Tag Archives: life

Claim to Life and Destiny

It is a message. In a world where humans control nothing; it, sure, is a message that somehow we will claim our share in this life.

Humans, bereft of control over their destinies and life events , have nothing but a tenuous chance to pursue happiness. Ephemeral in nature, our desires often turn out to be the farthest realities one could fancy. In such scenarios, we find recourse no where. It seems that there is no abode to seek refuge.

And do You know how it feels when one has no where to go?

7.2 billion people, zillion houses, in numerous cafes, bars and hotels, millions of taxi stands, uncountable bridges and, yet, not a single door to bang! To seek help!

Unfathomable sufferings endured under those bridges, while travelling via taxis, in hotels and bars, in houses among those billions of people, connect us all. But still we have no one to turn to!

Have You ever let it disturb Your stream of thought or pattern of consciousness; how does it feel when one has no where to go?

I reckon it never happened. Why would it? You have this earth and sky, sun and moon, 7.2 billion people, and everything they claim to be theirs, at your disposal. Waiting, cajoling and lingering for Your decree, kindness or fate.

But some of us are now ready to defy the odds.

This lady who once paid her electricity bill by letting her master violate her body and spirit, is not willing to endure it again.

You have made Your choice. Her fate is evident. There is another extravagant electricity bill lying in her courtyard.

However, just like You, she has made her choice too. No matter how hard Your fate tries and how strict the order of divinity is, she has decided for herself this time.

In the face of Your plan,
she committed suicide.

And there is this bulb, which she lighted after Crucifixion of her soul, to send You the message that somehow we would claim our share in our own lives, let alone at the cost of death!

–By a Friend**


Pain ― a pesky part of being human

“Pain is a pesky part of being human.” ―  C. JoyBell C.

When you are in pain and you got no control over. Bear it! Live it! Sustain it!

Let everything out there disfigure you badly, torment you tremendously and scar you exceedingly. You got no control, and giving as well as you get is never an option. Some people are too prized to be paid back in the same coin. Since you are only because they are!

Left with any choice to overcome the ordeal? Nay! Bear it. Live it. Sustain it.

Let everybody out there take turns my love! One at a time!

Piercing through the wounds, pricking deeper into injuries, stabbing the hell out of every opening inside your mortal existence!

Let everything and everyone around crush you into nothingness.

For how humanly long can you numb your pain after all; for a while, a minute, a day, a week or more? The earlier the better! The longer you try and numb, the severer it does feel once you let go.

There is no delaying more.

Insensitivity has limits. You cannot pretend any longer that you don’t care. Imaginary anesthesia of pretentiousness ceases to act any effectively.

Pain takes over. Intense, acute and excruciatingly maddening.

The entities that cause hurt and inflict ghastly pain could quite possibly be the same ones who rendered happiness. A lot of exultation, ecstasy and jubilation.

Isn’t it quite harder when it comes to remembering happiness?

The pain lasts. It is highly harder to forget in contrast to happiness. The latter is very hard to remember, unfortunately.

Chiefly because pain leaves scars, happiness doesn’t leave any mark.

The scars stay forever; keep torturing and reminding and refreshing the painful experience and the person behind the agony.

You forgive but you can never forget.


Shadows – not a poetry

Shadows.
Shadows are beautifully haunting images.
Images that never exist but they really are!
Lights create shadows;
More light and they perish.
Shadows are like desires let lose.
Shadows baffle just as the desires do.
They fascinate at times.
They’re some serious illusions;
Casting magic-spell over your mind and sight.
Brighter the lights, heavier the shadows.
Shift light placement and they disappear
As if they never were.
Adjust and shadows transform.
With a slightest change in positioning of the light,
Shadows lengthen, widen, overpower and/or disappear.
Shadows are, in a way, useful.
They ascertain existence.
The darker side need not threaten;
It simply means light is somewhere behind.
Closer than ever.
Shadows are not meant to be frightening.
All that is needed is to switch sides.
Pursue light rather than dark.
Face light and fight shadows.


Date a Girl Who Writes

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve.

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.

She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.

Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.

She’ll give you a chance.

Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.

She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.

Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo – so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.

Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.

Date a girl who writes.

Because there is nothing better then a girl who writes.

– By an Anonymous Writer


Date a Guy Who Writes

Date a guy who writes. Date that someone who doesn’t concern too much being the best looking man in the world. The guy who doesn’t toil for minutes or hours in front of the mirror. He spends an ample time in his room, or on a solitary bench in a public park, or on train and bus stations with his pen and notebook formulating the perfect words, putting life in his lines through wordplay, writing the loveliest poems. He doesn’t mind being alone on weekend nights in the back-alleys or risking his life climbing the roof just to have an unobstructed view of the sky, to muse with the stars and summon a conversation with the moon. He doesn’t mind battling the cold that bites his skin as long as he tunes the right melody for the song he’s writing for your anniversary,or a guaranteed chapter entry on his book, that he is anticipating to give you on your birthday. Yes, he doesn’t loathe the fact that he is stuck in that place, in that moment in time, squeezing his brain, while his friends are out there, in the open drinking to the high of weekend parties, dancing in smoke-filled bars and drowning to barrels and barrels of liquors.

Find a guy who writes, a walking cliché of kill-you-with-words, and when you do, make no mistakes letting him go. His wit, his spontaneity, rapture and heart for aesthetics will suffice for all those romanticism you have in mind. Date that someone who doesn’t kill himself in gyms, just to have the perfect body, the manly facade and never go for the too neat, too clean— you will discover over time that it is dragging and lame having a partner, a man who spends on shower threefold longer than you do. Date a guy who doesn’t dream having the Brad Pitt’s face, but the one who reads, learns and writes like of John Keats romance’s. The one who seeks for Stephen King’s thrill and the war stories of Ernest Hemingway. Date a guy who doesn’t give you a litany of promises lost in the haze of cheap talk, date that someone who acts, who makes you feel you are special even before you find yourself versed in one of his poems, resembling one of his story characters. Date that someone who stays with you, dream with you and writes random nothing on your palm or on your arms, because he fears that the words won’t come out right when he starts speaking them.

Date a guy who writes, the one who can skim the oceans in your eyes and write a line about it, that someone who can swim in it just to string those lines to make a stanza and can drown there if that’s all it takes to combine those stanzas into a beautiful work of poetry. Date a guy who can translate the amber glow in your face into haiku and sonnets. That someone who never tires scribbling his pen in dire search for muslin haze for streaks of clarity.

When that guy asks for your hand, give a sureshot “yes”. He sees life in a general scheme and weighs all the options from there, the same way he chooses the right words, the best point of view and perspectives just to incorporate beauty in his writing. Jumping into conclusion is not his game, he probably learned that it is not practical from a thousand fictional dilemma he wrote. And you will not live in monotony and routines, he can put colors in your days the same way he resorts figurative languages, the same way he puts flowers and butterflies in his words. And your leisure times will not be spent on themed parks, signature shops and wherever-transatlantic-cruise that is, spending the money you saved for a year in just one day. He will teach you to appreciate God’s creation and find happiness in the most mundane of things— on the sun rising behind the trees, the music of birds chirping and the dance of leaves in graceful sways, the breeze that kisses your cheek, your face, touching your heart with a magical feel, all the way to your bones, sunsets and silhouettes, the placid sea and the story behind a seagull or a fishing canoe that blemishes the scene. This list can go on forever, and the guy who writes is birthed with utmost appreciation to this, with sheer gratitude and he has an innate understanding that this whole divinity is meant to be shared with someone.

He might get lost in conversations, and becomes remote in an instant, but you are willing to make it up, because you know, at the back of your head that you are already transcending the touches of reality, lost in the not-so-distant world of make believe, living in the beauty and power of imagination, the world behind the written words.

– By an Anonymous Writer


Often you just wish…

Often you can’t just speak your mind up. Out of the fear; fear of rejection, of reprimand, of distaste, of seclusion, of disapproval, or of hatred.

Often you can’t just hold onto the person you love, for, you feel holding onto them would mean losing them for good.

Often you just suppress your voice, for, speaking out loud would mean tears, and torture, and hurt, and pain.

Often you just close your eyes to oblivion, for, ignorance sometimes soothes the searing heart and saves from the sight that could sore your eyes.

Often you just dance to the rhythm of the tunes unheard, for, it entrances you and takes you to next level inexplicably awful ecstasy.

Often you just close your eyes to roam around the world that you’re craving for, for, it never is your world that you’re living in otherwise.

Often you just wish you were a dying bird that could fly away like a pheasant to the moon that, like a bride, just keeps gleaming in.

Often you just wish you could be the one who cares not, fears not, craves not; only dares, only achieves and keeps zooming in.

Often you just wish you could be infallible, or a king, a tortured slave, or a master known for benevolence, or how about a wanderer in no man’s land with no tidings?

Often you just wish if you were a wish, one destined to come true, that would make the maker happier than, in the park yonder, playing children.

Often you just wish… that wishes could cease to exist, you wish.


Write! Good, bad or trash; that is secondary

As if lost in the wilderness, sitting solitary, counting stars, thinking of things never thought before, overwhelmed with stark dark, in a room no better than a refuge, obsessed with the astounding silence of night, with a pen and paper in hand, headphones rolled over the ears, music in the background, oblivious of what is being listened to, writing in the dark, no idea what, but writing. And, still as if doing nothing!

The pal’s already set to sleep, lights switched off, no wish to turn them on either. For, it feels blithe to be in the dark, everybody loves it; everyone’s in the dark. Some know it, others know not.

I want to write and writing in the dark, without even a second thought. Writing extempore has its own charms. Yes. I want to write, I really do. Should darkness keep me from doing? Never going to let it do. Nothing is going to hold. So, here I am, writing. Writing what? Nothing actually. Funny as it sounds it is. But still writing. Maybe it’s because, want slumber to stay afar. And keeping engaged serves the purpose.

Lo! Just noticed this computer screen. Keyboard lying at an arm’s length. And I want to write, and write in distress of the dark. Type, should I? But I won’t type either. Writing over typing, always. Notwithstanding most of the work lately, I often do with keyboard, still prefer Pen and Paper over Keys and Screen. Especially when want my mind to vomit, to speak my mind, I mean. So, writing in stark dark.

Darkness baffles me, however. It still has its own mysterious mystic magnificence. I have no idea where I am heading but the important thing is I am. Writing, I still am.

Hey wait! Is it a waste of time, when one doesn’t even know what they are doing or where they are heading? Nay, not so.

An utterly unsung and unheard voice echoes which says, everything one does is indeed worth something if nothing. The activity needs to be there, that is all what matters. It nevertheless may sound purposeless for reasons very apparent, but anything involving some activity has latent perquisites, much significant. Action is important, it’s lively. Stagnation is lifeless, tedious as death.

Tonight’s object is to write. Good, bad or trash, that is all secondary.

It is setting off for sweet sojourn that is more important rather than day-dreaming; of flowery paths. Or dreading barriers and bottlenecks, and never even kicking off for the journey.

So here I am, flowing with the wind, at its utter mercy. Where ever it takes, all set to be driven away. Like a leaf that sets itself free; keeps rolling and rustling with the wind; and damn cares about its destiny. Destiny, after all it’s bound to be. Therefore my pal! Ending up somewhere is way better than being nowhere, don’t you feel?

Key to Writing

Key to Writing