25 May 2016

Let your fingers do the talking.

Have you ever forgotten your ATM pin? I did once. I have had been using the same combination for ages now, so I didn't need to put it now , I had thought I was immune, that I would never forget it.
On second thoughts, the thought of forgetting about it never crossed my mind. Like the thought of forgetting  your mother's name never crosses your mind, you never forget it you never put it down somewhere to remember it.

I couldn't remember it for a month, I called up my dad and asked him if he had the original docs and if he could help me with it. He told me it will come to me, to not hasten it. He told me to allow my fingers to remember it, go to the ATMs and try punching in the sequence. I laughed him off at first but my unrelenting trust on my father's way of life  took over and I did it, once/twice a week and one day, it just came to me.

That was my eureka moment.


We live life like this, being used to things, getting comfortable. Letting our bodies, learn our language. Letting our bodies speak our language. Makes me scared, makes me think, how important it is to be mindful, how important it is to be aware of what language we are speaking, and what language our bodies in turn are.


In other news, discovered Paolo Nutini last week, told a friend about it and he says he has been listening to him since a long time. late bloomer me. 

check him out: 

10 May 2016

forgotten

in anticipated anxiety,
the need to cry. forgotten
alive and awake,
the need to be seen and heard . forgotten
existing, pretending, coaxing, stifling, hiding.
FORGOTTEN.
like a rolling stone I'll walk alongside,
like a vagabond I'll leave you surprised.
a penny for each thought unsaid,
a penny for every memory that fades.
every single penny you earned,
don't forget, that is for every notion I burnt.
in ashes are those memories, those fantasies soot.
every desire famished, every lover moot.
the need to prove yourself myself;
writing in third person. forgotten.

forgotten for what is ever gotten
the desire to make sense. forgotten.


................

I came across this list of cues for poems. I am trying to do all of them.. 
this is one from the list (Write a poem about Forgetting) 

Maybe by the end of the list, I'll be better =)

19 Mar 2016

tICK-tOCK

How much and how little has the time passed? tick-tick-tock it whiles away.
There is an urgency to live and and urgency to die, but all that is to be done on my sweet time.
Tick-tock-tick it messes with my brain; staring, straying, hounding and barking, forever and ever.

P.S.was sitting in drafts too long, had to be out. incomplete, but there it is.

whatever it takes.

Planning, shielding walking or rafting.
Whatever it takes. 


Finding a sweet spot in your own life where you can comfortably sink in and watch the world go by is difficult. It is not the finding that is difficult, it is, it is difficult, but it is not the only thing that is difficult.
It is also difficult to keep it. 


It is not difficult to keep it because of the obvious reasons, it is difficult to keep because you don't know how to stay in the place. You are not used to doing the right thing; not used to being nice, not used to being happy in the right place at the right time.

You are not used to being happy, not used to being content.

Trying. TRYING.
whatever it takes.

30 Dec 2015

sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away.


When you are happy the happy songs make sense.
You like the beats, the drum roll and the bass. 

Sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away. At-least for now =)

I am not jumping-on-a-trampoline happy. 

No, I am not in the most ‘perfect’ stage of my personal or work life. I could do with a better paying job, a lean-toned body, but that’s only so much wishing can do. I know I can do with a lot of things different; but, I am in a place where I know that I couldn’t have done without the things I have now. 

Maybe, that’s what quiet satisfaction is (no, I have not given up on controlling things, yet) It is just that, I don’t have difficulty sleeping and my mornings are nicer, crisp almost. 

The broody, intense, passionate man with Jesus hair and song in his fingers is absent. I have instead a tall-ish, lank-ish, goofy man, who always smiles when he looks at me, hums a song when he is happy.
He doesn’t make me weak in my loins with his looks; but yes, his embrace is my spot, in everywhere.
He doesn’t make my emptiness go away, I still withdraw at times, cry and feel less than I should. He cannot fill me in ways I want…but he fills certain empty cold places with a warm glow, he holds the light up, un-knowingly most times but earnestly. He doesn’t want to search me, he is waiting, patiently, for me to come around. 

He is the Oak to an undeserving Bathsheba.

.....

On a different note, I don't know what it means to say exactly, but I am in love with this song :


 


Hope you have a happier 2016!

18 Dec 2015

connect.

We do things that keep us connected. My husband reads the newspaper, even if he gets only 10mins to do so, while he brushes his teeth;  I cook, even if I do that in the only 'free' time I have aside from the working and traveling-to-work hours. It keeps us connected, connected to our homes and thus to our mothers, while we make a home of our own.

6 Dec 2015

The Shadow

What is a memory? Who is a memory?

I have a lot of memories, I think of myself a storehouse of memories. I have filled my head with nuances, looks, songs, letters, words and even sighs. The sight of that man walking towards me with his shampooed jesus hair,eyes only on me, smiling. Those fingers pricking the guitar strings to my song;the same song he refused to sing lest he couldn't do justice to it. The sight of that man who looks at me as I run across the airport terminal to hug him tight as the entire terminal looks with awe at that grief stricken girl and sheepishly smiling boy. The reflections on all those mirrors are memories, those smiles are memories, those tears are memories.

No, you are not a memory if you are still here. If  you are a memory, you are not present; you have ceased to be a certain someone/something and thus transformed into a warm memory.

If I am here, I am not a warm memory, I am your present.

Or maybe I never was.

'The Gatekeeper put away his blade. "What do you make of it? Strange thing once you cut it off," he said "Shadows are useless anyway. Dead-weight." 

Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World.
- Haruki Murakami