Wednesday, October 22, 2008

memories are made of milk cakes...

Friday, October 17, 2008

morbidities...

I had nightmares this morning. Again. Nothing new. But sometimes I get so disturbed...

Today, in my dream, I was in J&K.

Bullets.
Dead bodies.
Blood.

A group of army men laughing, drinking tea, suddenly shot at by terrorists. They die, their bodies neither falling nor toppling, but freezing at the very spot, with their once exuberant smiles chillingly pasted on their faces, their hands still holding the tin mugs...

Then haziness. A door. Teak. I pushed it open, and distinctively felt the wooden surface under my skin. The door opened suddenly, into a white room. Bare. Just a young man lying on the floor, sprawled eerily. His hands were raised above his body, and his palms were smeared with his own blood, like heena on a bride's hand. The blood dripped onto his chest, his grey cotton t-shirt unable to soak up so much of it...

Again a red haziness...and I woke up...

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Musing over my muse...

My muse makes me crave to write. This itch to write, to express...what? I do not know. Somehow, there's no extreme emotion as yet. Not yet. So I cannot write a poem or a story. However, I can tell you what I was thinking.

My muse, as I said, makes me crave to write. And sometimes, when I have read too much of his poetry, I feel intoxicated. He merges emotions and words like Neruda, expressing simple-ordinary stuff in uncommon metaphors. He weaves a tapestry so beautiful, like Gabriel, that I feel as if I'm under a moon-lit indigo sky, and the breeze is a caress, a message from a beloved. I feel this when I am sitting in my cubicle, in the underground office from where I cannot even see the sky.

And then I feel like calling him, meeting him. And wondering how someone, who has magic in his words, be in person?

Very human, I believe. And so, I don't meet him. Sometimes, we shouldn't face what's real. Sometimes, it's good to have a mystery in our mundane life. A bit of fairy tale mystique. To dwell upon his actuality, rather than meeting him in reality.

And so I dream on in this exotic world, created with a tinge of him, and a dash of his poems.