A human

I am a human. 
A human prone to too much thinking. 
A human in the shades of grey. 
A human prone to making mistakes. 
An imperfect one, tending to perfection. 
Broken. Gullible. 
And yet complete in my own way. 
Learning to accept what is. 
Learning to let go of what isn't. 
Moving in a perpetual spiral.
Upwards. Downwards. Waywards.     

We open and close, like a book, a story, the chapters in it.
What begins, ends.
And the ends are doorways to new beginnings.
And we keep moving in and out of the openness and closeness...
That's the way we live.

A painful note

Old friend, I miss you. I vividly remember the days, the walks and the talks. You taught me so many things without really teaching me anything. You just lived your way and it seemed so beautiful. You always remind me of Roark, Annie, Sagan, Math, Astronomy, fountain pens, and Rubick's cube. You remind me of a fierce human emotion - a passion. You will always be a special pain in my heart. I can't be happy thinking of you. You fill my senses with deep sorrow because I miss you. Because I always loved you and will always love you. Take care, wherever you are old friend.

D.A.N.C.E.

Dance. The only love of my life. It's my blood. Oxygen. Breath. Pulse.

It is what I am made for; molecule by molecule forming subunits, subunits forming the larger processing machines which take part in the transcription of my dancing genes. Never before in my life were these pleasure receptors so consolidated that even the thought, those tiny electrical impulses between the synapses of neurons, makes me excited to a level beyond imagination. Never before did I realise what dance means to me; it basically is me. Every part of my genome, the coding and the non-coding sequences alike have been sequenced for that beautiful movement in the air, those straight lines my limbs make, that perfect orgasmic geometry aggressively attacking the space around with it's fiery movements. I have seen it built, connect and accumulate within me all these years. But I never knew it'll explode someday. I am glad it did in this lifetime. I am so glad it broke my bones. I am so glad it disturbed the weight mechanics. I am so glad it ruined me. Annihilated me. Charred to ashes. I am so glad, because finally I realised the purpose of my life.

Now, despite these insurmountable obstacles, I am rising. I am phoenix, I can never forget. I'm rising up through the ancestral ashes, up towards that which had slain my spine across transverse plane. Up towards that which I loved the most in my life. Up, to claim it back. I am rising without fear, without regret. I may never be the 'normal' again, but I know I am getting stronger, rising higher, making my wounds - my strength. I am exploring heights I never knew existed. I am achieving milestones I only dreamed of earlier. I am gaining a stronger base. I am going to take it back my way. It will not be perfect. But I will make all imperfections so strong that every existing framework will be shattered by the charm, audacity and boldness of it. I am doing it because I have no other option. And I want no other option.

I am a dancer. I will always be a dancer. And dancers never give up!

No idea

Funny how many words I have typed till now and then pressed Shift+Home and Delete after that! There's confusion. There's contrast. And then there's madness.
But no spelling mistakes. Never. There's aggression. There's pride. There's confidence.
And still I try to find myself. There have been stages where I felt the light.
The light so bright I could feel it diffusing through my nerves. But they were followed by deep elements of darkness and filth. So deep, so roughened that I could barely breath. It was almost like I lost my senses. Back to square one of confusion.
There must a pull back mechanism which brings me back to the mess.
Now how many times have I thought I know myself deep down clearly as if I have touched the ocean bed! But hell no! It is not persistent. I still keep bumping into façades. One after the other. There is no reality. There's only madness, a confused madness. And boy this is worse than the physical pains! These mental structures are rusted and they scratch my skin, my innocent skin. And they shoot through my spine down to my knees and ankles. It hurts. It hurts badly.
There is pain. Pain. Head bursts.

We sat under the dim light, he and I.
The music could be heard from the other room.
Sometimes strong, sometimes soft,
Sometimes emotional, sometimes deep.
He was silent.
I was relaxed.
He kept his gaze on me.
And I...
...I cried.

Flames

When I was a kid I had lit up a countless flames inside.
And every day I dreamed with my heart burning with aspirations.
And every night I screamed with my sounds deafening my own ears.
Those were so close. So true. Right in my womb.
I could feel those kicks inside my body.
And every day I walked on those grounds of fantasy,
of my utopian world. It was thrilling. Exciting. Exhilarating.
Each pulse lived the dream. Each inch craved for it.
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day, I lived a dream,
thinking one day it would be a reality.
But some of the flames died out over the time. I couldn't judge the direction of wind.
Now I am out of my house. I see those broken windows. I see those creaking doors. I stroll around my neighbourhood. Guess what? The landscape has changed.
But the epicentre was my own.
I'm striving hard. I cannot behold these dilapidated structures. I have to rebuild from the debris. 
While some of the lamps are still alive, I'm refuelling them with fierce energies.
I want to feel. I want to cry my heart out. I want to exhaust myself to those inaudible beats.
I want to be alive. Again. With hope. With lots of it. I'm struggling. Struggling my heart out.

I bleed every night.
And in the morning I find myself
among the brown stains.
I am supposed to be shameful,
but I am not.

"Why aboli?"
"Because you are not the screen.
You are the projector."

It was a huge mental effort, to strip down, bare my heart and stand with shame and vulnerability as my only armours.

When she returned at the twilight, she found him engrossed in his work and then she loved him even more.

There are just as many wrongs as there are the rights.
A turn is both a left and right. Depends on which direction you are coming from.

Four letters

There has to be a feel. An emotion. A drama. Love.
There has to be a story. Characters. And a hero.
There has to be a reason. Decisions. May be a tragedy too.
Only then the four letters will come alive.
l.i.f.e.

Intimacy

When you do something, you belong somewhere, to some clan. When you change, you change your clan. The sense of belonging keeps moulding. There is perhaps no intimacy. No privacy. Nothing of your own shades. No true reflections. Yet you keep matching. Greys with greys. It becomes exhausting. And when you are exhausted with the world, you crave for intimacy. Then you take respite in womb of literature. And the more you read, the more beautiful you feel. The more beautiful you feel, the more peaceful you are. The more peaceful you are, the more intimate you become. With peace. With beauty. With a thought. And with that thought you try again the next day to do something. To belong somewhere. What a fool! You don't realise you'll lose it again. 

Foolish

It was a foolish talk.
A foolish expectation.
A foolish fakeness.
A game of fools.
And guess what....I won.

Solitude

an exquisite surrender...
like a tear drop under the spell of gravity...

My nails

I asked them if they want to be grown.
Came the reply: We have no purpose.
So I slaughtered and buried them under the old banyan tree.

You do, I do not.

It didn't seem nice
I wouldn't have done that
But my heart won't allow me the sin
So I'll forgive and try to forget
And write you a beautiful poem instead.

Sometimes the shadows of anonymity are much more interesting than the resplendence of familiarity.

Unreachable

When you read to me that night, you touched me deep inside without letting your hands off that yellow paper. It was slow and gradual, like wine diffusing in my senses. The warmth of your words comforted my skin. My cheeks felt the tears rolling down your cheeks. I could not lift my arms. I could not hold you. You seemed unreachable in your own world. Yet you touched me as if through a different dimension. The piano next to you played a familiar tune. I remember it was what I had asked for, to be played, at my funeral. I loved every note the piano was playing. I was drenched in fragrance of white flowers placed next to my bed. Candles and letters, they were all for me. I saw everything and felt everything yet couldn't reach anything. I looked at you. Your eyes were swollen and you were whimpering soft words of the first poem you had written for me. I looked beautiful in the white. I knew you loved me. And I loved you too. But how could I have told you? You seemed unreachable.