A fresh soap bubble is iridescent, many-colored, vivid. Then it fades. If you watch it closely as the membrane thins, patches of dark transparency appear in the moment before the bubble pops.

That’s how the world was. God blew it into existence fully colored and bright with every possible hue. But as time went on, well it didn’t exactly fade but i guess the colors were used up.

It was something like a physical law, say entropy. Every expenditure of energy used up color. Some creatures actually fed on color energy to live.haha.. The world gradually swung relentlessly towards black and white.

Don’t think it was a grey, drab, place, though. Brilliant whites and hard-edged shadows filled the world as the softening colors drained away. Outlines were uncompromising. People appeared as crisp silhouettes. There was nothing vague about the colorless world.

As the world aged, the people began to converge and consolidate. By now, they were all either black or white. But not like black people you’ve seen, who are really brown;  not like white people you’ve seen either, who are really pinkish/reddish brown. These people were as black as ink and as white as paper. They looked very much alike, and this made it easier for separate individuals to merge into one.

The men merged into Kings. The women merged into Queens.

The world's been reduced to a black and white checkerboard. And on it, the last few neutrals wait in rows, sullen-faced for the chess game to start.

Abnegation is the back of a mirror
held before the face

Abnegation is black gloves and a coat
is a hole in a winter landscape
with snow and bare trees

Abnegation is a window or a door
instead of a wall
is opening
is absence

and if you see your reflection
you've missed the point

:|

No judgment
no regrets
just a lingering pain
a tiny thorn
pierced in my heart;

Life, you said
is made of moments
some we create
some create us.

Love, you said
is not, forever
some we lose
some lose us.

Bonds, I say
will last, forever
some we bind
some bind us.

I remain a stamp on sand
you on sandstone.

I observe you creating the drama of your life
Playing people as though they were instruments
Instinctively knowing the keys to their rhythms
Examining each key hypnotically
Studying how each key responds to your touch
Philosophically reporting your observations & thoughts
I get caught up in watching myself watching the I & I
You stroke each note lyrically, responsively
Using that special touch while making me keeper of your rhythms
Your memories and words become stories
Tales to be told about the before and after we became I & I
Like a poem waiting to be written challenging the one already read
I watch You play the blues leaving the You I know behind
I wonder where You are going and who You will be
You’re playing the game of living
Tuning the world to the rhythms of your life
Each chess move counters another chess move
Am I a pawn in Your life or someone else’s
I don’t have time to analyze this
You fine-tune the guitar chords exhorting beats from my heart
Ecstasy runs through my veins with each melody your hands produce
I watch the world through your eyes
Isn’t that what poets,philosophers & all artists do
Translate words,images and ideas into thunder
Mimic & play with our world gone asunder
Turn ideas into screenplays, turn words into books
Turn words into hypotheses in our attempts to produce & create
A safer more productive world for humanity.

Seaside eyes and the stirring contents of oceans they create at will.My kiss imparted to the air we share; it blows on breezes to a distant land to capture and caress your fragile hand.A fragmentary earth, a sphere once whole. Until it broke in pieces like our soul.These tears don't dry for days together, and I hear of a golden arrow that is love. It flies and falls and lands most randomly. Or, seemingly.Like the memories of blood, and veins that pump lineage old and worn and strangely mysterious. A familiarity and timelessness inherent even amid intangibility. No cheek to touch or song to absorb,nor even a flickering eyelid to behold and understand. Just understanding, wherever told, untold. Or misunderstood, but known.

It will always be, beyond this day, as it was beyond the unwound full and unfilled moons of so many thousand yesterdays. These stains and strains mark the blueprints of two fragmentary souls, which join again today, tomorrow... So many tomorrows into forevermore.


image courtesy: deviantart. com

I can't find any respite from the demons within. Its tough to be crazy and act like normal. Sometimes the shields just give in and I'm exposed. Busted!



"We knew you were a little shaky..like always on the edge you know, like you'd harm yourself or everyone around yourself."

"but ..."

"why are you silent? why dont you say something?!"

"i want to.i dont know if I should..."

"you have so much talent. dont waste it like you are wasting. why dont you LIKE these stuff; take interest in them. why can't you love your work- it's been soo long now. adapt goddamit!!"

..i want to. I try. i fail.

"you know what..screw you."

"fuck you too..leave me alone."

There is charm about the breeze that flatters the curtains before me, letting them dance and billow and reflect a sun that tells me the day is drawing to a close, that a murky darkness is setting in- that the sky is drawing its own curtain and concealing itself slowly while it lets these little reminders tease my mind, just as these little breezes tease my curtain. Someone sneers, deep inside. 'It's not an omen, it's anything but' I retort, fanatically.

But then, I wonder if the sky is an overtly sentimental man or a conniving woman, like you - whether it's touch would keep or kill. The curtains waft into the room softly without response, the touch of a setting sun warming them into animation.

Still and liquid, my curtain becomes a grasp that cannot reach me, compelled by the wind of a closing day to bring some joy, some vivacity to my quiet, quiet room. The music blares on, meanwhile. I'm sad.