Like a fly tethered to a string, just about strong enough to let it fly around and yet not snap. Like a drop of water on a waxy leaf. Like three different children holding on to the mom' hands and pallav and tugging in three different directions... Like a just broken string of pearls falling off and bouncing on the polished wooden floor. Like a flutter of sea gulls rushing into flight as the child runs forward to catch them.
Thoughts - all over the place...
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
lie all the way
Can one live with no links to past experiences? Is it possible to delink/ dissociate oneself from all previous experiences? Words appear in my mind, like tiny bubbles, with all the potential to form a huge one, and then they suddenly burst and disappear into nothingness. All that is left is a faint spray on my face that dries away, even before I can gather my senses to describe it. There it is... Oh! - It is gone, now...
Where does one draw the line between the joy of writing, as compared to the compulsion to write? Does it matter in the end, why one writes? or, even - if one does write at all? What a pity, when one cannot write/ put into words, what they think!
He sat there, stone still... What more could he say? There were no tears, no expressions on his face. He sat there, writing down equations, solving them, rechecking the calculations. If only, he could mathematically solve life, it would be so much easier on both of them. There would be no more unspoken wishes, no wishful, subtle hints, no sarcasm that seemes to fly on top of his head, no foaming anger that he couldnt decipher, no laughs that he did not fathom, no - everything would be what it was on its face value. written and answers boxed off... That is how he liked it.
He would not have to take the absolute value of the laughter and integrate the meaning behind the words. Words spoken from t ranging from the first time he met her to the instance of the fight. Relationships would be one continuous function. Life would be solvable. Life of X could be expressed as F(x) = Lie. That was what it was - one big lie...
Where does one draw the line between the joy of writing, as compared to the compulsion to write? Does it matter in the end, why one writes? or, even - if one does write at all? What a pity, when one cannot write/ put into words, what they think!
He sat there, stone still... What more could he say? There were no tears, no expressions on his face. He sat there, writing down equations, solving them, rechecking the calculations. If only, he could mathematically solve life, it would be so much easier on both of them. There would be no more unspoken wishes, no wishful, subtle hints, no sarcasm that seemes to fly on top of his head, no foaming anger that he couldnt decipher, no laughs that he did not fathom, no - everything would be what it was on its face value. written and answers boxed off... That is how he liked it.
He would not have to take the absolute value of the laughter and integrate the meaning behind the words. Words spoken from t ranging from the first time he met her to the instance of the fight. Relationships would be one continuous function. Life would be solvable. Life of X could be expressed as F(x) = Lie. That was what it was - one big lie...
Friday, December 16, 2005
An empty house
She came back into the house. Everything was as she had left. Not a leaf of paper had moved. Not a single book out of place. The dishes were still in the sink. One shoe lying on the floor and another beneath the bed. Black panty hose beside it. A copy of Doctor Faustus lying face down, hurting. Unwatered plants dying a slow death. Paint brushes stuck in the wash water and a half finished painting with brief, harsh, powerful strokes. The cushions sprawled on the couch and a throw that was thrown with carelessness.
The silence was overpowering. She could hear it. Feel it in the air, in her breath. Choking and closing in on her. And then she heard it - the faint hum of the computer, the background noise of the cars on the roads, the air conditioning unit running, the clock ticking, the refrigrator starting up...
The house was alive, after all...
The silence was overpowering. She could hear it. Feel it in the air, in her breath. Choking and closing in on her. And then she heard it - the faint hum of the computer, the background noise of the cars on the roads, the air conditioning unit running, the clock ticking, the refrigrator starting up...
The house was alive, after all...
Monday, December 12, 2005
if only...
Like slivers of glass beneath the skin
Like the heat of tears singing beneath the eyes
Like one incident repeating itself time and over again,
that nothing remains in memory to separate the instance from the next...
Like the last brown fall leaf clinging to the tree
Like slushy trodden snow that has lost its beauty
Like sheets of rain
So many "if only"s...
If only he had not spoken so
If only she had not taken it so
If only he had asked her to stay
If only she had not walked away
If only he could take back the words
If only she would call him one last time
If only he had not uttered them with so much certainity
If only she had not taken them so seriously
Like the last embers struggling to stay alight
Like a spring straining against being stretched too tight
Like an emptiness that fills the entire space within
If only he would tell her
If only she could ask him
If only he would come to her
If only she would let him
I wonder how it all ends...
Thursday, December 08, 2005
words longing for stories!!!
1. Lowest common denominator
2. Processed air
3. Background noise
4. Paper warriors
5. Stacks of pebbles
6. Christmassy depressions
7. Company of lonliness
2. Processed air
3. Background noise
4. Paper warriors
5. Stacks of pebbles
6. Christmassy depressions
7. Company of lonliness
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