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Inked Thoughts and Midnight Monologues

A fluid state of being with a memorable trail, through a river full of thoughts I sail. Leaving the labyrinths of a chaotic world behind, it’s a journey through the jungles of my subconscious mind.

Of daydreams, desires and dances

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Daydreams of the most sensual kind, with breaths that linger and passions that never die. These afternoons have become too sultry for my liking and awaiting rain before the onset of an arid summer is the only optimism that seems to run through my veins. There are far too many things to do with you in the day and far too many things to do to you in the night but such is the burden of the boundaries between us- when this reality gets too much to bear with, you take a dip in my daydreams and so the endless cycle of this love-sickness begins. What wouldn’t I give to taste you, to feel your warmth, to fall so deep that there’s no way out, only in. To slip into an intimacy of this kind takes eternities and to sustain it takes epochs and yet, every time we talk, it feels like new galaxies are being birthed inside my tiny heart. Maybe someday, not far from today, we’ll dance the night away, tipsy from a love that happens only in movies and yet, the Gods were kind enough to make sure we found it in each other and now that we have, the only thing left to do is to hold onto it till we close our eyes forever.

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Beyond The Boundaries

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There’s philosophy and intellectual discourses. But none of it compares to the treasures hidden in our minds. If we could see the entire universe, the celestial bodies we see now would be reduced to a mere light at one corner of the sky and it would be a light that’d hide the earth. This is the reality most of us don’t even know. And yet, we go on rambling about the multiplicity of our complexly spun lives. The stories of our births have tiny feet and now they’ve set foot on the moon. But that’s as far as you and I can go. It is our dreams that play the songs we like to hear. In them, we fly away to the galaxies unknown and taste our feelings. Ever-glowing everything. Let’s never yield to the illusions of our realities, for the real world can best be seen when we close our eyes and drift away into the realms of outer space. Fantasies, let’s dare not to desert them. Breathe in the worlds you create for their death may be inevitable but their span depends on how much life we feed into them. I don’t care if our dreams and realities collide someday because there’s no way that the aftermath would be ordinary. Far from it. As far as the space between the two worlds themselves.

You’re the Light

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“Sleep, my love, reawaken the optimism in you.”

I see you with my eyes closed, it’s not a dream.

Wordless whispers travel in the air,

a whiff of white lilies to comfort the senses

and yet, we remain, quietly gleeful.

It’s a skill for our bipolar selves,

we rise like the waves of the sea

the pathless skies we meet, our wings are left free.

But the inevitable fall, like the Black Plague

death screams in our longings, our deafness-the shield.

A whirlwind carries us somewhere far

among the blue hills, you walk noiselessly.

When disappearance takes forms in you,

your flowery scent remains with me,

I carry it in my heavy pockets, for my heart’s too full already.

The breeze returns but brings your absence to me

I taste my tears under a starless night,

the pain of our parting is too much to take in.

I close my eyes, now it’s a dream.

I have slept, my love.

My optimism spells your name now.

I can’t think of another word for ‘Insanity’

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Words like condensed crystals in the hidden crevices of glaciers waiting for yet another avalanche. There’s caramel coating and space dust in our mouths and yet, all that comes out of it is bullshit. Smelling the daisies at night time, my blurry self regains the lost throne of a drunken majesty even as I sip the flavor of flowers that others can only inhale. Music in my ears, I waltz around with a vibe that can only belong to the 1970’s. And that’s the dream. I imagine puny people smoking on boulevards with a wild dog howling in the backdrop. Talk about a non-classical muse. They were never supposed to be the scum of the Earth but such is my tantrum throwing frozen skull carving bloodshot wounds on my visual imagery. I suppose that’s the price you pay for losing your sanity. Makes me wonder if I ever had it, even in the beginning. Devouring doughnuts at odd hours and watching the television on mute, a soft spell of rain falls outside, which I suppose is Nature’s way of coaxing me, seducing me, begging me to pay attention to her. I wonder if she knows I had married her way back when I was in the womb, blissfully unaware of the devious charms of a world that had awaited me.

Words and Rain

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This sombre rain and the absence of you. Sacrilege and a Godless universe. How sleep visits slowly, like baby steps. Today is a paper plane, heading elsewhere. Each day caresses like a lover and then dies in my arms, once and for all. The battle that I’m waging to protect myself makes me the wounded warrior. Words that lie bare, like antiseptics in olive coloured refugee camps. How will they heal if they’re not applied? I’m dying to hear the symphonies of all these souls and yet, all I receive is a loudness unheard of. Deafening silence too. It’s the eyes I seek thereafter. To be friends with your shadow. The rain makes a sound without having a voice of her own, then why can’t we? Fall. That’s all I ask. Hit my senses like raindrops hit the asphalt. Touch my soul like the rain touches the dried up leaves of the dying trees. Hold me like the rain holds herself in the crevices of the Earth. My words will be washed away in the floods one day and oblivion will be the name of my song. Noah’s Ark. Home. Life. I seek none. I am willing to drown myself in you if you let me. But not without your song. Sing me to sleep. For once, let it visit and take me slowly, then all at once.

We are the Conscienceless Gods

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Abstractions of the most peculiar kind. The conversation of the moonlight and the midnight cloud bursts. Fragmented realities. The silk of our tongues. Words like wounds and words like painkillers. We own this entire papertown. The other ones may fade away or sink into the depths and crevices of oblivion but not us. You’re something flung out of space and in the layers I’ve not seen yet lies my transient home. Crystallized breaths and an affinity for the unknown. The hours roll by like they mean everything and nothing reducing us to the status of servants and slaves in the eyes of Time. Show me the essence of this existence and I will surrender. How fleeting these moments of magic are and how quickly they disappear into the realms of this unnatural world. It hits us too hard. The sun, the moon, the equanimity given by their light tries to reach us but we are plain and uncouth and primitive and not even in a way that evokes primal passions. And yet, I can’t help but feel it in my black veins. There’s dark matter in our wombs. It pricks us when we smell love. All the restrained movement in our limbs is born from this. The day we will let go of these inhibitions will be the day we will leave this garb of morality behind and become the sinners we know we’ve always been.

Dementia

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The wind plays it derisive ballad as my thoughts fly away to distant lands at the stroke of midnight. Old melodies revisit me but the halls of menacing secrets have been locked away safely lest a trespasser should invade them. What I’ve been seeking has no name, has no shape but is built by the occult mind maze encapsulated by the smoke of skeletal burdens. There are dreams but how transient they are, like visitors from Nordic countries, too eager to flee, wrapped in vapors of invisibility. Sleep chokes me for hours at end and reading old books feels like partaking in a train wreck. There’s harm in even the most innocent of gestures-paranoia, with its sinister shaped clouds raining over me while everyone else seems to be bathing greedily under the skin resurrecting sunlight. I’m assured of one thing though: control is captivating. It’s a new power I’ve stumbled upon. If used well, I could own desires, twist things my way. How hungry it makes my soul. I’m nothing but a hyena smelling blood. How interesting things become through perceptions unheard of. Corrupt me, heavenly sin. I await my downfall, ever so diligently.

Temptress

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These daydreams strangle me with a passionate grasp, they clutch me till breathlessness takes over and leave me just as I am about to die of ecstasy. If I could, my hands would run all over your body and soul alike till I’ve stripped you off naked because beauty and sin need to fuse into each other till they’ve become one. They can never be separated, for that would be one casualty I cannot afford. These desires run deeper than you can ever imagine or understand. Volcanic eruptions and midnight fog pales in comparison to what we are. The entire universe starts and ends at our feet. We’re grand yet mediocre. Steeped into the seas of profaneness. If the gods ever tear at my flesh, they’ll find crimson perversion. I don’t claim to be an ordinary human whose life is spent doing the same old acts patterned in pedantic squares. Give me something mechanical and watch me destroy it to death. It’s not weak to give in to your whims, I say do it day in and day out. Breathe out puffs of apathy from that cigar and spread the grey ashes into the abyss of the society. Weak is when you stop chasing these fantasies, When you become afraid to feel them living inside you. Do not let them slip out of your grasp forever or this war will rage on. To feel is to be vulnerable and to be vulnerable takes strength and courage. The sand of this eternal hourglass will lie suspended in the cold air the day you revel in your dreams and when that happens, I promise you, it will tremble your bones with a vigor and wonder you never knew existed.

Color

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Such worthless wonders claiming to own and rule this world. Truth is, they’re not us, they can never be. They’re magpies and street dogs and ravens cloaked in human skin. Their ambitions are reduced to dust and their lives are mediocre. Such blandness repulses the core of my being. To live like them is to live in vain and for all the thousand lifetimes I get, I’ll choose to be wise and be one with my art rather than kiss the gravel and breathe in their dirt clad gutters. God gave me wings, yet I love my roots a little too much. It’s all about redemption in the eyes of that bleary image you see of yourself in the mirror. Doubt and despair rises like a black burst of smog, it tries so hard to choke these lungs. Yet, we inhale. Some choose to rise above this empty laughter and leave the unceasing desire to be normal. The ones who do so are the ones who thrive. Simplicity is a child, a flower that blossoms in the middle of nowhere. It’s the storms that shape you. Don’t get me wrong, but beauty is in chaos, in the perfumed pertubations of our heavy hearts. They will worship whatever glitters. Yellow sunlight and a flock of birds. That’s not imagery, that’s convention. That’s the norm. We’ve been taught and told to like all these things ever since we’ve walked this planet which is why every damn kid out there tries to chase the light. What is this light, anyways? As a grown up, I know now that it’s nothing to be chased. It is within me. I am the light I radiate and that’s about it. Nothing romantic about it. Glorification of beauty makes it rust, it’s like tasting honey with sugar. Saccharine suicide. These painted lives, they’re supposed to have all the colors, even the dark ones, stolen from every spectrum, from every galaxy, from every shade that there ever was. Even the sunlight smells sleep, at last. I know not why but even the night sky seems to be so much more beautiful when it’s dark. So, take my hand and don’t look back. All I want for us is nothing more than every color in our palette. The ones who are too absorbed in mediocrity will perish soon and that’s when we’ll come out to celebrate a life meant for living the way we live it- in colors that don’t even exist yet.

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