This One's Beyond Fancy Titles

This one's special.
Raw.
Unedited.
Uncomplicated.
This is me. Slobbered over a paper.
Here we go.
Hi there.
It is one 'o' clock at night and as I write this, I am surrounded by four walls, painted a soft, comfortable shade of white. Tinted by the glowing yellow lights on my bedside.
And. There is screaming inside my head. Why is there screaming inside my head? I don't know. I didn't ask for it. I never do, but it's always there. A hundred thoughts at once. Hundred, completely unrelated, conflicting thoughts. Maybe it's an artist thing. Maybe not.
Out of the two thousand thoughts that I'm evaded by, every day, one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine, are trash. But there's one thought, that's so beautiful, so magical, I could sculpt a masterpiece on it.
I'd like to believe that this is that thought, for today. So. Here. I begin.
Much too gladly, the thought propels me to elucidate my love for what I do. Is it even possible for me to express my love for literature and writing, in words? Of course it is. That's my job. Or is it?
All I've ever done, since the beginning of my writing career, is bury my thoughts under dazzling imagery, or metaphors, or whatever literary device you deem fancy. It's not like my poetry doesn't come from the heart.
IT IS ALL STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART. AND SOUL.
But filtered. Or shadowed. In an attempt to make it worthy of someone's time or opinion. Because writing, for me, has always been about reaching out, or introducing an unconventional ideology, or striking a chord. I've never written to 'express my feelings.' I've always been someone who'd probably walk away when asked how she's doing. I could never understand. Why is everyone so bothered about how I feel? Why isn't anyone bothered about what I think? Doesn't that make more sense? The minute you say 'think' you are automatically elevated to a new level of intellect. In my opinion.
Some people advise me to write from the heart so I may reap the best response. I do that.
Some advise me to write for others around me, so that they may understand it and appreciate it. I don't do that. Writing for someone else's appreciation would be the last thing I'd do.
Arre yeh toh jaan hai meri.
Yes. Hindi. You can't judge me.
Anymore, that is.
I changed my school. Here they don't have boards all over the place that prohibit one from speaking in any language other than English. (Yes, it's true. Carmel had boards that read, "THIS IS AN ENGLISH SPEAKING AREA. ANY OTHER LANGUAGE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED AND THOSE CAUGHT WILL BE HEAVILY PUNISHED." But then, it was my school. And now it seems lovely all the same.) Hindi, is beautiful, I discovered. People here know how to experiment well with it.Shaayar hain yahaan toh. I've always been a huge shayari fan.
I came across SUCH talented and wise people. Writers, most of them.
But after some of my experiences, I doubt if I should even call them that.
As the saying goes, "Art, as its finest, is nothing but deception."
Aren't writers supposed to be free, abstract and borderlessly brilliant?
Everyone here is just so analytical. And politcal. And gratified. And proud.
They aren't writers. No.
Writing must be treated as an art, not a science.
But this is just the grey side of the story. The white side is, that they're all good at their own thing. I'm fine as long as they don't compare a philosopher to a mathematician.
But. You never know what they're capable of.
Sometimes I feel like I don't do justice to my readers. All the time, in fact. I've never written as who I am. Nobody really knows the person who writes this, at this moment. I write as a woman of grace, a dignified woman with a seemingly impressive frame of thought. That's just a fraction of my mind, I'm really just a regular girl with an overactive imagination. So yes, I'm writing as myself. I've never felt so free. Probably because I never allowed myself to. All these thoughts pouring out. Wow. I'm glad I'm here. What a fantastic time to be alive, basking in the wonders of this art.
Khushkismat hote hain woh loge, jo apne aap ko kisi kalaa se jode paate hain. Apne aap par naaz nahin karte. Doosron ko naaz uthate dekh, andar he muskuraate hain. Kalaa koi bhi ho. There are writers, actors, musicians, artsists and all sorts of geniuses. Marvelous people. Sublime thinkers. But also, solitary beings.
Berukhi si zindagi mein, khud ko kho dete hain. Apne kaam ki ehmiyat nahin dekh paate. Magar yeh bhi nahin samajhte, ki jo kalaa se judah, woh khud se judah. Apne aap ko dhoondne nikli thi main, aur meri kalam ne mujhe dhoond liya.

Midnight Discoveries

Song inspired.
F&M. :']
Here we go.
I was looking for a trace of light,
Trying to find myself in the middle of the night,
But all the choirs in my head sang, "No, oh, no, no."
I fetched a shoebox of memories from under the bed,
Memories in moncohrome they had all been,
But all the choirs in my head sang, "No, oh, no, no."
Shaking the dust I found a stack of children's things;
A young mother's love and a mixtape about maleficent kings;
A hopeful daughter walking on freshly mown grass;
Hands dipped in the ocean, in an attempt to escape a deranged past.
And that's where the pain came in,
Like a second skeleton, trying to fit beneath the skin,
Because the choirs in my head sang, "No, oh, no, no."
But I had to defy the forces for I needed one more touch,
Another taste of devouring rush
So I sat and let the invasions collide,
Enter my head. Ten thousand people lined up from left to right.
I felt their footsteps tapping on my eyelids,
Saw their eyes glistening as countless farewells they bid.
A sky-blinding streak clawed my existence,
My hallucination witnessed a symphony of brilliance.
I read a verse nobody wrote,
A song nobody sung,
A portrait nobody made
And a prophecy nobody feared.
And this dream could've come alive again,
But I did open my eyes before the end,
And the room was so quiet, oh it was too quiet.
And the silence was almost suffocating,
All my time, I whiled it foolishly waiting,
For a possibility, perhaps a remnant of a forgotten tale,
When every second, particles of treasurous dust I inhale.
Caged by the nothingness of a shoebox, I was looking for a trace of light.
I found a glorious land in the middle of the night.
Yet the choirs in my head sang, "No, oh, no, no."

Perfect Symmetry

To Jini as she turns sixteen.
To friendship.

Perfect Symmetry
If I saw the world as a shadeless sea,
Black, white, greys, all over thee,
Then I'd wish I knew,
If I shine the same as you.
Then you'd mean more, mean more to me,
Than any colour I could see.

If the world sang to me, a silent song,
And I would never be able to sing along,
Then I'd wish I could hear the birds as they fly,
Like vibeless strings, in the sky.
Then you'd be more precious, you'd be rare,
Than any music, I could ever hear.

If I woke up on straw, and slept on streets,
And I would never be able to own, enough coloured sheets,
Then I'd wish I were a glorious star,
With cans, crowns and shiny cars,
You'd still mean more, mean more in turn,
Than any penny, I could ever earn.

So I guess, that's how it's going be.
If I have you and you have me,
The world shall be in perfect symmetry.