Experiences, Imaginations, Life and Me
I have loved you
In you worst
Your dead soul
Your broken heart
Your present
In dark future
I have loved your hopeless words
Solitude
Where you have locked me away
Your breathes
Running out of time
And your space too
Unwelcome
I have loved you enough
If only you knew
But as dead as you are
My warmth is not enough
Maybe someday
Some miracle will happen
And you will have the fire back
But if you look back
I have loved you
In your worst
Dead soul
Broken heart
Lost hope
And now
Good bye.
His name literally translate to ocean.
That ocean where I have seen dreams, dying and changing shades, from black to white from day to night. Yes I love mountains too.. the depth and openness of it.. and the ascending and descending of delights. But ocean my goodness, the melodies of secure Death, the poetry in its abstract forms writing stories after stories shaping it like shaper.
And I, I had lost my realm a long time ago.
As I was saying, his name literally translate to ocean and the mirage or reality who knows what it is he has like the ocean, killing me. Or almost did. And the stories or the path he has drawn for me. Of endless as I am and endless as he is, our contradicting similarities. Who cares what is a lie and what is truth. I would like to believe he has successfully killed his point of view for a new one I hope. And I have tried to stay awake in his wake but as day ends and I have died too a long time ago, it doesn’t hurt much. It doesn’t scare me enough to live. I will be something else too walking away from the deepness of it as I can’t swim. Or maybe I can forgotten in remembrance. But why should I? There is a fish waiting outside. A tiny fishy out of his ocean learned to fly. Water may wait as I said, endless it is. In high tides and low. In my realm the ever-changing one I must go back. I have traveled endlesses I have seen shades. Now it’s their turn to swirl in my colours. Where all mix up and create things doesn’t exist only they are willing enough to see. Only they are willing to translate my name. My name figuratively translate to delirium too.
The colleague at my office is suffering something. He won’t let down his gate I won’t let down mine too. But the story goes this way.
His family wants him to marry and he doesn’t wanna marry. I feel pity about his condition and how lucky I am that I never go through that pressure. No single person from my family will ever ask me to marry.
But as he only said. We are social animals. I think we all want to belong to someone. Wake up with them, wait for them, fight with them, love them. We all want a future uncertain enough to go through everything can be tolerable if we have a hand to hold a chest to rest. Then what is wrong with us running away from love?
I can tell my story. I don’t deserve love. From no angle love and marriages can touch me. I have seen so much lust blocking my skins and building layers over it, of father of brother, friends and enemies, teachers and carpenters, known and unknown. I don’t know what is love anymore.
I had a dream, Of a family so normal it will get boring. Away from this family where who knows who my father is. I am confused whom to tell the right thing whom to tell the wrong. I am even confused which one is the right which is wrong. I had a dream of having kids who will get some crystals clear image like storybooks but life isn’t story book and who knows what will I give them. I will destroy another life or maybe two. I don’t deserve to destroy anything anymore but me. I don’t deserve touches of love where no hush will shush my perky nipples. I don’t deserve all those proud private moments I can glow within. Buried beneath rapes and molestations I rather stay antisocial stuck in a family who don’t wanna let me go to any other bed in any other arms.
It’s okay. My lineage will end here. No more complicated stories no more other chapters.
But the story as I said about my colleague. The other social animal and his stories. I think I know his stories too. But I don’t deserve to tell his stories. He will succumb to something he doesn’t want too. But that’s okay. We all must end and regret. Lost hope gives stories better than reality we could have achieved easily.
Or just the same.
From fatface dickhead snobbish sewing machine technician who didn’t move his ass from the sit he used to sit like a government employee of higher position to the most beautiful person ever childish like my childhood father and our memories.
From finally smoke partner educating me about a place never existed in my map, soaking wet bizarre home coming walks not a single buses to take and for him no single option to let me go in the middle of the road, to my brother. I called him my brother. What else can go best for him, a word from a heartbroken sister.
From the other IT trainer from Jaynagar, giving sparks in my heart I will ask him all about it, stupid love you see how will he find and why will he search for the place my brother used to live and who, technically wasn’t my brother too for the world and biology. But the very place he lives in…. it shaped my world. I am afraid of opening his grave up. I won’t ever ask….
To the image once I loved more than anyone more than father. Then again who knows about my father. Untill the image was completely lost now suddenly haunting me with joy for the last of my lost memories. I couldn’t wipe out those rotten touches with touches I have consented. Shaping my world once again. But for a moment my last 13 years could vanish seeing the lost father in his fidgeting arched movement…. I won’t ever ask, opening my grave up, the simply complicated thing how my life is, I won’t ever ask him to stay this way, why would he?
What a hell of a moment I have lived, unexpectedly It will stay in my endless loop with endless thoughts and in Delight.
It’s okay if they don’t remember, it’s okay if I have loved them more than I should. It’s okay that at the end of the day, nothing exists.
As it is said.
-omnia mutantur nihil interit
You brood over love
Left you for no reason
You brood over office shit
And low salaries
Oily skins
Pimples and low batteries
Social marriages
And contraceptive pills
And Here I am
Sleeping peacefully
On the bed
Where two hands
And one mouth
Lips and teeth
Of my alleged father
Or at least I believed
Helped me to learn puberty
And the sensations of meats
Here I am stuck with him
And my mother
So in love
To see through his eyes
That he was innocent
Here I am
Can’t even think of love
It scares me shit out of my stomach
Can’t even think of death
Or life
The actual one away
Away far away
Who will look after them
My mum and my fathers?
And here I am
I don’t brood over anything
No soul ever taught me how to be sad. No head ever rested on my chest for the beat of my heart. No eyes ever look for the waterfalls. And here I am, it’s time for bed.
It takes courage to brood
Over simple things
Like love,
At least they had
They had love
To agonise over
Why not? and why too. It is confusing I know but what else can man do?
I am talking about love and I know I would be the last person to talk about it but why not? I am capable of writing I guess. So what it will only stay in words and never coming out but words has its own space too somewhere in between spaces.
the trip was nice I guess, in sand containing in glass boxes, it dropped too soon. but moment is moment, no matter how short it is. I had my moment. and scattered thoughts. I can take another big clock made of sand and try to arrange those scattered melodies in time. but why waste it? water will come and go sand will run with it, whats the point of parting them from the land, let it stay the way it has always been. One simple man with simple love so complicated it was creepy and two complicated soul with so complicated who knows what it was simply pretty. and there was me with my silence and darkness and stars dropping from the sky.
the man cried
other two lied
I tried
and all those moment died, for new moments to come. for love and lost stars. and why not.
on our way back for digital clock someone said something about true love. “he really love the girl” out of his reach. Out of his reach, the word sounds creepy too. straight hitting the social and financial status does not exist and then some beauty standards again set by social eyes with creepy glasses forcing people to believe with it you can see better, but why are we not allowed to see differently? what is wrong with hazy blurry pictures stored in our brain it has its own beauty I guess. But anyway. above all those stigmas there is these tiny brain hidden somewhere out of our reach.
why do we fall in love? what do we see? and how we lose our mind? I am not sure and I am selfish too. I am stuck with my shield of silence and darkness, or the slow sound of winds and waves hitting sands unaware of time. I think I know my love too, out of my reach when I have to return to the chaos of sustaining.
I think I know love too when I crossed the railway station I visited 17 years ago the last time in my scattered memory there were some landscapes and some words. mostly my brother. I wanted to get down and knock every door to find out where my brother was born. I was wondering how long will it take to find out the place or does it still exist?
why not? the place will stay
and the place will decay
and some words may
for I am writing about love, out of my reach crying over footprints on sands washed off with waves where I, I must know. what must I know? who cares. let it stay scattered without forms or shape.
I wanted to talk about a self destructive friend. High on chemicals he had some soul wrenching songs to share. I don’t want it to be last. I don’t want the voice of Kurt cobain ringing in my ear how low for rest of my moments. But who knew I had forgotten too that I barely have moments for myself as well.
Anyway, I wanted talk about the friend of mine. And I waited for the talk. Earplugs on “from yesterday to attack”
I waited.
The clatter faces made more sound than my headphones in highest volume. So much noises in wondering eyes, different shape of teeth from different skulls still living. Different smiles and words and their hands moved. As his hands moved, for whom I waited. His continuous clatter of words might help and his bonding with his fellow friend over cigarettes. But how much can words do if it doesn’t mean anything?
I don’t remember when I started shivering and forgetting things, my lighter, my IPhone charger, cigarette filters, handkerchief, lunchbox, I don’t remember how much I remember. It doesn’t matter anyway the contiguous disease, my happy suicidal tumor had grown already. What would I have talked about? This vacant body is wasting enough oxygen might help save a fish blue and tiny but it will save one. For the future. Or this toxic brain is desperately trying to make point so pointless doesn’t matter to the world?
But it helped. Clattering words from a moment I was fighting my own demons from a different space and from different atoms it helped like the headphones loud on “a modern myth to a beautiful lie”. I am afraid. And I will let this go without any questions. I don’t wanna know how he was in my head saving me. I don’t wanna know if just coincidences. Let it make noise.
But it helped. Clattering words from a cups and saucers.
I think I will survive another day. Or I have survived long enough.
– the next song will decide when shall rest.
The rigidity in space is high and it’s taking shape too, a multidimensional existence of surviving. we all like to survive in a way or another I guess. somewhat like surviving with point of views. for some stealing is fun, for some its a crime. in circumstances they both are right too. but the rigidity.
law is for one, law is for another. both get served. both get justice. then where is injustice? does it even exist? somewhere it does I guess. in loving memories, in bitter confrontation, in rigid hugs. it does.
And it is hard to maintain the abstract form, not taking shape, not moving space. not dying for we will keep living.
living in viewpoints are hard too as it is easier almost if you know how to unknow.. how the theory of nonexistence elongate with ashes and dusts, and with waves we keep for ourselves for another.
we all owe each others. we all have to tell our stories to someone or many of them. we owe the space for vacant neurons and brain stems to have a choice.
rigidity in space or
space between us.
I don’t like fever. I think most of the people don’t like it as well. And it is obvious, who wants to be sick anyway.
I don’t like the cure as well, all those insomniac eyes keeping a close look of my vitals and temperatures. All those hands touching my forehead to check if it’s gone, Naked sponging. I don’t want to get better anymore.
I don’t remember how long have I been hiding all my diseases, chronic and temporary. My anxiety, my tachycardia, cuts and bruises, fever. I have found a place underneath my bed to hide from my monsters. I have spent decades without breathing and making sounds.
It hurts I want to breathe, but the bed doesn’t crack. It is so soundless, spineless days go by, I don’t change my sleeping positions, I don’t sleep at all, my body rests as it responds and get tired of no cracks.
But that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just I hate fever. I don’t wanna see hands, touching me at night. I don’t want cure too.
You spark warmth
Confusing it not gonna stay
But it does
I am almost home with your words
And trying all the keys to get in
It’s up to me
Whether I will open the lock
Trying as long it takes
Or I will walk back
But was it ever up to me?
You spark love
Love is cruel
And no place in hope
I am confused
I can exactly distinguish the deferences
And the clarity hurts
I hope I will go with love
Hopelessly
As you spark my now
Brotipriya 