Beauty Seen is Never Lost

At times, I find myself in Munich,
one summer two years back.
In that apartment we lodged in; located at the far end on the last floor of the building. The ceiling was slightly low - an inverted roof that shaped the space underneath.
The kitchen was in between the rooms- a door that takes you into a more proportioned area than what first met the eye.
At night, I’d lie in bed, vigil, unaccustomed to Insomnia in a barren, white-walled room; No, it wasn’t that familiar Insomnia which usually hauls itself on my chest as the clock pass the realms of 00:00. It was distinct – for instead of the usual rhythm of my dysfunctional Air conditioner, it’s a draft of air – coming from an old-fashioned portable fan , circling the room in a full-round before it lands back on my face; and those bedsheets- their ends too crisp, their surfaces too smooth, like that creased midpoint of a finger ; wrinkling sharply as you lay your hands straight, and evening out like a bland slate as you bend it.
But then, something happens as dawn settles in , through that rectangular window in the kitchen. There’s this dim blueness, this sifted light, that laces everything it touches – the half-opened cereal box at the corner appears grand all of a sudden.
I remember I’d get out of bed, and to the kitchen. Push that wooden chair close to the window, with my copy of Jodi Picoult’s “ Second Glance” at the time, and read about ghost hunts and Native americans until my bitten fingertips were numb. I’d stop at times and look at the identical chimneys and brown roofs outside, oblivious to the city under the bricks.I remember wondering if they were ever red, and if war, and human terror dismantled their color hues during the sullen Nazi era.
In those confined few minutes, between daylight and the recoil of night – In that solitude, and with that unusual and foreign scenery right in front of me, I felt invincible.
I imagined I lived alone,
I imagined that those items in the Kitchen were solely my choices, that Milk carton in the fridge was for the coffee I’d make every morning, and that table was the place where I laid open newspaper drafts and circled mistakes with a ballpoint pen. I remember, the scenarios I loved to weave, the details I added, and how sudden thuds from the other rooms, dismantled everything as quick as I perfected it.

Today,
Was a March –
A spring day that brought me into existence once,
And, I made a wish,
To have a Munich Dawn, every now, and then.

Posted by Diddlina at 4:42 PM 2 comments  

These small, few certainties had built a fort around me for the past five years. That soft scent of stale cigarettes and aggressively-washed carpets, which could only be my house; the strange precision in which my name is called, each syllable at a time ,shadowed with a tone of finality; and that sense of selective solitude I’ve created despite it all.
There’s that thick drape I’ve drawn right in front of me; one that walks miles before I do,
Behind it, I’m that girl who stood on the 18th of July, under the rain,
in a country that never knew my initials, nor the weight of the constantly-alternating contradictions I’ve held inside. I’m that girl, that one lone girl, standing, with a soaked Pizza box, a torn plastic bag bearing vintage-covered classics, awaiting the arrival of a transportation bus. I’m that girl, right there, with nothing behind that frail shoulder of mine but strangers slightly urging me back and forth, a pale intensity to every entity I’ve known, a lightness of being.
Behind it, I’m that girl who construct pinnacles of lonesome midnights, a clock of wistful 11’s upturned, and yet no wishes see the peak of light. I’m that girl who listens to tracks of angst and tragic ends, on instruments that’d dissolve under my touch, their transparency, an obstruction to any reason or logic I’ve held dear.
There’s pain.
And an irretraceable ache,
And a fall from a once-cushioned grace.
And an open-ended question : "Why?"

Posted by Diddlina at 2:31 PM 2 comments  

Take it all.
My tipped-to-the-side bookcase – break it down to irrevocable lumps of wood.
Step on it if you must; touch the shards you’ve brought down with that steel hammer of yours.
And those books of mine- dog-eared, frayed, with their laden sheets and penciled-in thoughts- Burn them out, those pages, rip them to the core,those salty tears, those fingerprints, those eye lashes clinging on just about, those days enclosed firmly inside – hotel rooms with white linen sheets withholding runaway schemes, bus journeys, waiting areas and airport queues– burn them, burn it all.
It won’t be an offense, not a felony, nor a crime; those fingers typing official documents with color-coordinated logos , filing city applications, and sending out already-planned requests; they won’t be pointing at you, they won’t see a sacrilege, they won’t know the severity of that smoldering scent of burnt literature and individuals.
Go on then, burn it all with ease; take your shoes off and dance on its ashes. Feel it under the sole of your feet. It wouldn’t matter. There are no mahogany tables, no courts, no stern voices questioning your motives, no justifications, no consequences that’d ripple your existence as you know it, no threats of demolishment, no conscience that’d drag the admission out of you, no substance that’d anchor you down to the ground nor the exact contrast that’d defy gravity and lift you up a bit. There’s just, No Thing. With capitalized emphasis.
So there you go, that’s my hand handing it all to you,
An that’s my soul- under your soleless feet.

Posted by Diddlina at 4:48 PM 0 comments