After we're gone

The old, rented air conditioner is making a drab, monotonous sound.
Two white lights make the room, moderately sized, brightly lit.
The fan runs smoothly cutting the air, mixing the warmth generated by walls.
The temperature outside is thirty six degrees celsius at midnight. Almost.
My computer has some good music playing. Its the soundtrack of a famous movie.
The entry door to the room is slightly open. Making the air conditioner work harder.
The room isn't very organized. There are clothes lying on the bed.
Some of them hanging on each of the two chairs. A towel, another cloth to filter boiled water.
Your side of the bed is empty except some of your worn clothes lying around.
My side of the bed has me. Unable to decide how to end the day.
It started promisingly. I don't know what happened.
As it progressed, it became more and more like the other days.
That's what happens with us eventually. Isn't it. With most people I'm sure.
We become more and more of what the world is. And less and less of what we were meant to be.
We start looking like others, talking like them, thinking. We like to get lost.
It could be the comfort of anonymity, the quiet understated lure of being a part of the flow.
The river of time and inevitability. Of chatter that lubricates the vacuous spaces of our existence.
There are traces though that remain of our promise.
The sparks leave some memories. Which our children remember and talk about. After we're gone. 

home

meandering
not like a river though
which has
some sense
of direction, at least.
navigating days, hours
as if
they are labyrinths
of uncertainties
that do not have
exits architectured
within.
moving in circles or
disfigured loops,
coming back to the same point
often and
not even knowing.
or getting lost in a totally new
place altogether.
perhaps
what i need to do
is stop persevering
to negotiate an
escape.
and make these
harrowing
structures of time
my home.

Tightrope walking

I'd thought of writing a poem
on tightrope walking.
and I wrote a few words -

"While each of us walks
a tightrope
taut across a widespread abyss
we learn
to balance ourselves"

- before getting back
to my balancing act.
I am perhaps standing in the middle,
at the mouth of the abyss,
trying, not to look down
and unable to promptly move forward.
Stopping is as good as falling.
All I can hope for
is catching a moment's breath
before getting back to the struggle
I have chosen for myself.

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.