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.

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.

Puzzled Enemy

There’s vengeance gnashing its teeth

The anger, blindfolded,  

Flagellates at my insides

Churning out a fresh helping

Of supine decay,

Feeding its crippled existence.

I shrink at the sight

Of fingers pointing at me

To then direct wobbly steps  

Of melting courage

To be able to peer at

The faces behind

The exclamations

Of accusations aimed at me.

Till I bump against a mirror,

That, I had thought to be a window.

My palms scramble for strength

Clamped on to the mirror

As I slip on to the floor

I hope the aches will

Numb me into sleep,

Till I wake up

To fidgeting arms and feet,

As the glass ceiling above shatters

To reveal in mockery

A mirrored ceiling right above,

Which I had thought to be the sky

Before I had entered the room.

 P.S. The mind is its own worst enemy. 

Years and Months

            My very existence, my thoughts had become dusty with neglect induced by self-consciousness, note the irony, will you! Questions interspersed with chortles of laughter about my hobbies would send me into a mental asphyxiation lasting till I stammered and gave into the nausea churned out of the apparent emptiness tugging at me. That's a few years back.

                          Always singing songs on ultrasonics and infrasonics in my mind, or a song that would have me tapping my feet with fervour as I visualized moves and steps that would amaze  me, only to freeze at the thought of performing it even in front of myself. This was till a few years back.

                           I seemed to think I didn’t know what poetry was till I recently glanced with calm acceptance followed by appreciation of my scribblings, without wincing for once, (and always henceforth) at what I thought was meant to be dumped eventually, if I happened to have as much as one retrospective glance at resonances of my assertive existence in words willing to sacrifice themselves for want of better words, or definitions to my life. This is the last few months, this is now.

                            That inaudible hum has now bloomed into heartfelt, happy singing to songs as I walk on and across streets, into my office or anywhere. Never knew any of this would be possible one day. And yet, each day, nay, each second unfurls as more beautiful than the other.

                             This one’s funny, in retrospection at least. Having waded through umpteen rejections at ‘selections’ for dance performances and competitions in school, to discovering the rhythm of my own two left now set right via all that life has taught me in the past one year, probably the most profound of learning experiences in my life till now. From graciously accepting compliments with belief at my dancing skills in college, I further sauntered into dance classes nine months back, and when someone at the studio tells you, that you’ve grown a lot from where you started wrt dance, it’s like quenching my thirst for perfection only for that one instant, that eventually spurs me on to discover perfection in a wholly different posture and garb, with time.

I never knew I could be this passionate about something in my life again. I say, all these years have been worth it. Each day, as I try to bring perfection to my steps, or balance myself during the workouts, the rhythm, the infinite song of vitality uncoils from its self-conscious slumber, and stretches its hand out to me, as my dancing partner, showing me the way to the next dance step, and discovering a certain idiosyncrasy of me. And how do I celebrate the discovery of it? By doing a little jig. Never have I admired myself more than I inadvertently do now, when I catch myself staring at my reflection, as I move to the front row, performing the routine with all my life and imagination. 

As Mary Murphy rightly said in a recent episode of So You Think You Can Dance, dancing serves as oxygen to the soul. I hope I can gracefully dance out my gratitude for dance someday. The irony of it!

Of Memories.

I - Choose to forget,
Choose to remember
Things from my life's history 
So as to think "That's [my] Life.", someday.
And what If, Life chose to forget me one day?