Such vivid beauty, waiting to be devoured, almost magical, divine, perfect. Green mountains reaching for the blue skies, blending together perfectly as if they were stroked by a brush. Wooden cabins are scattered around, tickling my childhood dreams. Would Heidi step out of that door clutching her milk bucket? And would I catch a glimpse of Huckleberry Finn in one of those trees?
Amidst such beauty, I am a poet, whose words are embedded in red bricks and smoky clouds. I am an artist, with a palette of mountains and meadows.
I am a child, whose spirit cannot be contained. A dancer, a lover, a singer, and a loner whose solace had finally been found.
There he is, the creator, all around, in the scent of greenery, in the crystal shadows, filling my void with a surreal sensation that makes my heart weep.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The apartment
Walls of black and Red, she would paint them herself. She will choose black because she knew, they thought of it as the color of evil spirits and jinn. But their reasons, were as empty as dusted wells, merely shallow justifications they made to oppose change. They weren’t aware that their hypocrisies lied in their reasoning..Black, is the color of devil, they couldn’t surround themselves with it and yet, yet they wore it proudly, and simply threw the card of “culture” in her face again. The evil spirits suddenly weren’t heard of, for culture was immune. Her walls, were to be black, black as the midnight sky she savored, black as the ink they enjoy to spill.
The window was to be massive, one that could make her touch the peaks underneath, one that would bring in life right to where she stands. One that would make her believe, there’s definitely something higher.
The bookshelves would be stacked with titles, with places her heart knew of but not her eyes, with characters her mind summoned into existence whenever and wherever. With moons and fairies, with churches and fields, with all the alternatives that she drew upon herself once upon a time when she heard “ You can’t”.
The red wall, was to be filled with imprints, of those who once brought her joy, of those who believed she could be, despite everything,
It would’ve been such a beautiful haven. If she hadn’t heard them shatter her being so loudly.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The world in her hands was fragile. Its lines, became dots, its shell became water. In her hand it melted, in her hands it ceased to exist. She remembers it once, when it was whole..when her finger traced its bold borders, when her eyes saw it all.
But now, all she sees is them, when she blinks, its them, and when she breathes, its them. She chases a dream, a beautiful dream..one that speaks when her words run out, one that listens when her pained heart weeps, one that she could taste in the salt of her tears..it’s always there, and they’re always there..in every corner..to trip her when she’s close, to mock her when she falls, to block her when she gets up again..they’re always there, waiting, to mend her scraped knee, to kiss the pain away, only to bruise the other.
But amidst all that, they never saw..when the dream became her and she became it.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
You gripped the water hose with your little hand. “ It’s raining, It’s raining all over you, all over us, It’s raining!”. You laughed, that joyous contagious laugh, as you showered our world with million little rainbows. You kept circling on yourself, sprinkling the raindrops all around you, until you got dizzy and fell over, laughing hysterically. Your giggles were like a song, snatched from a long forgotten memory, making you look surreal, almost unreal. Like a faded photograph tinted with nostalgia.
You stuffed your mouth with countless pieces of gum, trying to blow the largest strawberry bubble ever made. You promised that it’s going to be larger than the globe itself. Every detail of your face spoke of mischief, you’re eyes twinkled with that new found pleasure. Your grin grew wider and wider as you dissolved into laughter, spitting a huge pink blob onto my face.
You counted the billboards, one after another. One, two,three,four, ninety six, one hundred. You stuck your face to the window, claiming the race between you and them. and then you opened the window, the cold breeze brushing through your hair,as you made the whole world listen to you. One hundred and twenty one, one hundred twenty two..
Ten years,
And you taught me how to live.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
He waited for his canvas to speak. The brush steady between his fingers.
People, he thought he knew them, just with a gentle stroke, he could hold their fragile hearts in his hands.
She waited for his canvas to speak. A portrait..was all she wanted..he could make my eyes laugh, she thought. Perhaps, just a flicker of joy? A pinch of pink around my iris?
Impossible. The colors, wouldn’t mix. The brushes, wouldn’t budge. You’re an artist, coral reefs moved on your canvas, birds with broken wings soared up high, oceans roared and yet, yet..she..you can’t amend?
Paint the hurt away, paint it, the shred that rips a gouge into her heart and pulls her to the bottom of the abyss. It was always dark green wasn’t it? Paint it, that heavy, empty vastness that envelops her every time she tries to close her eyes in the lonely hours of the night. It was always black wasn’t it?