The becoming of life

Callously grown seeds of innocence brutally mowed down in the desert of materialistic knowledge and selfishness, that’s what we all are.
Inexorable existence is what we are doomed to live through.
Wish I could start afresh; wish I could start everything anew.

Sublime notions with subtle sarcasm overflow this river of thought;
When the levee breaks, I wonder, “would I wish for the drought?”

Sublime thoughts that rain down upon the parched terrain of my brain;
The mellowed tunes of experience in the hall of wisdom
Reminiscent of what we should not have done and what life itself has become.

The Cemetary

And there, nigh upon the river bank, lay the two burial grounds: one where the graves were marked by marble tombstones with the names neatly etched upon them and pretty flowers grew in well-trimmed neat rows, reinforcing the sanctity and solemnity of death of those who had the money to spare to be buried in a rich manner as that which suits the ones of noble birth.

The other one which bore no boundaries except for those shrubs and small trees that grew wildly at will and in no particular order, stretching to where to where opportunities lay and defiling themselves in a crude, unorganized manner, for they reflected no beauty of any sorts, as the one that befits those who lay buried in them, nameless and deprived in death as they were in life.

Melancholy remains of the past

Like the lost pages of an old chapter in my book of memories, the past disappears,
Slowly withering away, with the faded lines and yellowed surface.
Bits of joy strewn upon the lives that lay far apart upon those pages,
Are now blotted like the stray droplets of ink upon the leaves of my book,
And not a moment of idleness walks past me now,
Without a tinge of grief, upon the loss of the past
Even as new stories are being written incessantly.

On The Turning Away

Too often had he procrastinated; too often had he shied away from facing the truth. It was about time he confessed what he had done and what he regretted and would regret his entire life.

He was a simple man condemned to be tormented by perpetual sorrow. It was not that he did not try to be happy. He tried in umpteen manners. He had chased away his unseen fears and locked up his reticent being, in an effort to kill the pain and to bring to him better hopes of the life ahead.

There was a time when the rejection to his plea for love brought him down to utter misery.

He felt humiliated every time he called and received no reply.

The cool wind blew across his room and mingled with the smoke he exhaled. The placid silence of the night soothed his loneliness.

Marianne Faithfull in her prime was singing in a sweet melodious voice a weeping song that bore the sound of days long gone; distant moments lost to time.

He had become vain and spiteful. He scribbled in an utterly illegible hand:

“Oh where can I hide the torment of the past?
The melancholy chimes that ring in my head.”

“Lost is the droplet in the sea of forbidden dreams.”

Memoirs of a dying man: Beginnings of Decadence

Watching the old barren tree with its rotting leaves fallen around it, he sat on his old armchair and pondered. There was a time when the tree was green. There was a time when the tree bore vibrant colored flowers and cheerful fruits. There was a time when its branches swayed with the breeze, ushering in pleasant forebodings and better times. There was a time when he was young and full of life. He could run and walk and do innumerable tasks that required beastly strength. He was indeed a beast of a man, tall, gaunt and unafraid. Life had drained away since then. He was no longer the virulent, youthful person that he once was. Age had struck him down with sinister motives. His youth waned and gave way to wrinkles, cataract and diseases faintly known to him before. Tormented by varicose veins, he could barely walk a few steps at a time now. He could no longer work and had to rely on his kith and kin that pitied him and brought in two square meals a day. Restricted to his chair all day long, he had nothing left to do but to think about times gone by, the times that have come and the time that would come by soon. Of course, the times that would come would not be of great promise; because what lies ahead is just death, or days of excruciating pain and humiliation just before death. He often wondered how it would all end. Would it be painful? Would it be like a blissful afternoon sleep? Or would it be violent and incomprehensible? It was beyond his ken to lay down the path ahead. He thought and he thought, only to run in circles that grew wider and wider, leading to no end. Sometimes he resigned and thought about his life this moment. Pathetic, sad, lonely, with most of his near and dear ones already gone, leaving behind just memories and legacies of sorrow and longing, he was leading a life of pain. His hours were spent in fruitless rumination and careless drooling sleep. He wondered if this was what everyone felt like. He tilted his head to his right and looked at the reflection on the window pane. It was a sight not pretty to behold. He suddenly realized the stillness of the air in the room. There was no breeze left to usher in any tidings. He suddenly grew afraid. He was uncertain of what he saw and what would become of him. He looked away from the reflection and stared blankly at the dying tree. Tears trickled down the folds below his eyes. He was not ready yet for it. He would never be ready for it.

Lament

And you float on..
With rubber ducks and silly hopes..
While the rain rages on...
Washing us away across unknown slopes..

Where we go from here, you do not care..
You do not care if the daffodils lament..
The babbling brook assuages your pain..
And drags you further into the descent..

The wind and me

On the commencement of the void
I look beyond the brown wooden window.
Seasons change and the leaves fall to a final swirl of life
And dance about in a whirlpool of untamed wind,
Flirting with the fickle dirt and dust that oblige,
Resting in the soporific wind.
Ah, the crafty wind;
The wind that carried promises of better times below,
Beckons the homeless clouds
To join the merry band
And they rain down on the silly leaves
And wash the dust away.
And then,
With a sinister howl of laughter,
She slams the window upon my face.

The Flautist

And when he laid his eyes upon her, the fires of hell spawned within him. His eyes sparkled in her gentle radiant light and he could feel his feet no more. And the air around him grew thinner while he gasped in sheer agony and tightly grasped the flute that he bore in his sweaty palms. His music could never be as sweet as the tinkling of her soft laughter. It echoed within his head and turned his world upside down. His hopes rose to dizzying heights. He was trapped in a stolen glimpse of a beautiful moment in time.

It took but a fleeting instant of brief realization of how unseeming the circumstances actually were, to bring him crashing down to the maddening state of hopelessness and futility. The joyful colors faded and his vision sunk to gray shades of despairing gloom. He cursed the unfairness of life and his fate of being a poor, ugly, lowly flautist, who dreamt of unparalleled grandeur, but who could never make it. The blackness of the night that hid his shame and disgrace seemed to be the only solace to him.

But, it was broad daylight and there was nowhere to hide. He could barely resist glancing up again. He raised his eyes and took one look. The world began to glow again.