The truth

The truth

Its difficult to see once we grow up.

We see ourselves

and everyone else 

and everything.

Maybe it is not

for everyone, and for me. 

maybe. 

but it is there.

Slowly, 

over months, and years

and lives, 

lived over and over,

we can try 

with great care

and delicate perseverance, 

to peel off

layer by layer

what we seem to be,
to find the sun 
hidden somewhere behind 
an infinitely tedious 
coat of clouds,

to practice 

taking the right diversions

or keep returning

to the ones we mistook,

without fretting over.

as a matter of habit.

and 

we may just get there.

or we can go on

living

as we do. 

happy and sad 

between good and bad.

and we may still 

get there.

or 

we may not.

High tide

On a cloudy day that commemorates
the building of a nation.
A people. I stop for a moment.
It is a day off from work.
I wake up early. Get some exercise.
Get groceries and milk.
Have some breakfast.
Hear a few patriotic songs
being played outside.
People having returned to their homes,
after the morning flag hoisting
and distribution of sweets.
Talk to my loved ones.
And then hit a wall.
Silence comes in like a high tide.
slow but affirming.
I have to step back into consciousness.
from the skin i live in.
And confront the questions.

The world

I am running
I am climbing
I am walking
Breathing.
I am thinking.
I am living.
I am struggling.
Fighting.
Smiling.
Laughing.
I am listening.
I am talking.
I am trying not to be angry.
Prejudiced.
I am trying to be strong. but.
Dispassionate.
Aware. and yet.
Indifferent.
I am trying to achieve. without.
Emotion.
I am moving.
While standing still.
I live. While I die.
I scorn others.
While i smile at them.
I cry for myself.
While i laugh at the mirror.
I am the duality.
I am the world.

talk

The house speaks to me.
about missing you.
about resonating.
with noises you made
my name also somewhere.
about waiting to get combed up
with your hands,
like a child. going to school.
about breathing. the air
you had breathed. and touched.
it speaks to me.
this Sunday.
when i'm home for once,
hoping for some company.
we're trying to talk.

Silences

Silences have been marching.
They have travelled
from the nights to the days.
Mornings are now quiet.
And they have moved

From the quiet streets
into well run homes, shops.
From the advertisements
lurking in the corners of newspapers
to the headlines.
From the pauses
to the songs.

Silences

Silences have been marching.
They have travelled
from the nights to the days.
Mornings are now quiet.
And they have moved
from the banks to the waters.
From the quiet streets
into well run homes, shops.
From the advertisements
lurking in the corners of newspapers
to the headlines.
From the pauses
to the songs.

the swing.

On a moonlit night.
I stand on a high bridge made of worn out rope
over a deep ravenous river.
between two chasmic mountains.
Waiting to fall into the dark abyss.
and hit the water. black.
breathe. sleep.
As the wind hits from behind.
like a thick sack of dry hard mud.
the bridge gives way.
I hold it tight and swing along
to hit the stone of the mountain.
it has been standing with open arms
for centuries.
I keep my eyes open as everything turns red.
and hold the rope tight.
I am not scared right now.
I am alert and awake.
Waiting for that next thrust of the heartless wind.
To ride it like an eagle.
And fly into the dark freedom.