Beauty is to be cherished, but then it can engulf and strangle. And it has an acutely merciless way of showing one his indigence. And worser still, it leaves a trail in it's wake which dictates sudden, gratuitous cravings. It's ubiquitous, they say, but only if one has the key to clear the mist and the vision to look beneath trivialities. I, for once, am in agreement.

Let this be a tiny little scratch on an ocean of white- smithereens of many preceding attempts at recommencing this dormant journal. The night is long, the unrest never-ending, the imaginarium a blighted ruin urging restoration. The rigmarole of justifying the rationale of a substantial existence has withered me of any trace of vitality perhaps. The soul accuses the mind of calculated oppression while the mind sites detachment and sagacious indifference in it's defense. As hard to comprehend as it may seem, there are actually two if not three of me, us. My destiny and hence, my fight is to unite them in their purpose.

Obituary

It rained today. Long overdue, eagerly awaited. The slightest drizzle. gratifying at it's periphery, cleansing at it's core. The skies are bluish gray. Utterly exposed and thankful. Relieved from the debt of a conceited promise. Today there isn't any scope for apologies or craving. Relief and loathing win. The worst is over. You farewell, and you too.

The sun sets behind a bridge,
black railings against the scarlet sky
adorned with silhouettes of crows.
There is a sound of water.

Streetlights fade into visibility
among bare and unpruned branches
over buckling sidewalks. Grass grows
in the middle of the street.

Downtown, broken glass facades
streaked with rust and pigeon droppings
blink away the last gleams of sundown.
Full moon and fog fill the empty city.

Yet a sweet pain, stitched and mended seams of heart

where the rips began. There you touch

now, delicate fingered, clean scrubbed,

where you tore and prodded

before: sharp, with cruel and reckless abandon,

that blood vein that would weaken me most, drop me

to my knees, shoulders sagging, scooped

empty of pulp. You plug that vein shut

with the soft pad of your thumb,

distracting me with your winning smile.

Hurt still? you start to ask, trying hard,

chastised with the knowledge of heedless wrong,

but the fear of reply puts a fist to your mouth.

You want to know without asking,

without suffering the whip

of words, their bloody slash,

drip, and splatter

on your neatly polished floor.

Messes disturb you.

I hand you the mop;

I’ll hold the bucket.

We need the words, the slash exposing raw pink

flesh to bandages, precision stitches pulled taut,

cut places stronger now than uncut.

The rattle of bones, the mad march of skeletons,

skulls rounded and milky white, eyes vacant

with the loss of memory—life is that and nothing else—now only

these locked and bolted doors, the slight rain pelting

the windows, the membrane of yesterday

a shimmering gauze across the summon

of future gone past

too soon, too sleek and slippery in the hand

to hold, or even caress, even grasp its solid curve,

its chill, its hollow egg fragile with potential,

for one moment, one full and ripened moment,

begging only to arrest, hold, linger, fathom,

taste on the tongue

tip, and honeyed taste on the lips,

a mango sweet, dipped and rolled and set

to flame. Only one. No matter.

Time flings itself in reckless abandon.

Thrashes against the closet doors, shatters the windowpane,

has its nervous breakdown and curls into a fetal coil

in the darkest corner of the room, whining and whimpering.

This room. One life.

And time a colder thing even than apathy—

this dizzying speed ushering in a visage

of empty desert, a golden and infinite nothing.

IN MEMO

What causes a woman to quit without pondering over the results? What would cause her to pull
the trigger and cause her own death? Grudgingly,I guess I know what kind of moment leads near and
around that moment,wishing I didn’t.When the pain of taking the next breath becomes so
bone-shattering,all your mind knows is : stop, stop, STOP.The pain.

And there is nothing else.No more thought of the guy who'd swear by every word you utter, of the smudgepaint and the candyfloss for which there'd always be whining about.No more thought of the simper of pleasure, the curling up of the lower lip,which seemed to share a certain gesture with you, a certain glint in the 'blue' eyes, the repeated arcing of the hand in the air above you to describe a word most precise. Perhaps they fade.

There is only the pain. That must stop.
To live. How'd I know any of that pain, you'd argue. We, the “we” that once lived perfect, seems to be so very long ago now..I steal a glimpse at a picture of yours searching your features for that previous self, keen to not let that previous bit leave me. Then, you were fearless and innocent, immune but oblivious- blissfully ignorant. Your eyes bore into mine urging me to believe that you are the same. Only influenced by the world.. Are you there? Wondering?But of course I see you- messy hair, in all likeness untied, cheeks flushed-fresh from a fight wid P2 possibly worrying yourself crazy over that misplaced plectrum; and in desperate need of some fondling yeah? Did you know that all this charmed me? You do. The way you 'd swear at me, the way you bit your lips everytime you thought you'd crossed the line, the smile when you knew that you'd gotten away with..

Those days when we sat by the lakeside, cooled by the slight breeze, shoulders pressed together, you strumming gently, me humming along-your tresses tickling my face, heart thumping in my chest, assured by the warmth of your touch. We'd have these strangest of mythical fantasies and contemplate our neverland and how we'd paint it all blue and golden. And then all of a sudden you'd have this brilliant strain of inspiration
and play while I listened, holding my breath. Listened, until you were finished and leaned over me,
demanding to know if it was the best piece I'd ever heard and in the same breath adding that there was
a prize if it was and a death sentence if it wasn't. It wasn't but it sure felt like..
That millisecond before you decided to pull the trigger, I wish I could have whispered into your ear: I'd never had a better prize. None so satisfying. I see you standing below the trees, waiting for me to catch up. Looking at me as if I were everything.I was safe in your eyes. I was always secure with you.In that millisecond, I wish I could have whispered in your ear: I will never be that secure again. You've had to part fearing the worst maybe. But you're so young, so naive. I hope we'd not have to pay for this later, when all we can do is regret...

I see the fabulous aurora lighting up the horizon-the field of daffodils parting like a gentle fire before us, slapping against the little flaming red Volkzwagon, the two of us roaring with laughter, jumping in our seats, a hand of mine holding yours in the air between us, the other on the steering wheel, and the owner of that field shouting on the edge of it, his arms waving in the rear view mirror- our ultimate fantasy! Shouting, shouting, I know not what, but we were as incapable of stopping as were you …
… in that millisecond, did your memories rush through you? The grief of letting go sunk into a moment of relief when you do? Do you know, my dearest, that I remember every moment in the lead up? Not once a raised voice, not once a flash of anger. You've decided to fade away in silence. I don't know if I am to hold you in contempt or respect you for that. But I believe you..I think the depth of your grief is the same as mine...And that you made your own decision, end of the day-whatever the reason may be, you have. So I need to live my own life, one in which I, too, will have to learn to fade away in my own silent grief, one marked by mystery and lined with obstacles I presume. But overcome, we shall.

Now and then, thinking of you, those breezy afternoons, how you'd press your head against my chest, snuggling; pretending to count my heartbeats to find out whether they matched yours. I try and visualize. hearts not beating. Wait …