Meenakshi

Fish eyes. like a leaf. stillgreen. lithe. imploring. a misty morning caught in a gaze. watching. the secret in their eyes.

I’m in the great hall. It’s the sorting . A feather falls from the ceiling and gets submerged in the din. The noise is a thin haze of excitement over the sea of nervous faces. The first day of school is a beautiful day. Home’s cocoon has fallen off.

When you stop talking. You fall silent. You forget the feeling of words on your tongue. You forget the power that they have. The bedrock of action falls apart and you sit there clutching the swish of fabric, before the escape of an idea, in an ecstasy of wings. That’s what action is; the aggression of an idea, hurtling through the veil of conjecture and breaking into a smile of recognition at what it dreamt.
the world.

My words are stale. Tasted by other tongues. before dragging their sillouhettes through mine. Awkward, they steal glances at the absurdity of each other’s echoes.

But no one can steal my eyes. My vision is fresh. like a baby’s first shriek. all unborn red and disgust. and so I will watch. I will stay silent and watch. or think. in the café of my mind, I will break bread with the devil, and drink coffee to the tune of the idle gaze.

I lurch through my past – an empty house peopled by the wind whistling through the loneliness of objects held together by a chain of unrelated memories.

it’s

all around me – it’s abuzz like a bee or the screeching social network. How can you ever understand another? the craving for an omellete. or a prancing child on the sidewalk. the blaze of a headlight on a couple hungering for one another’s flesh, clutching at each other like the last morsel of life in apocalyptic nightmare.

You know that moment when you find that you have nothing in common with your friends. nothing. Is that a moment that is truly unique? or one that signals that we are all alone together?

like the internet. a giant collection of eavesdroppers.

I want to love you like the internet. everywhere. but in one place. I want to engulf you with the amorphousness of my infinite embrace. a love that never ends and turning on itself becomes another living breathing entity all by itself. a love that knows the worst thing about itself and lets it hide in plain sight. I want to love you like a Wes Anderson movie, painted in primary colours and awkward childhoods, all caged in the practiced geometry of relationships. I want to love you like forgetting, or selfishness. too clumsy to care.

Writing is an exile from language. from structure and the organised crime of thought. the speed of my fingertips kissing the neck of the keyboard; is the tired romance of the cyborg. metal thrashes against flesh; the ultimate loss of control. we have let our futures copulate with the machine, and the tangled trajectories of action and consequence will now fight their own wars. We are only voyeurs, in this theatre of screens.

Come, meenakshi, silent lady of the night. the gatekeeper. holding the keys. holding time.
let me kiss you.
between lips and lips, there are cities.

In the curving lasso of rain, light falls through the window bars on a vest. and knocks at the wall. it crumbles to tears at the sight of the slumbering boy who, in his sleep, misses a thousand things rising and falling. I remember how wislawa apologised to time for all the world she overlooked each second, to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep at five a.m, to great questions for small answers…and so forth. I understand her now. I apologise for not understanding before.

There is no map to truth. no honeyed voice giving you directions to absolution. and that is what makes it worth it.

the uncertainty              

 

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About teevramadhyam

'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity' -Poe
This entry was posted in beauty, Bombay, City, Could be verse, epiphany, Gothamisation, I Quote, It is written, Lou, nasha, night, nostalgia, picture abhi baaki hain mere dost, the apocalyptic real, why? and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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