangle of light
And like anyone might
I miss you

She..

She sang to me
She held my hand
She loved and cared for me
Like no one can

She taught me well
And thoroughly
And I never fell
Cause she cradled me

I look up to her
Always did, always will
Today and forever
She will always be special

Traveling Without

So she managed to grab on to the railings and get into the moving bus and then carried on about her business, with absolutely no regard to the fact that she had just missed being in a terrible accident. As she dug into her purse and seemed to be looking for something - nonchalantly, I thought to myself : Where was she going that she needed to get to in a hurry enough to run after a moving bus, but did not warrant taking a quicker means of transport - maybe a taxi?

When I figured out the answer to that question, it turned out to be my worst nightmare.

 I had managed evading any kind of recognition so far. Breaking out of the prison, getting to the city, finding clothes to wear that wouldn't invite suspicion and a bus in which I could travel ticket-free, it had been smooth so far. Until this ticket-checker managed to jump into this moving bus.

State transitions

Harshness, loudness fades

State of intoxication

As soft sleep descends

Why I shout

Ringing ears
Hidden fears
Loudness masks endless lack of matter

The Perfect Imperfect World

So, I have been reading novels and watching movies from long ago and I realized that people from back then were wrong about what future would be like.

Today's world is not overrun with machines and aliens. The world is not ending or sinking or exploding into flames. For all we know, these events might have been at the risk of happening at some time in the past but they never did.

Over the course of 200 years or so since the advent and proliferation of modern computing technology, there have been so many changes (since we all know what these are, I will not repeat them) that has caused our world to go from a breeding ground for thoughts of destruction and sorrow, to our world today. We do not know if there was cause for the pessimism that those writers and movie-makers felt. But it must have been a definite threat for people to universally agree that the world was on a downward spiral.

Our world is not perfect today. We have long established that humans subconsciously reject the idea of perfection, as a concept that does not evoke truth and balanced behaviour. But this has been the state of the world since time immemorial. And it continues to be. What is new is that we now can choose to keep it this way.

Unseen, unknown, unheard

Like a clown's makeup
at a radio station
Like a fragrant rose
On the ocean floor
Like sweet string sounds
On the planet Mars

The Next World

I wonder why the people of the past were so pessimistic about their future. Stories based on the future were always about death, destruction and famine. People were supposed to be ruled by machines or aliens. They lived underground, in dirt and grime, in box-like apartments or some such ugly setting, to escape from the cruelty of the post-apocalyptic world. It seemed to always be a life of terrible sorrow and misery.

How wrong they were. 

She used to be me

I press a button
to resume a game
that I started before
Don't know how long ago

That day like now
I was bored and tired
I had nothing to do
No one to talk to

That connection
That bond I shared
with some one I used to be
Who was quite different from me

Soon this new person will arrive
here for the first time, again
She will have all my thoughts to see
I hope that she sees more than me

Come home, Persephone

Frost bites into Earth
Ground gels into ice fractals
All life awaits spring 

Passed

Sometimes it feels like long ago
Sometimes it's like yesterday
But I'm jubilant, delighted, elated
Ecstatic, euphoric, exhilarated
Those days are now far away

Sudoku

Blocks and numbers play

Interspersed between white spaces

Not easy to fill 

Spidersense!

Interconnections
make the whole world a big web
My mind is the spider

Darkness

Silver moonlight shines
Casting long and black shadows
Highlighting darkness

Sleep-time Solliloquy

I moved as though I was floating across the lawn. My long and flowing robes rustled around me and moved gently with the wind. Then I decided, not consciously though, that I need not walk at all! I could bounce along the small grassy mounds. And I did. I bounced like a ball and leaped to thrice my height effortlessly. It was an exhilarating and beautiful feeling. While I bounced up and down the lawns I thought : "Gravity is like our concept of God. We do not see it. Yet we feel it and know it is there. We believe that it is going to keep us rooted to the ground and not let us float away into space."

I don't remember the rest of the dream.

Normally, I mix some of my waking imagination with the stuff of my dreams when I write about them. But this dream is just too precious and wonderfully weird to write as a story.

Signal to noise

A thin line divides
A world of sweet harmony
From cacophony

Strong deep hope

Have hope
And never lose it
And know that life can go on
As long as there is laughter

Breathe deeply
And experience everything around you
And know that life can go on
As long as there is love

Believe strongly
That the world can be better
And know that life can go on
As long as there is song

Living Laughter

Laugh loudly and hard
Laugh because you are alive
Live cause you can laugh

Crash, burn and rise

In anguish there is hope
With the crash at the end of every song
There is the boom at the start of the next

Seaworthy

Sailing through the dark seas
Watching through the glass
The wind died to a light wheeze
And she wished it would be back

Her home was in the ocean
Right in its vast heart
Her mast stood proudly open
So the wind could do its part

She would gladly go wherever
She wouldn't even care
Away the wind could carry her
Any place, any where

As long as she sailed away
She was happy to be at sea
Didn't want to steer to bay
Here, happy she would be

Stringed euphoria generator

A soft gentle tug
Reverberations calm
and electrify

Persevere

Building blocks
Ticking clocks
Learning on the way
In the end
You transcend
What's in your way today
Bit by bit
You see to it
Then you'll have your say

Disconnection

There is a low thundering roar from a distance and I know that it comes from a dozen cars on the highway. I try harder at the pedal to get home sooner and away from the freezing cold. There is no one around me and a chill runs down my spine - literally too. I decide to make the most of the situation and help myself by singing as loudly as I can. My own voice bounces off the frozen pavements and parked cars before coming right back to me. The low thundering roar increases in intensity as I get closer to the highway and I can now differentiate the individual cars passing by. Each one hurtles away from in space heading towards a destination far away while the people are trapped in their own spaces, where they can sing and have their voice bounce back to them. The sight of me, a strange bundled creature wobbling down on my bicycle must also impress them in the same way. Maybe they think the same thoughts as me. Maybe that is the connection we have even if we have not shared a single word between us and in all likelihood never will.

Outside my window

Cloud-streaks splashed across
Soft tinges of grey  and blue
Above white expanse

Just right

Stop, I said
Don't fill it up

The glass is half empty
Just as I want it
Or half full if you like
Better than nothing at all
Much better than too much

When you need to hear them

Unnecessary words
When spoken at the right time
Maybe necessary

Dream Factory

I tiptoe in
And find myself
face to face
with the Cheshire cat's grin

I wait and wait
For the spinning totem
To stop its trip
And reveal his fate

Dorothy's flight
From Kansas city
I want to join
And I just might

Fictional or true
Eureka said Kekule
I have benzene
The snake said it too

I wont search and think
For more dream references
Instead into the dream factory
I myself shall sink

The final page

--X--

He had searched for meaning all through his life. He had turned to religion, tried to create his own family, tried to connect to people... he had tried it all. After seeing failure repeatedly and horribly, he decided to quit it all. All in the search for meaning. He decided that he would live with nature and search for meaning within the deep recesses of his own mind. He would leave behind people and their artificial worlds. He would cut himself loose and sink into delicious depths of reason and knowledge. All by himself. He would write and record. He would create ideas. He would observe his own thoughts, catalogue them meticulously. In the end, all of it would make sense and he would achieve his purpose. 

As he wrote, he was consumed. He became obsessed with his interpretation of his world. He created his own concept of time. He created his unique method of counting it. He shed his worldly needs. He lived with nature and cut off any minute reflection of his painful and prolonged search for the answer to the question - why am I here. 

As days became months and years, the writer had became a part of his environment rather than sticking out as the only outside element in the jungle. In his mind, he had achieved much more than if he had remained in his previous life.Yet, sometimes he would sit at the edge of the jungle and stare at the lights in the distance that came to him as a sign of humanity's existence.

On his last day on Earth, he sat at his desk writing out what would be his last page. With his monk like existence and utter lack of contact with another human being, the writer had become the enlightened one. And he had as proof his hut that was filled with stacks of neatly inscribed paper. A lifetime of learning that came almost entirely from his mind alone. He was a philosopher and a sage. His quest for meaning had long passed. He had created a guide, a rule book for everyone to live by. The ultimate gateway to meaningfulness and fullfilment.

That afternoon he lay bent over his desk as the floodgates of the sky opened. The monsoon brought the walls of his hut down as his eyes stared into the distance. The water carried every sheet of paper that the writer ever laid his pen on. The water carried it into the river and then into the ocean. The words that had given his life meaning, the words that had recorded meaning in them, dissolved in the murky waters turning it into inky blue depths.

The End

365 Diary Entries

Day 24: I feel spent, unoriginal and some what stifled. There is a pressure to say something and make sure that that something is true to me - it has to be honest, it has to represent what I feel at this moment. Also it is important that this is in a form that is at least mildly entertaining to others. I know that people read my blog because my hit counter keeps ticking, but the lack of feedback sometimes makes me feel a bit unhappy. Yet I think that maybe with feedback I would get nervous and write untruthfully. Or maybe grapes are sour I want to do more here but I don't know how to proceed.
 

Day 35: The series that I am writing now is a unique experience for me. I write whatever comes to my mind while trying to conform to the previous day's general layout. I have absolutely no idea where my story is going and which direction I would like to take it in. I do not know when it will end either. In the end I may end up with a story that is quite unreadable, but I get a kick out of inheriting a set situation from the previous day. This requires a different kind of creativity. My general aimlessness is a bit unnerving at times and at other times I feel really happy to have no direction. Heh.

The writer and other people

--IX--

There was not a single other human being in a radius of a few miles around his hut. It was just him, trees, birds and some unseen animals. There was a time when he was right in the middle of a sea of people and he felt so lonesome. Just the thought of being this far from any means of contact was exhilarating. He had great respect  for his fellows, but there was something that did not allow him to ever connect with them. In any case he had done well in the jungle. And he was not doing much for his kind. It was much better this way, he believed.

The writer's morning

--VIII--

A few hours before the sun rose, he woke up and breathed in the jungle air. A few moments later he was straining as much as possible to convert the vague images and emotions of his dreams in his mind into words before he lost them.  His hand moved across paper in swift motions as though it was racing against his brain - trying to capture its contents before they vaporized. He stretched his limbs and took a bit of time to recall where he was and what was going on. The reiteration of the knowledge of his surroundings hit him and filled him with a strange mixture of happiness for his miraculous escape and bitterness for the situations that caused him to attempt this escape. It was going to be a beautiful day. 

The writer's dream

 --VII--

As sleep crept over him he thought of what he would write the next day and how. Words danced in his head and he slipped slowly and effortlessly from concrete thoughts to wordless dreams. That night he would dream of the ending to his story.

Something set him apart

--VI--

The writer was an ordinary man. He did not have extraordinary capabilities. His teacher would say that he had no talent at all. But what he had was beyond the reach of most regular humans - perseverance. Of course this was debatable. But the writer had a history would prove this beyond a doubt.

The writer's past

--V--

Daylight crept in the next morning and filled his room with a pinkish orange colour. He squinted at the sun and stretched. It looked like a very promising day. Since the time he had left civilization he had barely felt his previous addictive tendencies. He did not need to smoke or check his correspondence obsessively. Yet he could choose to do these and feel no obligation to continue doing this as a necessary activity. The joys of reflecting on past failures, of looking at the long and tedious journey to reach this point.

The writer and time

--IV--

As he looked up at the moonhe realized that it was later than he had thought it was. The concept of time was boring to him. But he had come to terms with it and had understood how to deal with it. Now time worked for him.

The writer's walk

 --III--

He still had 8 hours to rest. That would do. The sun would rise in 10.

The weather was very comfortable and he enjoyed the sensation of movement after having spent all day behind a desk. A pair of eyes looked at him from up a tree. He looked up at it having sensed that he was being watched. He tried to discern the shape of the creature but could only catch a glimpse of a brownish orange tail as it moved swiftly away. He bent down to pick up a pebble that had rolled down to where he stood. Something or someone had caused it to move.

The writer's schedule

--II--

His book was almost complete. He was going to complete his story and give it an ending that was deserved by the intensity that filled the previous pages. He paused and looked at the pile of neatly arranged sheets on his desk. He could see in them an inspired piece of hard work that had taken eighteen hours a day in the last 4 months. He had come to the end of his eighteen-hour period today and was going to go to sleep. Then he decided that he would take a short walk outside instead.

The writer

 --I--

Threads of words held in them flowery metaphors of meaning and flew out of his pen as he drew out shapes on coarse paper. As his sinewy arm worked feverishly, there were a few beads of sweat that formed on his forehead and threatened to flow off onto to the ink. But he stopped it with a swift movement of his free hand. His brow went from being to not being furrowed as he continued to write - as each idea formed it went from one position to the other. His thick grey hair hung onto his head as it moved and shifted with the brow. The effect of this combined movement was that of almost seeing his brain thinking out each thought.

Grapes are sweet

Grapes that are eaten
everyday, seem sour to taste
Sweet when not at hand

Yet it feels like home

White noise
Loud voice
Full house
Little choice

Connected, but not

I hold many hands
Some old and some very new
But I feel nothing

Never will understand

The day didn't begin until I went up to the small shelf in the kitchen and took some holy ash to put on my forehead. This was followed by a small chant and a bow. It was a simple ritual and I did it every single day.
I don't remember when I dropped this habit and certainly don't think there was a reason why. But I do know that when I did this in my childhood, it was not an act which involved reasoning or thinking. To this day even the thought of the act gives me a pleasant feeling of being calm. I am always reminded of the innocent hope that was in my mind at that time in the past and of the funnily silly happiness that I had almost all the time (when I was not angry with homework)
That the whole world has so many conflicts based on what to me was and is a set of simple rituals and a means to feel hopeful or calm or happy is just beyond my capacity to understand.

Draught

The fount has dried

And there is no water in the sea

I tried and tried

But there were no clues for me

I throw the line

But fish, there aren't any

Just a bit of brine

Could hold the key

But o friend of mine

I have run out you see...

abcb

A clean slate?

Scribble on it

A snow pile?

Walk on it

A blue sky?

Paint it red

A stop light?

March ahead!

Rules list?

Break them all

Rhyme twist 

You bet!

A lullaby set to the tune of boredom

The sun set five hours ago
But it is still light outside
Maybe it is this blanket of snow
In league with the cloudy sky

The world is at my fingertips
And yet so far away
Boredom has me in its grip
I fear it is here to stay

Bear with me as I brood
And mope all night long
I tried as much as I could
Not to write this cheerless song

Waves

As the warm water lapped against his legs he felt a sense of excitement. On an impulse he pushed himself up with is hands. Patting the sand out of his hands and clothes he started walking faster and faster until it was a run. With each foot forward he found himself battling against the ocean to get past its waves. He had to lift his feet higher and higher to get around the high waves. And then when he was almost waist-deep in water he dove in. He pushed through the water with all his limbs and tried to move deeper into the ocean. He swam further and came up to the surface for air and bobbed on the water for a while. He looked at his wrist watch that had ticked on in spite of the saline water threatening to enter it. He had been pushing against the currents for 20 minutes and had moved a few meters out of the shore.

A giant wave came crashing over his head, it broke and carried him back to the spot where he had started.

Guilt-ar

"You see that window? I could have put in that window frame with the money you spent on that guitar." They  all giggled at the mock anger that her father had. Lame jokes about how he could still fit the guitar into the wall where the window would be ...

It was blue in colour. Just like in her dreams. The dreams in which she would have a guitar in her hands and then would not be able to play a single note. Because it had been unplugged or because of some other reason that made sense in her dream and didn't after she woke up. This had become a recurring dream. She dreamed that she knew how to play the guitar but just could not. 

After months on end, finally, she brought home her dream blue guitar with love. Books on the guitar and plans to take lessons followed.

But they remained plans.

To this day she has been seeing her dream come true... She has a blue guitar. And she cannot play a single note.

Beholder's eye

Did man evolve to appreciate and enjoy nature and its beauty or does nature constantly arrange itself to appeal to the eyes of human beings?

The Tree

It stood alone. There were no other trees near it. There was just a little bit of grass that grew in tufts here and there. It was a young tree with broad leaves that were very very dark in colour. They hung about the trunk and let the sunlight through. The leaves did not move in the wind either. Even though it was very young the roots emerged above the ground a bit. There were some newly built houses near the tree and perhaps it would not stand for too long after because of the fast-changing landscape.

But it didn't look like a tree that would die. It didn't look like something that would cease to exist ever in time. A tree whose leaves didn't respond to breezes, whose flowers did not advertise the tree's presence through an enchanting fragrance, that gave no traveler some joy by offering shade... The tree that stood alone against the sky as though it ruled it defiantly, not permitting another tree to dip its roots into the earth...

This tree would never die. But it came to life as her brush gently stroked the canvas.

Land of ice and snow

Wobbling on my bicycle

Trying not to fall

I rode thru snowed over streets

This feat in no way small

Tomorrow I shall venture out

to make the same trip

I hope the snow is swept clean

Or I'm sure to slip!

The windshield apple analysis

Q. The windshield of your parked car is smashed and there is an apple on your front seat. List 5 reasons why this could have happened.

1. Some one threw an apple at the car with a high speed trebuchet.
2. A vandal broke the windshield. A different person left an apple to cheer me up.
3. A worm hole from a different dimension appeared right on my windshield and someone on the other side threw in organic matter as a test.
4. Lady with high pitched voice sings on the street. Her voice causes glass to shatter. And people try to take her out by throwing things at her. An apple thrown at her falls into my car.
5. Teenage wizard wand malfunction.

An exercise in creativity. If anyone else would like to continue listing answers, you are welcome to try and leave ideas in the comments. It is a tough tough job! In spite of thinking so hard I still got quite unoriginal answers. :(

Then there was light

Lamp isn't turned on
The whole room glows orange,
 It is the sunset

Write one today

A letter to read
From someone far far away,
that brings you closer

Verse and Worse

Cool things in her mind to say
everyday
But by the time she gets here
they disappear
Again she shall create silly verse
of course
So what? In fact, ... Hurray and a cheer!
Blog's still here!

Arriving late on platform number...

Clocks whiz by like trains
Fast and unforgiving too,
But no stops or toots

Smell memories

Juicy oranges

Tangy and sweet explosions,

Smell lingers for hours

Drifting off

Sleep tries to take over

And thoughts run for cover

Lights spin and sting

But she must write this thing

Before her dreams devour her

Limerick schimerick

Does a swan sleep on a lake?
In the cold does it quiver and quake?
In the dead of the night
Under the pale moonlight
What a beautiful sight it must make.



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The duck slept on a pond
When it woke it stretched and yawned
It set off with a flourish
To catch a scurrying catfish
The day had finally dawned.


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A limerick must be nonsensical
As far as possible, farcical
It must have in it
An inkling of wit
And at least one end of a popsicle

Hai-flying

Jets fly in the sky
They leave white lines behind them,
No noises reach me

Food-ku

Jam spread over bread
A great hunger reliever,
One longs for idlis

Haikungfu

Sounds sweet to the ear
Looks beautiful to the eye,
Writing obsession

Doubt

I toss and turn
Thinking of
What best I could write about

Quite a few drafts
Disappear
And nothing's written yet

Rehashed words
Old stories
Past posts get repeated

Much too much
with this project
Have I now committed?

Immovable

A lovely light blue sky hung over the soft dawn. Wispy grey clouds were dispersing.

There was one that didn't seem to move. I stared at it for a while wondering why  it was so obstinate. Why wouldn't it move. Some special cloud!

It was a light grey in colour and through it the powdery blue sky seemed to peep through its translucent body. Why wouldn't it let the wind carry it? What was it holding on to that it was so immune to the strong gusts that took its brethren away.
 
Then it dawned on me. It was the moon that was just about to set. 

Start

If not celebrated
It's deliberately wasted

So, here begins anew
A project especially for you

A project 365
A record for and of life

Here goes! Join me if you can
Wish you a great 2013!