I am the spring.

I will always be your right path.

______

Find your voice.

__________

Months ago, I found this very creative art form by Austin Kleon, a writer and artist from Texas. It is called Newspaper Blackout poetry. All you have to do is take the daily paper and find a poem hidden among words, lines and spaces. Challenging yet so much fun, that is what it is. And I'm glad I finally tried it.

Mad race.

I have slowed down

but i'm still

running,

making my every step,

my every breath

count

in this unfair mad race

that i am a part of

since the day i opened this heart

for you, for him, for her

for them to watch it start

pumping sense 

to my brain and then

steer it

again, again,

time and again

amidst a crowd of hopes

crushed by weak, ailing feet

of envy, of lust,

of betrayal, of greed

running together in semblance

of monsters and angels.

Yes, there are dreams too

there are things like

rains and rainbows,

poems of love and fires of the stars

but they found their home long ago

leaving behind

just these numbed scars.

And now the light is yellow,

we are all on our toes

ready to run faster..

faster than before.

So let's take a moment here

and feel sorry for ourselves.

How beautifully this mad race

has turned us into a mess.

________

Time tells the truth.

I have known you more in your silence than in your words,

your beguilingly pleasing

words.

_______

Crossing stories

It has become an unsolicited ritual

to watch the i in me

prying scrupulously, a thousand moments

and a million stories

with a hushed hope to find its own,

one day.

______

Picture Source

To be alive and stagnant at the same time, is the saddest thing.

There is a piece of madness

         floating furtively along

         the chapped lines 

         of my daily chores

         and that alone is enough

to keep me from falling apart.

__________

Picture Source: deviantart

This.

“For poems are not words,

after all,

but fires for the cold,

ropes let down to the lost,

something as necessary

as bread

in the pockets of the hungry.”

— Mary Oliver

Because even angels fall

After days of working towards my dream, I have finally got a chance to write, to share, to update my little world out here.

It is very weird.. my current state of mind is totally confused. I am confused. I'm so confused! At one moment I feel extremely ecstatic to watch reality, gradually impersonating my most beautiful dream and then in a snap, I come out of it with unbearable stress.

Today, in the morning while I was going to college, my shuffled playlist played a song which I used to listen during the first year. It was one of my favorites back then and needless to say, I used to play it on repeat. The song is 'Even Angels Fall' by Jessica Riddle. It got famous from the movie '10 Things I Hate About You.' and I'm quite sure you must have heard it. If not, then please do listen. It is beautiful!

Anyway, there is this line in the lyrics - "One day it's heaven, one day it's hell" I have heard this song a gazillion times and never before did this line hit me. I cannot begin to express how perfectly it fits my current situation and how I'm in love with this song all over again.

Because you don't always need motivational quotes of great philosophers to heal, there are times when life's randomness makes you feel much much better. So, maybe the next time or the next next time you hear from me, my mind will be more clear with a dream in hand and better words to share.

Till then, keep loving me, will you?

Mirage.

_____

...

And then one day I will brush off the splintered pieces of storm that was once my whole life and gradually crawl away.. uncovered, unguarded but not vulnerable. because fighting fear is the most beautiful yet terrifying way to know that you are strong and that you always have been.

______

Picture Source: unknown

One step closer

Write a song and teach me

how not to be

afraid of isolation

that creeps in when I tumble on

empty grey sidewalks,

or that settles down

like dust

on faded ink of half-filled notebooks.

Teach me how to befriend,

how to make it a part of the skin,

the solitude

of disoriented moments

that exists deeper

than the slow rush of blood

amidst weary veins and black charred bones.

Write me a song.

Make those moments, the life which was

always ours,

an interesting piece of play..

a little more perpetual than the

the lies, the cries,

the people, the puppets, the hatred, the agony,

the miserable nights, the forced smiles,

the only me and the only you.

_________

Paused at Howra bridge, Kolkata