Day one, it enthralls.
An artwork is created,
a fulfillment of desire,
a little sepia radiates.
Day two, it burns bright.
The artwork is shaped
to artist’s eyes the fire,
the fine details to admire.
Day three, it glows steadily.
In background it blends
a duller tone subtends,
but keeps the artist warm.
Day four, more hue changes.
All in the eyes,
artist aware and writes,
depth not lost on them.
Day five, sunset.
In a moment of urban loneliness,
I try to fathom what am I doing with my life.
Late at night, staring at the brightly lit screen
emotions swell up in me, to express which these digital emotions don’t suffice.
They just stand there, in their characterizations
plainly and shamelessly inquiring me of their purpose. One of them smirks.
I will trade these endless nights of staring at black screens for one solitary night under the stars.
But we’re urban. We don’t exist anymore. The sky doesn’t exist.
The Milky Way has faded to cede space to spotlights. And headlights.
But we’ll be content with smiling at those dimly lit screens whose batteries die as we behold our faces beholding us right back.
Subversive, yet divine. The ethereal bliss lies in selfies.
PS: When I look at myself in the mirror, The Scream is painted. And Francis Bacon laughs away in darkness.
are ghosts of graveyard
whiling their time away.
The rain crashes against the glass window
blurring the space between me and out
the impressions race down, one at a time
painting a subtle portrait of a face melted
into an existential crisis of droplets.
Her eyes, under which her skin sags noticeably like a dried river, gaze far off into distance. When they dwell on anything earthly, they betray a childlike curiosity in them – out of place with the fragile and old frame. An even nose somewhat flattened in the middle, and a jaw which gives the impression of being tightly shut. When she does speak, it is with a voice feebler than she might have years ago. Wrinkles grace her forehead just below where the red halts. She looks accustomed to the tedium of being a housewife, though her demeanor betrays no pride. The old husband sits with her, and something tells me that they’ve been together long, though they seem to belong to different communities. She looks unaccustomed to traveling, as it should be, as she’s guided by the husband as the deboarding station approaches. She seeks support from him, and the metallic poles, and escapes into the humid environment outside.
Cool is uncouth.
Great is uncanny.
Sorry is repulsive.
Quiet is noisy.
Drunk is delectable.
Done is apocalyptic.
Myths are literature.
Recursion is superfluous.
That means it isn’t.
This is a conscious observation. People are leaving. In numbers more than ever. They escape from my life into oblivion, merging into the faceless streams of the daylife. They leave, without leaving trace. The disappointment has thrust itself into consciousness, and now it sits as the elephant in the room. No, it isn’t a heartache. This heart never vied for so much attention. But the elephant is wrung out into a vague numbness: not the maudlin tragic but a blighted despondence nonetheless. Not lonely – for somehow I have adapted – but a poignant reflection, a emotion of distance, which ponders upon questions – why promises were made and forgotten. Was a love, a companionship ever there. Were things rounding back to the same days again, when you had no one to tell them that you loved them, and no one to tell you. There are few answers set in stone. They are printed and effaced with the ebb and flow of these musings. So, people are leaving. There is no motivation to call out most of them. There are attempts, oft repeated, to confront the remaining few. All in all, there is no purpose in this soliloquy. A deep breath, a sigh, spells the end of it.