Twenty Million City Lights

I'm looking down at the city at night,
While hoping to find you.
Over twenty million lights,
One of them could be you.

When I get down,
And come back to ground,
I'll be looking for your eyes
Among the daily chaos, and city lights -
While searching and walking through the crowds,
That'll lead me someplace quiet, and not loud.

So when I'm looking down at the city at night,
Looking back at me will be you.
Over twenty million city lights,
The only one I see, is you.

Words and Pictures

The following has been inspired by the film - Words and Pictures (2013)


Words and pictures, which out of the two are more moving? Words are incomplete without pictures, and pictures are incomplete without words.

When a writer describes to you a particular scene, or expresses his emotions; could it be complete without a reader's imagination of something scenic or abstract? No. As you read, you imagine, and paint pictures in your mind. There, that makes you an artist, already. A piece of literature is more appreciated when the author or poet makes you imagine, you being there throughout his journey of words. It's like you, yourself are living in the depth of his verses - being able to see the unseen. In brief, words would be of no use without the reader being the illustrator of whatever he reads and comprehends, whether directly or abstract.

So, words are quite redundant without pictures. But, is this redundancy, a two way road, or do words play the hypocrite? Rather, do words use pictures to dignify their meaning and help pictures to do the same, or let pictures remain the way they are?

When a painter paints you an abstract image, or any other image for that instance; could it be complete without your expression of the picture in words? No. When you see a painting, or a photograph, or even one of nature's mind-boggling sights, you express that sight in words. And that makes you an author. The emotions you feel, after looking at the picture painted in front of you, are best described by nothing but words. It's fair enough to say that a picture is worth a thousand words. But, a title itself, gets your thoughts and emotions racing faster than your blood from heart to brain. You're left thinking to yourself, which further gives you the liberty to ruminate in your ideas and expressions.

In conclusion, words and pictures coexist, being two sides of the same coin. You can't have either, without there being each other for one-another. But, the answer to all of this, is somehow irrelevant. Neither move you without inspiring you, because "stronger than words, and more powerful than pictures, is the ability to inspire."

Pen to Paper, Not Knife to Skin

Put pen to paper, and not knife to skin
Words written to savour, engrave the dead wood.
Don't let yourself bleed, let paper bleed verses,
But in ink, and not in blood,
Let the words define your purpose.

Write, and let it out.
Be rain, and not the cloud.
Don't hold it in and keep it within.
Let it flow, and pour in words,
On paper, and not skin.

Put pen to paper, engrave the dead wood.
Don't write to favour anybody but yourself -
Words written to savour, better than knife to skin.
Let not your skin bleed, let verses instead.

His Own Death

Storms raging within,
Wanting to break free,
Without any consideration,
To what it'll do to me.

My inner wars poisoning my soul,
Waiting to burst out - turning me cold
The numbness builds inside me,
And everything stops - time seems to stall.
And I don't feel my tumbling walls.

My pain and anger are revealed,
As it bursts through my form,
it's no longer concealed.
With my scars unhealed,
It begins a revolution unseen,
Until I contain it within.
But it won't suffice.
Death's hanging on loose string,
And it's not too late, till the end begins."

On that night so cold,
He was his own revolt.
With nothing to threaten him, but he, himself,
He was his own rebellion.
He was left screaming under his breath,
With him being the cause of his own death.

Leave, Without Saying Goodbye

The more I go ahead in time,
The more I wish to go back to my past.
Because I realise, in life's paradigm,
None of this, is ever going to last.

I tend to not care,
Or is it just a pretence that you can't bear?
I honestly don't know anymore,
You can walk out through those open doors.

But still, why?
Why do I feel broken - shattered easily,
Crumbling from the inside -
With the slightest touch of emotional strings.
I don't wish to be like this.

Maybe because, you didn't ever care,
And maybe because, you weren't ever there.
You see, life's based on many lies.
So, all I did was leave, without saying goodbye.

Let It Go

Step outside of your bubble, devoid of rational thought,
Nobody is anybody's in this world - it's a taunting haunt.
People come, people go, you're the only constant,
With the meaning of life, still in a distance.
Stop thinking too much,
You'll end up getting lost.
You'll expect something to be,
But, the world is nothing like you were making it out to be.

Your scars are unhealed, and
Your despondence concealed,
Within your scars -
Waiting to burst, through your inner wars.
To express,
Or to suppress your feelings,
Is your own psyche's dealing.

But you have to let go, and
Get rid of your sorrow.
Let it burst through,
And let your scars bleed -
Because, the world is nothing like you were making it out to be.

Step Outside, & Let It Go, The World's Waiting For You.

Death and Legacy

When I was four, I told a friend, "what's the big deal if we die."

A year later, I asked my mum, "What is death.".

Like any other five year old, I wasn't well versed with the idea of death, and how somebody could just, go, forever.

Another year later, I asked her, "What happens after death?"

I don't remember, what my mum had to answer each of those times, but obviously she was surprised with the kind of questions I asked. But then again, I guess every kid that age, would have such a question, hidden at the back of their mind.

This entire idea, of death, was intriguing, because I never got straight answers, because I wouldn't have probably understood, or even fathomed, the concealed depth of emotion, with which my mother answered, the naive little me.

Then, when I was 11, my maternal Grandmother passed away. It was then when I realised, the reason for my curiosity to know. You always want to know about your fears, in this sense, to be well prepared. Yes, in a way, I was scared of death, more because I never really understood the concept, and the "why"s and "how"s connected to it. Then, the fear grew more when I just started understanding. As they say, a little knowledge is dangerous.

Two weeks ago, my paternal Grandfather passed away. However at sixteen, you're still at the age, when you know what's happening, but you don't quite understand enough. And as innocent and childish our hearts our, we vent it out in tears, because we don't comprehend, what's happened, and especially when it's all so sudden.

Based on Stephen Cave's TED talk, and his explained four stories of immortality, that we have continued to tell ourselves, from generation to generation, but in different forms, one stays constant, and that is legacy. A person stays immortal, through what he's left behind.

My Grandfather's children, and his grandchildren, and the characteristics we share with him, constitute for his biological legacy. I share his love for photography, and now I've realised, my ability to write, has come from him too. He's left behind, few early life experiences, in words, every so beautiful to describe. He's left behind with me, as a birthday gift to me, his old camera.



As Ludwig Wittgenstein once said, "Death is not an event in life: We do not live to experience death. And so, in this sense, life has no end."

Well, that's how his legacy will strive, travelling through the lengths of time, as I grow, wanting to be like him.

Was It Me?

A few days ago, I was at the beach, and I saw him standing there. He looked familiar, but I wasn't sure if it was really him, because he looked different, and changed. He however was, oblivious of the fact that his presence, made any difference – he didn't care. He looked lost, containing a void, devoid of hope, where he hid himself. There was something strange, he wasn't himself anymore. The last time anybody saw him, was a good two-and-a-half years ago. He looked disheartened, for whatever the reason it was. The last time, I remember, he was the happiest person he could be.

His starry eyes, gazed into the sunset, as he skipped stones, across the waves of the sea. I turned away, I had to go – one of my friends called out for me.

I don’t usually, have a tough time remembering people. But, him? He did remind me of somebody. I wonder, who it could be. I couldn't place his name in my head. I kept thinking, I pondered before I slept, as I took this strange, vague thought to my bed. Then suddenly, I wondered if it was just a ‘him’, I saw at sea. I believe in signs, and from my abridged, transformed past, maybe this was one of them. But yeah, it could have been him standing there, or maybe….. Was it me? 

Reconnect

It's been some time since I've blogged, and this time, have had no reason not to. It’s been over two weeks, since my tenth finals got over. Honestly, I didn't know what I should blog about. It feels like eternity, since I last put my thoughts to words. Yes, the poem I posted, was one that I’d written quite a long time back, when I was writing ‘Separation’. I am unable to write much, and it’s not the lack of thoughts that’s bothering me. The thoughts are all there, but maybe, they’re just too close to me, to type it out.

I have lived in five cities, and been to five different schools. I have a pretty good memory. So much so, I still remember my best friend from Nursery, with whom I just spent about a year. I finally got a chance to reconnect, via Facebook. Yes, yay for technology. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember me. Well, I don’t blame him. It’s been at least thirteen years, I just have a good memory.

Here in India, after tenth grade, most of us move onto different schools or junior colleges, and two years down the line, part again. With the advancement in technology, why should we even give ourselves chances to reconnect, when we can be in touch all along? But then, there are few who disconnect, without ever being wanted to be connected. You still want to hang on, you know? There are so many memories attached that you don’t want to let go. But yes, hanging onto people, who aren't interested anymore, is like hanging onto breaking cliffs. You either end up loosening your grip, to fall through, or let the parts of the cliff fall along with you. The parts that you held onto, with all you had, thinking it’s going to stay strong, all fall apart.

I was cleaning my room, every inch of it, to weed out things I don’t use anymore, and to get rid of all those books, that annoyed me throughout the year. In the process, I stumbled upon some old birthday cards, and that, made me reconnect to the past, of what was. I spent a good hour, remembering the last 8 years of my life, since the last time I had moved cities or schools. I realised, how things can change so quickly, how our ambitions, and our wants and needs, can change so suddenly, and most importantly, how what we stand for, as individual human beings, can change so drastically.

Times change, people change, and somebody is always left estranged.
That’s the way, the train of life is, and it’s always trying to get you, derailed.

Separation (Poem)

The tears that flow down, leave nothing but scars.
As all that said and done, remains in your heart.
The disappointment collects, deep within,
After all, you promised to stay through thick and thin.
The separation affects me, not anymore,
as I finally learn to live and let go.
Leaving the past behind, pretending to forget,
all the memories you gave, ever since the time we met.

It’s definitely a time to forget,
a time to forget to reconnect.
It’s true that people always leave,
but this time, it’s going to be me;
With the belief:
“If it’s not you, it won’t be me.”

Separation

Everyone has their way of dealing with separation. Few show that they are affected, and openly agree to it. Few stay quiet about it, and the rest deny it. The one's who are strong enough, are able to accept the inevitable separation. The weak deny it because of the fear of being broken. However, as chemistry has it, aren't the ones who disassociate completely, the ones who are the strongest? So is it brave and strong, to show your weakness, making yourself vulnerable to the fears that affect you? Brave for sure, but never advisable.

I have my tenth grade finals in a month now, and I'm sitting behind a screen, typing away. Not being able to blog, has sort of been a separation. Writing and blogging, have become integral pillars that support my life. More over, not blogging, would just make my house of cards, come falling down.

School's getting over, and in a way, I'm glad I'm moving on, and going someplace new.
In a way, it's now that I realise that I'm going to miss my school, and the memories attached along with it, wishing to relive each and every blissful moment. 
You realise what it was worth, when it's on the brink of being overturned into the past. Also, at times you forget how much it means, because greed is such that nothing is valued, until it's more than enough.
I normally don't talk about my feelings when it comes to such things, but this is different. This separation is different. School's where we spend almost half our day, for almost most of the year. These 8 years, are the longest I've been at any school, and there's no way I'm not going to miss it.
It's given me enough reasons to miss it. Question is, have I given enough reasons to be missed?

These thoughts that flood my consciousness - suppressed with emotion, are glad to finally be out.

So, denying facts and being scared, is fine at times.
It's okay.