Experiences

As they say

Words fall short to describe experiences.

Photographs are still pixels away

From being a reflection

Of one's memory -

A refracted reflection,

Of the experience itself.

So what about hopes

To capture, treasure memories for this lifetime?

What about people

Who love to imagine,

And spend their lives

Living on memories

Of those imagined sights,

Scenes, smells and people?

How much more real is our world from theirs', I wonder.

Epilogue: Memories are interpretations. Memories are karma. Retrospection is imagination in an inverted frame, or a regressive mode.

If Thoughts Were Audible

If Thoughts Were Audible,

Would you try to catch & make

Every fluttering thought your Bible,

In your craving

To come face to face

With that one thought

Which would have the answer

To what is the question,

That has gnawed at you since birth?

What if you bumped against

Hitherto infrasonic tremors

Of a morbid sigh or curse,

While hoping to tune into

A blessing or yearning?

Would you consider yourself

The sniper of the Panopticon

Or a prisoner of it?

Would the nail-biting curiosity

Of groping the trail

Of fragmented thoughts

From all (how many?) corners

Make you lose your own 'stream of consciousness',

                         as they would call it?

Deaf now to your own mental utterances

Would you (n)ever speak again?

[Since,

Your eavesdropping mind

Would already know

What the other has to say

As would he, about your thoughts

Before either uttered the first syllable.]

Or,

Would you start thinking

About what to think first

And what order to place those thoughts in, next,

So you could fool your mental trespasser,

Sending him off to a parallel trail of thoughts?

But of course he would be able to

Hear through your strategy

As he would also know

Of that moment

When you decided to

Guard your own thoughts.

But the question is,

Do you have any left, now? 

A numb stare is reflected

In your mental neighbour's eyes

As you both confront

The fact that

Deaf people don't have

Songs stuck in their head.

The Night It Rained

The moon lulled itself

Into few second-long naps,

The winds whispered the smell

Of the oncoming rains

As ants did a tight-rope

On the tree's sleeves.

The dog pricked its ears,

Each time the tiny hurricane

Of dried leaves whirled round.

The spider attempted to balance itself

On the maze of its own making,

As the web threads strummed

A happy tune

In response to the wind.

The lull before the storm,

Was becoming too much of a bulk

For the clouds to bear,

Before a slant of water droplets,

(Some drying midway through

The atmosphere's layers,)

Stamped their arrival

On the parched layers

Of land, leaves and minds.

Streaks of lightning

Conducted a survey

On the distribution of downpour

Clicking vintage tinted photographs.

The rains slowed down to a drizzle,

The insects buzzed through a banter,

The moon tried to

Sneak through the clouds,

Surprised at its reflection

In a puddle on the street.

The morning wakes up 

Smelling a misty presence 

Of the (previous) night it rained.