Scripted souls

When you are traveling,
to a known place
devoid of mystery
a staple conglomeration
of pleasures you have conditioned yourself 

to enjoy
people you know will not violate
your sanctuaries
and thoughts you have allowed to
mushroom in your well manicured garden.

a diversion keeps presenting itself

dangerous or beautiful who knows 

as you convince yourself to ignore it

and decide to carry on 

to your destination

a house of cliched characters

and scripted souls

to spend your life with.

layer after layer

As we peel layer after layer
of our words
actions
thoughts
insinuations
we realize the depth
of the vacuum
within.
the stories
of the soul
were supposed to be true
but who knows.

a point in time

another day drags by
like a goods train
rhythmic sound
that becomes background noise
as soon as it hits.
I am like the stoned hippie 
lying on the platform
half awake
watching it go past
just like these days.
like a chore.
I've nothing better to do.
the world keeps rambling on
about the old meaningless things.

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.