Blank

I could write, but what good would that do.
Words are no substitute for you...

Tell them to keep their opinions to themselves.

Something a writer (at least those with a certain sense of discernment) learns over time, is that the space in which they create, is sacred. 

A space to be respected as it offers up itself to you- to be consumed by your essence, to be filled with a form of expression that emanates from your core. 

This sense of respect and honour is something that non-creators (haters, critics, and their kin) don't get. 

You know how some animals need to be potty-trained or else they will just make a mess anywhere? 
Humans are the same. 

They need to be taught about spaces- what is appropriate and where. 

You are entitled to have an opinion. You are however, not entitled to shove it down someone's throat.

Especially if that person has created something. Has been vulnerable enough to put a piece of themselves out there.

For a creator, a writer or an artist, the critics place needs to be clearly demarcated. 

It is outside. Outside of everything that matters. 

Most often, opinions expressed are insipid, banal and rather inconclusive.

Let me ask you one thing, before having a sense of entitlement to have an opinion, also consider the following-

1) The creator may have already thought of what you are going to say. It takes a certain amount of intelligence or art to create, you know. It's not as easy as 'commenting' on something.

2) What are you trying to say? Don't use your mouth like a rectum. If you have the intelligence to think about what you put in your stomach, have the decency to consider what you bring out of it. Consider what you are saying and make sure that it is constructive, considerate or conclusive.
Don't rant. Nobody has any time for your shit.

3) What is the position from which you are speaking? Are you a reader? Are you an expert? Are you a smartass hater with a holier-than-thou attitude? 

If you are the first, make sure you comment as the first. 
If you are the second I would like to see your credentials.
If you are the third, fuck you.


It is established that this post is angry. But people who create have been on the receiving end of a lot of nonsense lately. 

I just want to make it very clear that we are not here to justify what we have created. Neither are we here to have an argument disguised as a discussion with you, that you initiate just to assuage your lack of talent or self-esteem.

Your opinions are worth what opinions are worth these days. 
And if you don't have the mental capacity to gauge the value of them, I will assist you by pointing out that they're worth nothing. 

Especially if they are shit, which they usually are.

So yes, only express your opinion if you know how to use your mind like a mind and not like an anus.

Hope you have a fantastic day.

Cheers.

Mirror by Sukanya Venkat

This is the first guest post on my blog by the wonderful, Sukanya Venkat. Although she claims to be unfamiliar with poetic terrain, I think she navigates her way quite impressively. Here is Mirror.

This woman inside me

I want to look like her-

fierce

shining

full of chaos and poetry,

unborn stories glistening in her veins,

a mighty winding river 

full of fury 

and quietude.

I want her courage. For adventure. 

For falling darkness and blinding light

Her obsession with the truth. 

Her artless ways of finding it

Her gentle ways of speaking it

Her talent

for alchemizing lies.

This woman inside me-

I want to be her

I want 

her wars

her violent landscapes

her passionate marriage to freedom.

I desire her fortitude.

Her forgiveness. 

Her abundant wrath. 

Her infinite love.

I covet her femininity. 

Her celebration. Her divinity.

Her imperfection 

and her scars.

This woman inside me, 

(my body my heart my soul my brain)

I want her to take me in. 

Turn me into her. 

I want her stories, her secret dreams.

Her life.

I want my mirror to swallow me and spit me out;

covered in mercurial incandescence

in my dreams, I am she. 

There is no separation. 

In reality 

She towers above me 

And I worship at her feet.

Our life…

This life…

No, this dream.

It is us. 

(It is her. It is me.)

I am the cosmos. 

I am her. 

We are inseparable

My nemesis and I 

We 

Are one.

Sukanya is a fellow traveler from Somewhere Else world. 

And when she's not doing fancy things that usually make up her day,  

she is busy waging war on pages with the most difficult weapons to wield- words.

She tweets at Stormborn@suku06.

Unreasonable

My heart is a balloon. 
It wants to rise out of my chest. 
Doesn't realize the mechanics of flotation.
Helium and haemoglobin don't mix.

Inverted Musings

life 

calls me

away and above

everything else.

there is this inward swirling-

ask the wind to show you how

with leaves.

tumble and dry

up in the sky.

but wait-

that's me,

and the swirling is also me.

in my stomach

the churning

and yearning
is once again
me.

life calls out to me.

and paused, somewhere 

high up in the unknowable sky,

the upside-down me

is trying to find out-

how many 'me's have swirled

in the same wind

like leaves 

from the same tree.

On Chances

In the years that have passed, we have changed.

So much.

Sometimes, an echo will add- too much.

Who decides the much-ness of things.

Who decides but you.

Why do we take chances?

It’s instinct.

It’s an attempt to feel more.

It’s an attempt to grow.

Even when you fail, you grow.

We are forever thrusting our feelers out into the world, an invitation saying- 

Yes, I want to feel more. I want to be more than I am right now.

I want to be one with all that there is.

Because maybe deep down, this hunger for everything is a call.

A call from oneself, to oneself.

A glorious returning of the parts to the whole.

The universe exists in you.

As thought.

As potential.

And maybe, as soul.

How can you not want more, when you are made of so much.

We want to feel the vastness of who we are fit and maybe even be, all that there is.

Distilled Love

distilled silhouettes 

rise up 

from what remains 

of what once was

boiling 

love

i am seeing 

spirits rise

with beckoning

curling fingers 

of vapour 

and

distilled love

it calls me; 

come hither

climb higher

but whereto

and wherefore

unbeknownst to me

solid smoke

makes me choke

but rise

and years later 
this reprise

has arrived 

to split me open

and open 

doors once closed

for all

but maybe

you 

and maybe you 

will always open me

like this
and then more

with you
it's always more

once it starts

it flows

and floods.

but whereto 

and wherefore

no one knows

the course and curse

of 
this 
distilled love.

This.

I was only given words as a tool to make sense of what was happening to me.

I was given words to help me process my pain.  

And so I use them.

What do you do when the darkness and emptiness come for you?

Nothing. 

You cannot do much.

You wait.

You let them come.

You let the pain take its course and move through you.

There will be well-wishers who will try to help.

They cannot.

There will be those who will try to make it worse.

Let them.

What have you to lose?

How much more can you lose?

Let yourself reach rock bottom.

Let the skin of your cheek feel the rough, cutting, black stone.

Let your tears mix with blood.

Sleep.

When your eyes open, place your palms on the very ground that claimed you.

And let your scraped knees take revenge.

 Rise.

You are alone.

You alone are enough.

Rise.

Evening

                                                                             
                                                                             It is evening. 

I am sitting in the garden and reading in the shade.

The sun has mellowed down,  but he eagerly peeks though the scrawny branches of a young mango tree.

 It seems like he wants to know what I am reading.  

There is a gentle breeze that moves about. 

It is making the leaves move and the sun dances about to peek though  the gaps between the leaves.

 The birds seem to be enjoying this affair.

 It's  hard to tell at whom their excited chirping sounds are directed. 

They could either be supporting the sun or taunting him.

I hold my book up to the sun. 

I watch the sunlight glint across the cover page. 

He has seen.  

"Notes To Myself- My Struggle To Become A Person." 

Now,  it is me who is curious.  

How does the sun see me?

I must be one speck in  millions of specks.

(Make that one speck-with-a-book.)

I think I  will return to my book now.  

The wind has died down and the sun seems to be too engrossed in  looking over his shoulder.  

To the east his attention lies.  

Always to the east.

My attention drifts to the west.

There is a promise of the moon.  

She will be bright and full tonight.

 When she comes,  she's  going to want all my attention. 

I better make the most of the orange-golden sun that now seems to be caressing the dry, fragrant  pages of my book.

What beauty nature creates.  

One is happy to be here. 

(Make that happy-with-a-book).

Affirmation

I know you exist,

I know it because I do.

And even though we've never met,

I know that I will love you.

Then the stars will wish on us instead,

me and you.

We don’t wait for each other

because, we already are

within the other-

some part soul, some part bone

and through some parts of skin,

I’ll feel you

ruffling my hair through the breeze

while the frosted window panes 

will deliver my kisses for you.

Lingering on

long past we’re gone;

You and me,

my love.

You exist because I do

And I, because of you.

Loss

he told me that i had lost 

i told him i wasn't playing

he said not playing wasn't an option

i told him it wasn't fair

he said it didn't matter

i asked him what mattered

he said Winning

i asked him Did you win?

he said  No

i told him that he had lost too

he said At least I tried

I said it didn't matter


winning did

From flowers

learn from the flowers
they know
that love comes when you are beautiful
and add beauty to the world

bees and flies are drawn
by the scent they give out
maybe not the prettiest allies
but their feet
carry love-letters
between flower lovers

help will come to those
who have learnt about beauty
help will come
to those who have learnt to love.


Artwork/Illustration: https://twitter.com/induviduality
https://www.facebook.com/Induviduality?fref=ts

Unconditional

I was sitting on one of the oddly shaped metallic benches at Churchgate station. It was late at night, late enough for this extremely busy place to be relatively empty. I would have to wait for about ten minutes before my train would arrive.

The night was cold and my thoughts seemed to mimic the foggy atmosphere that presided  in the city outside.
I was cold, not merely because the weather seemed intent on sending shivers through all warm-blooded creatures, but also from the fact that this railway station had memories embedded within its structure. Memories that I would rather not revisit.

Places seem to have distinct energies of their own. They absorb thoughts, ideas and emotions like sponges. This station had absorbed much. From millions that had passed through it. And a million from me.

As I sat on that rounded, uncomfortable bench, a plump and cheery dog waddled over to me.
There was no mistaking the fact that the dog was happy. It was wagging its tail. Or rather the latter half of its body was swaying in delight.

Its exuberant demeanor did not elicit a cheery response from me. My thoughts had been too heavy to be banished so easily. They lingered.

The dog had however succeeded in catching my attention.
Let me state that I am a cat-person. We are called cat-persons because of the curious effect cats have on us. We tend to transform into some strange sort of cat-devotees as soon as we spot a furry, domesticated feline.

But the enthusiasm this dog exhibited while greeting me, won me over.
I spoke to the dog. I told her (for it seemed like it was a she) that I didn't have any food with me. I assumed that she was hungry and was trying to ease out a nibble from me. I later realized that this was quite silly because those wet noses dogs sport are not to enhance their facial features. Their muzzles were functional and quite efficiently so. She would have known that I didn't have any food.

What then, could possibly explain the joy that this animal seemed to be exuding?


After a couple of moments of gamboling around my feet, she put her front two paws on the metallic bench besides me and licked my face.
She did this quite unexpectedly and I didn't have time to react.
I know quite a few people who would be appalled at such behaviour from a stray animal. But the earnest display of affection didn't allow for any other reaction but joy. A kiss from a miss shouldn't be dismissed, eh?

If such silly mental rhymes were popping into my mind, it was evident that my spirits were being uplifted.
I allowed myself a to smile at this.

She then made circular motions following her own tail, as if preparing her bed for the night and then settled down near my feet. She didn't get to have a long snooze, for within a few minutes my train- the 11.05 BO S (Borivali Slow that would painstakingly halt at all stations before dropping me off at Malad) pulled in.

I patted her on the head, rather awkwardly and said goodbye. She looked up at me, slightly sleepy and weary at the loss of company, but still  graciously moved her tail, bidding me farewell.

I stepped on to the empty train and settled myself by the window. I found that my thoughts had lightened. I had made a new, rather fond memory of this place.

I had also been lucky enough to experience unconditional love from a complete stranger.