Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Of 37 books and lonliness


She felt tired. Her throat ached. Pricked from the inside. She kept drinking hot water, hoping to smooth it out and make it feel warm, but instead she was starting to feel hot.

Mommy - my cure all!
I will never be too old
to be hugged and kissed to bed,
I will never be too mature
to be comforted!

I may make the top deals
and know all the inside wheels!
But, my mom knows better
when I am not myself!

Wish you were with me now :(....

Monday, February 13, 2006

sound decisions.

What would sound be like? Would it bring a metallic taste to the roof of her palate? Would it feel like a ray of light seen through the smoke? Would it be smooth, rough? Would it hurt? Would she want it again and again? Would it consume her? Would it wrap all around her, make her feel surrounded in warmth? Would it surround her, tower over all her other senses and squish her inside itself? Will she feel it on her skin, inside her? Would it smell nice? Would it flow like the colors over a sunset? like water out of a tilting pitcher? like the smoke that rose out of an incense stick, like the aroma of chicken broth boiling?

Would she be the same, if she chose to start hearing things? Did she want to be the same? Was she ready for it? Would everybody else hear the same things as her? Will she hear the same things as everybody else? Would people make fun of her, if she did not?

Would she understand what people were trying to tell her? Would she be able to tell people what she thought, what she felt? Would spoken words ever be sufficient? Would she be able to feel beautiful? Would she feel complete, once she made the choice? What if, she couldnt reverse it and things went terribly wrong? Would it be better than what she had imagined it to be? What if it did not live up to her expectations and she couldnt go back to her world any more? What if she got left out and nobody stayed back with her? What if she went ahead and nobody else did and she couldnt come back to them? Verses of poetry, tables lined with steaming hot soups and chips, passionately fragrant flowers, the warmth of a wooden fire - as it snowed all around, the smoke rising through the night and the stars shining above, pages and pages of scores, written in beautiful black ink between 4 lines, the changing hues of blazing sunsets and sunrises, cold drops of water falling on her skin, the soft delicate life in the newborn puppy - everything passed through her closed eyes.

She took one deep breath and drank the Manjathanni...

P.s: This post was inspired from a newly started "audiopoetry" blog.

P.p.s:
"the sounds would swell
as pure as the silence."
From Momma - by Yevtushenko.