On the estuary

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At times like these, when the time flows like the great waters but my subconscious, like a wild weed is still half rooted with the rotten memories of the green leaves that ever adorned my frail tangles. I am caught at the estuary willing to leave, but the heart is delighted my stretching misery to my every fibre and not letting the roots of belief break through the ruthless chest of the dynamic river. I am stuck between ‘if it’s time’ or ‘the time has departed long time back.’ And withal the roots trust the selfish chest and aren’t letting me flow into the sea and through this painful estuary.

When I turn and glance upon the green days I am gifted with the ability to contemplate that my every word about the future fruit was certainly the indispensable truth. And the cause of my suffering is the unrevised decision of trusting the root rather than the faded leaf. My suffering will not be reciprocated. And the sea only nurtures it more to make my threads screech and cry. Yet mercy is far and nearer is death. The junction is long but the arm shall be stretched to the sea and here I am bound again at the estuary.

In this state when I lost the mouth but gained the eyes. It’s now that I see in the depth of the sea, there lie pebbles fighting with the rocks and I was just a wild weed, maybe just one of a many who couldn’t see and thought itself to be the source of life for some zeal of bubbles in the inanimate sea. The cerulean waters turned into smothering coals but I couldn’t judge as I was numb. Burnt me the water, such that no water could heal and all I need is the fire to take away the burn from me. And the I look back at my pity state with worry, and find the rooted threads trapping me back at the estuary. For a moment or two, I taste a drop of the sea and it seems like the river still burns through me. And now I am standing in still of the hurry but I don’t know if what I cravingly want is to leave the estuary?

 

Society: the well

A withered stoned well,

Rotten and deep.

From heaven to hell,

To make everything weep.
Miles and miles,

Reside impalpable.

Only the crying walls,

Tearing the untouchable.
Down there,

In disgust and squalor.

Thousands and thousands,

Of snakes wear pallor.
Poisonous and dark,

With hatred in their hearts.

Between the alive and dead,

For blood, their souls arc.
Tempting the wicked,

By their scavenging mouths.

Swallowing blood, putrid and corrupt,

No water from the south.
Those sucking mouthful grave,

To swallow a breath.

Are the winners,

Of this gambling quest.
The girl, bare feet,

Aware yet innocent.

Stands by the stinking well,

Shattered, can’t pay off the debt.
Trembling her hands,

For her lover awaits her presence.

Of misfortune and burden,

Can’t digest the essence.
Can’t walk to him,

Can’t lay in his arms.

Cause he is the son,

Of who has digested her farms.
He waits in her cottage,

To argue, to claim.

While she peeps in the well,

So rotten, so vain.
Beautiful were those,

Merry days of love.

When no one knew about,

Bonded hearts with invisible cuffs.
Nothing remains anymore,

Of the relations of past.

Except the snakes from before,

Craving water for their cast.
For all those who sin,

End up in the well.

By guilt or by hands,

Bloodless parched bodies swell.
No skin remains, no muscle,

No one chooses the well to die.

Yet when the lover runs to her,

She doesn’t bid a goodbye.
With tears in eyes,

And her letter in hands.

He stands speechless,

Overwhelming regret for all his plans.
Stand naked his words,

For the promises he couldn’t keep.

Couldn’t save her from the world or from himself,

All that’s left is to weep.
But the syndrome of life,

He no longer wishes to cure.

Jumps after her,

For the death could allure.
The ruthless snakes were priced delight,

Of the fresh blood of longing.

Them, with no urge to fight,

The upcoming belonging.
– Muskan.

Mirage

desert-africa-bedouin-footprints‘Best Friends Forever’
The term is fiction. So it’ll last forever but the truth is never fiction. Truth is never surreal. It’s hard as glass. It breaks then it makes you bleed. The truth is that the fictional three words will always remain unchanged but the mouths uttering them will keep changing.
The faces will keep flipping but the promising words will always be wrapped with the same superficial forever. The people will come, use and go. The time will do all to make you wither. The change will always be unacceptable for many. The trust will always seem to be strong and lasting but it’s like a mirage in the desert.
Like a traveller in the huge expanse of swallowing sand, tired, thirsty and sweaty. Dying for a drop of water to satiate his choking throat and quench his dried up soul. A sudden sparkling lake brings him back to life, revives his hopes. He runs. Runs to quench his thirst. Runs to medicate his sores. Every step dragging him deeper into glee.
His merry heart letting tears run faster than him. As his burning feet step into the merciful water and he dips his hands to get some water, it vanishes. The glass of dream breaks and then the heart bleeds. He is back in the middle of the same slaughtering desert.
Just exactly same is what the human heart is. You trust, you lose. You believe, they hurt. You play, you win. You dodge, their sin.
Friendship, love, care. Everything is like the mirage. And you are the traveller looking desperately for them. Cause even relations have their own timeline. Everything ever born has its own expiry date. Same goes for me. Same goes for you and same goes for us.

It’s Time

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It’s time. Like everyday the clock has struck 1. But unlike everyday I cannot sleep.

I am tired, and it was a long day. My eyes feel the burden of hell and my body lifted the sky, my skin has been seared to the sun, yet sleep walks afar, the unknown, the un claimed road. I am running behind it, the faster my gait, the smokier it’s outline gets.

Something is killing me inside. Every inch, every fibre of me can feel it. Did I go wrong somewhere? Did I forget something? I did it all, as scheduled, yet I feel uneasy this time. It’s not the first time, though I am oblivion stricken withal I remember it. Every part, in every way.

I had to save her, but I couldn’t. Again. I failed. Again. She cried. Again. I tried. Again. Then lost. Again. Though she trusted me. Again. And I ran back to hold my loathing shattered pieces together. All over again.

I am tired of it, but I cannot abandon it. I hate it, yet cannot strand it. How can I ever separate my own self from me? Cause she dies everyday, every second, inside of me. She the moment she last breathed in my arms, since the very moment, I was left alone to sail a boat which already had a sinking deck. No island to surround. No destination to swim. Yet every past night I successfully deceived myself to the blinding clarity of moving on and forgetting but all I actually achieved was a hollowed soul, perishing deeper and deeper. Emptying my sordid body.

All I discovered is that forgetting you is like sinking into a void which had nothing but you. No land to step on, no water to quench, no air to suck in, only you.

But today that I learn to allow myself to accept it, accept the burning reality that it was no one else but me, me who did it all. It feels like I am allowing the fire to consume me when locked in a burning house. Like I am no longer desperate to open the windows and jump out. Cause it was me who set the fire after all. But I forgot that if I have to burn the house then I will be burnt inside it, alive. Like the house, you engulfed me inside of you, and I am no longer alive, cause I already died inside of you. I wish I never had let you fall for him and alas, I would have never poisoned you to death.

Silence

I am feeling a not so unfamiliar silence inside me after a very long time. The kind of silence which makes me want to not want anything at all. The silence that needs nothing to be needed. A sudden depth, a void of complete incessant lavish darkness. The kind that needs no one to stay.

I know it’s temporary, though I importune it to stay. It’s probably the repercussion of the reflection of my day. But I don’t want the disinterest, the oblivion and the simmering coldness to set with the sun. The pleasing sounds have become yammerings, yet every shackled fibre of me is discreetly absorbing the sordid inanimate moisture which has strangely astounded my own demented self.

Nothing seems enough. All frays feel futile withal the cause. Everything’s superfluous yet not fulfilling.

I want this influential silence to never break. The void to never end. The pain to never reiterate. The oblivion to never pale.

That Strange Feeling

“It was like the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that I cannot express in words.
Like somewhere, very far, away far from the city and away from the villages. Somewhere no people reside. Away from all the civilisation and society. In a place where the sun blazes like a furnace.
Where there are only dead mountains standing, with no life in them. No spider, no crab.
The ocean stretches but no fish and hence no man. Just an empty barren piece of burning brown earth. The pernicious winds penetrating the languish mountains.
The sound of falling rocks, clattering against each other. But the dead remains dead, and all that resides is nothing, all that hears to those screams is emptiness, and all the bears those winds is silence.”

Argument

A nothing grazing my head. The sound of silence absorbing into my ears. Like buckets full of water, I feel frail and heavy.
The trance of black taking over and feeding over my emotions, digesting my ability think or even feel.
I feel like I am letting go. Running off, everything. The fear of loosing set far, not a shadow to be seen. Just emptiness and the nostalgia of the want of feeling nothing is taking over. Engulfing me as a whole, mouthful.
Thoughts getting paralysed and affection getting choked. Body getting numb and eyelids bearishly heavy.
Words draining off my core, leaving the surface and letting go. Like they never grew on the barren platform.
Don’t know if it’s the same, or the ability to deceive my own self. Not about me, not about nothing but the argument.
The argument between the want of being stranded and the feel of being wanted.
Choice being material, or being eternal. The argument now making my numbness go, unwontedly.
Harder I try, farther I loose,
To the material than eternal. The argument never ending about absolutely nothing I can do.