Another Day,

Young girl, quite middle aged and an almost teenager, they have given me names and ages and then they try to label me. Well, my dear woman calls me whatever she pleases. I have my sisters living inside other women too, but for now they believe I am the most superior, as I never let loose of my urges. Control and patience, are the greatest of virtues, especially when you have needs to devour and consume. There are days when I have to starve myself because I know the vessel is not ready. So I let her stay normal and go on with the things that all these beings around her do.
I will tell you what all I love and then maybe you can tell me your passions too?

Another morning and another day haunts by my bedside. I know there is a lot to be done, lot of plans to be made, lots of directions to be followed but I don't feel right inside. This needs to be slept off and I need to feel better. Less time, more stress, everything is organized and I need to follow my routine. Given how lenient I have been on myself for past five days, I need to catch up.Though very strangely I feel like I crave something, hungry and thirsty, I should probably go and eat something. Everything is so confusing.

So, out of all the things I love, I desire most the blood. I know my sisters will think of it as something too common, but when we get together for feasting, it is more than just  a delicacy. Though it has been decades since our last get together. Try hitting a fat vein with a sharp blade, its bursting and the shower of blood all over the face, like a full pipe cut open..ah! We all have enjoyed such indulgences, haven't we? But the times have changed, and we no longer have the power to channelize these urges onto other beings, so I let my vessel cut herself. I know she likes it, I make her like it.

Its like this bed is clenching me with its finger nails and the air around is disturbing. I am beginning to hear sounds again, this time its that of a nail being dragged on a glass sheet. The screechy and terrible sound of a murder, a suicide and a surrender. That is what it is beginning to sound like. I am trying to put on a music but its failing. I have been regular with medications and I have been busy with work, the treatment should work. But instead its fading into thin air. Air, I cannot breathe. I need to do something, and what is this urge?

So, what was I talking about? Ah! Whenever I feel her cutting, it is so wonderful. The pleasure of that cold metal making it way slowly and sharply into her skin, and the texture making way to my passions. The deeper she cuts, the better i tend to feel, so I make sure she follows the routine. But what I detest are the men around her. They tell her to change and dress, they also ask her to strip and surrender. Had she been honest to me, I would have devoured them and drank their blood. A fulfilling meal, quenching the thirst. But understanding from what my sisters tell me, these vessels are always weak.

How can this return all of a sudden? I hid my blades, I followed the procedure and I even take medications. They said the vices would go away and the craving will stop.. Probably I am untreatable. No, this is nothing more than just my head. I can control it, temper it. This stopped, I stopped..she stopped. Who she? Fuck. I don't want to lose it again, but the heat is over powering. Like I decide, a plan. Get married in three years kid in fourth and more after. Just today maybe I need to resist all over again.

How foolish are these meat suits, they call us diseases. Lying to each other and making up worlds of cardboards and colored sheets. Me? I know her the best, I know she is tired and after all there is no meaning. But in our world she will be celebrated, after all the chains that were tied to her soul, her breakage will be an occasion  And I will sing.

I guess I will break down if I don't do it. One last time. Just once again, I know where the blades are and I know I will manage fast enough. I need to feel. Once.

Ahh a meal, after a very very long time. Lets indulge, because she will cut deep today. Deeper than ever, as she knows I am hungry and I wont be fed with just few drops. And her flesh will surrender today after the feeding. Because it really will be the last time today As for me, I will live on..

Words.

Poetry, it has been a solace, confrontation, confession and an escape.

I started writing poetry when I was 12. My first poem was a birthday wish for a friend's mother. And since there has been no stopping, as I cannot imagine myself devoid of poetry in my life. During the initial years I wrote voraciously, producing around two three poems a day, and when I look at them now I see the long way I have come, and how different I have become. Looking back at your own work is an amazing experience for a writer, because more than anything, it has a reflection of your forgotten self. How sensitive you were to some particular things, and how susceptible young age makes you. The words were different, inspirations varied from music to plants, and sometimes I feel, I was a better writer then because my heart ached and smiled very easily and effectively. But the change through these years has been for better, because despite the alterations and additions, words never cease to amaze me, be it mine or someone else's. Meaning of words and their emotional quality is different when you are a writer, the echoes and sounds they make in your heart and mind are louder and their effects are deeper. Experience of emotions becomes better once you have written them down or you see them written by some other person.
I, as a person would have not been the same at all had it not been for poetry. There were nights I felt disturbed and all I would want to do was hold a pen and write, maybe scribble something or the other. Just look at the wall, or a window in the opposite building and hallucinate either painful or exciting events. Poetry makes us honest, because it is indirect. Though for earlier writers it served greater purposes, but like any other fictional work, a piece of art/poetry is a reflection of the artist/writers mind and heart. But because you do not feel the necessity to elaborate a line after its inception, takes off a lot of burden. Like here:

"The low, loathsome
The hideous, atrocious,
The mad, insane,
The unmasked, accurate,
Eyes behind glasses, glasses inside minds, minds trapped in cages
Cages made of shrieks, shrieks from innocence
Innocence of the vulnerable, vulnerable and fragile
Fragile is their sanity"

Because of the honesty of escape that poetry provides, it takes away the responsibility of explaining my disturbed state at this time. What only seen are the words, without a context and conclusion. Sometimes, you can be foolish, talk about love like a little child and not feel ashamed, because you have the opportunity to hide behind the persona of the narrator and express your foolishness. Because maybe that is how love makes you feel sometimes:

Fly with me, my lover.

Hold my hand and entangle your fingers with mine.

Into the fields of love and passion, bathing in the river

The cold water brings us closer. We will run around and towards the horizon.

Let's fly. Like you and I dreamt as kids.

When the hindrances were jokes, and destinations a bicycle ride away.

Take your shoes off. I will take mine too. We'll feel the grass softly

Writing  little tales underneath. Endings we shall give.

The sunshine so bright will not hurt. Lying and staring at the sky.

Drawing pictures, writing words and making music

We will live happily ever after.

I find myself incapable of expressing so freely in prose and I highly appreciate those who can. It is commendable how they manage to expose their soul with careful wordplay, despite being elaborative. Maybe with time I too will learn to mold myself in that form. But until then, I highly enjoy this freedom and this process, where I manage to open up completely. From deep secrets to simple and serious issues that bother me. It has been therapeutic and sometimes I like keeping them secret and not share, maybe because they are too exposing, and then like any other writer, I form a relationship with those specific pieces, where I courageously penned down my heart. Shayari, is one of the forms that I absolutely love, and sometimes regret not being expressive enough in my mother tongue. And here is one of the songs I adore:

Koi yeh kaise bataye ki woh tanha kyo hai
Woh jo apna tha, wohi kisi aur ka kyon hai
Yehi duniya hai toh phir aisi yeh duniya kyon hai
Yehi hota hain toh, aakhir yeh hota kyon hai?

It is amazing and almost mesmerizing, the effect of words, the magnitude through which they can pierce and heal you, make you pleasant and sad, without them my being would be incomplete, and if I could spend my life working on them and their usage, molding them into living creatures who have a life their own, my existence would a successful one.

"I have hated the words and 

I have loved them, and

I hope I have made them right."

Why Try to Change Me Now.

In the midst of building a castle, you kissed a brick.
and placed it right where it belonged. You kept building
The castle of your dreams and hopes. Kept laying bricks over
The one marked with your lips. Soon, you poured all the cement
All over. You hid it further, maybe not intentionally. But you
Kept on building, and continued hiding. The castle was half-way
When you decided to see it again.

In the rubble of your destructed and demolished castle.
You remember being their clown, they still wonder, laugh
And frown. But you thought you knew where you laid it.
You wait now, for the discovery, or maybe a repercussion
Of your forgetful self. Its lost now, the one you kissed during
Your castle. Neither the brick, not the castle stands now.
So much for a dreamy happiness and a piece of your heart.

"I have always loved you, and will do till the moon turns
Upside down, and don't you remember, I was always your clown?
I am sorry I forgot where I placed you in the fumes and
Smoke of these dreams and hopes. But let me answer,
Why try to change me now?"
On a sheet of my metal you etched these lines, near the ruin
So whenever they come to visit, they read.

Abandoning your Utopia, you went to a silent place.
Accusing and abusing your intentions, because you knew.
Right where it was, just beside the foundation of the dome
And underneath  a peace of cloth, that you slipped for remembrance.
But don't you remember now, you never wanted
Neither the castle, nor the kiss. So on your way home
You thought you 'd break it all down, abandon and find another reason.

Women Who Run with the Wolves.

Liberation.
The need for liberation, liberation of women and the plight of feminism. Everyday we read about how much a woman suffers, while we sit here arguing over and over again about all the things we can do and we might do. And then I look at girls around me, trying SO hard to fit in and achieve the unrealistic image of what an 'acceptable' woman is. Lose weight, work at home, be polite, meek, 'sweet', delicate and easily tamable. I realize that these things are nowhere near the greater issues regarding women, but it is these girls who are the face of our generation. Taught to be judgmental of sexual emancipation, they are afraid of liberation. Seek comfort and settle down as a beautiful pet. And then teach your children the same, ah the vicious cycle.

Phew!
FEW of the things I think about every other day, few of the questions I ask myself everywhere I go and on every page I read. Be it that of Althuser or Beauvoir, Cixous or Spivak, the uselessness of their words and the sheer minute affect of their lengthy essays fail to enchant me. And then I think. I think of how did they ever manage to change anything, the elitist group of scholars living amongst the geniuses of Sartre and Godwin. Maybe their words initiated a movement and maybe through them step by step this world has been becoming a better place. But then I look at myself, and I understand liberation (in terms of being a woman). My words here now, might sound very Romantic and Modern, but I believe in subjectivity. The ramblings in my head about existentialist arguments and insignificance of greatness, might never end. And maybe they will keep on getting worse, and the little steps I take to change my life will have repercussions much later. There are several dissatisfaction, but along with them are things that make sense. And one them are the people around me.
I go to college, study and binge, and then comes the most important part of my day, when I sit with my women and talk. We speak, speak our minds and object each other, question ourselves and never come to a conclusion. So we meet again and talk more, it has started to become a ritual and the most talked about topic is, sex. We share experiences and understand minds. We talk of Freud and the loserish men we have had, and also we understand sex through psychology. Our conversations might sound foolish and immature to many, in fact more than anything we simply discuss our experiences. How we like sex, and how do we feel about it. Is that insignificant or is it a bit abnormal? We A LOT of times end being an amusement and a great source of entertainment to the people around us (as we can barely keep our volumes down) and the Nescafe guy. But I confess, being in a group of women, free women, is liberating. I look at us and think of Mona Lisa Smile, but with a group of women happily chatting away their deepest fantasies and exciting moments. And then I think of Dead Poets Society, instead of a cave, sitting around openly in the washed off sunlight of a hot afternoon and paying as little attention as we can to time. It has started seeming rather natural to us, and we have stopped seeing it as out of the ordinary or unusual, though it began slowly and we still have some who are too confused and concerned to open completely, but the simplest act of participating is wonderful enough.
Me and my best friend, have always been like this, we never gave a rat's ass to the opinions of men. Which often gave us a wounded public image, but who ever cared about that, and our companionship has been the strongest bond ever since. But luckily, the number of people I see liberating step by step is amazing. We might not see it or don't comprehend it completely, but the evenings when we sit with little drinks beside, and open up, we are marking ourselves in time. I know the efforts are ant-ish in comparison to what really needs to be done for women liberation, but until I get involved in something big, this satisfies me. So, we are leaving a mark in history. I know many of us will get married and settle down for happiness, but what else I know for sure is that when these days will be looked back, it will be with amazement. Ten years down the line, when the people and world around us would have changed, our priorities would have been altered, it is these moments of freedom that we will run back to in our minds and remind ourselves of that time when we lost control and spoke. Spoke like free women. Generations can't be changed in days or weeks, it is these instances that will alter our lives. When we will be raising kids of our own, we will make them smell the freshness of liberty and freedom. Because I know what we experience as women in those meetings, is changing us and making us explore ourselves for better.
We might not be running completely amok, but baby steps..and we will get there. But until then we still are..
Women who run with the Wolves.

Will you.

Will you cease to please if I didn't smile long enough
And will you entwine your finger with mine if we sat here, all night.

Nobody suspected the stories I told, neither did I lie
But will you for once, not ask questions and search outside.

Will you stop laying the bricks, if I told I was never to walk that path
And will you undress when I dim the lights and increase the sound.

Nobody sat on the porch for coffee. The fence was too beautiful
The lawn laid out beautifully for you to sit, think and inspire.

Will you answer the greatest of questions, and sleep through your trivialities
And will you force yourself through days because tenderness was a failure.

Nobody thought less, like you they kept solving the puzzle.
But will you, not speak, not ask and not get stuck on the puzzle.

Will you, stand like this for ever with smiles and no hands to hold
And will you make a house of sheets, music and words, and live there forever.

Silly Temptations.

FOCUS.
I tell myself, continuously  There are ways in which things are done, a path I have set out for them to follow and a set of rules they should follow. There are things and emotions I have decided are weak, and there are relationships I have dismissed and kept aside and let better things take center. 'Better things', my ambitions, my expectations. I tell myself what a waste of time it is: Conversations, telling and asking, talking and speaking to understand the other person. Someone new (I very specifically mean 'men' here, otherwise I love conversations), you make them old and then they stay. They give you a strange happiness, you feel peace and you cherish them. But then the threat comes along. You meet someone, talk to them, you follow your path, you show them what you want them to see and slowly you start deviating. I stood then and talked to myself, useless relationships, useless burdens, wait and talk..wait to talk and then waste time. I have so much to do, I cannot spend time on building something all over again and then watch it burn. I distance myself and seek comfort.
Something happened this afternoon. I saw our pictures again, and that was foolish. I had told myself not to do that again, and was convinced of its meaninglessness. I didn't want to see myself indulging in useless and absolutely irrelevant thoughts or relationships. And then I find comfort some other place, in an ex-lover and a present friend (a little more actually). We share that peace I talked about, we talk, but not always. I show him everything that is new, and he shows me his new passions. We talk, we laugh and go to sleep. I love that. I am here for him, and he knows. So, I find a comfort in him and can spend my life with that. But then these other people and men around, never stop piling up. My wall, it doesn't remain very strong. I have someone to help with that too. I have my strength in my brothers, my pillars on which I lean on from the smallest scratch to the biggest disaster.
So, I wonder sometimes. Why this need? I found someone, someone else. And its frustrating  my path, is not being followed and my rules, they are breaking bit by bit. Those rules are there for a reason, so that I remain focused  and these stupid deviations don't consume time. I keep telling myself about what I expect and what I should be doing. And like House says, "You cannot be perfect at your work, if you have a happy family waiting at home." But its so tempting, this bait of Love and Other Drugs. The lovers around how, the sick happiness and all the things they do. It is very guiltily tempting. Think of being spooned, that's cute isn't it. The warmth of falling asleep like that, I actually fell asleep dreaming of that. Think of the laziness you can share with someone, and the benefits of having a companion to go with you everywhere. Getting food cooked for you, and then making love. Dry spell being a non-existent phenomena. If not these conventional things, then the expression of love, the sharing of thoughts and building little cities out of them. Dreaming and thinking and achieving. Artistically involved with someone you love, you can communicate yourself effortlessly and feel quenched. The entire idea of a companion.
It IS tempting ISN'T IT? You ponder on these silly temptations sometimes, I will call them my weak days. But then I gather myself thinking, that I'd rather buy another dog than be with a new man. I'd rather sleep alone, than to wake up to answer someone and I'd rather romance Gramsci and Hemingway instead of a parasitic companion who would cling to me, and seek repairing. I'd be happier with drugs and my woman, than with lots of love. And I can spend decades abusing the human kind and over ratedness of relationships with her, than stay awake at nights to blabber about how my day was over and over and over again. I'd rather trip alone and find my brothers to help, than keep leaning on to a man who will probably criticize me for carelessness. I'd rather find my comfort of a lifetime in my friend (a lil more than that) and innocent marriage pacts. And as for going EVERYwhere, I have lots of girlfriends to help me with that, and guide me along every twist and turn.
So, I FOCUS.
And I feel happy. Again. 

Naive.

Naive, so naive, my naivety fell right on her feet.
It kissed her toes and  smelled her ankles. My naivety pushed me in love
And had me begging for a blessing. I took her hand asked, asked and prayed
For love, she painted her face and gave me love. She held my hand and
Took me to places, and then she fed me sweets, happily naive as I was I kept falling.

So we came back, and she still played along.I kept holding her hand
Afraid that she might let it go. And so she did, she let it go and let me get lost.
I kept running and looking in places, places I remembered, places that smelled like her
But failure that I was, I couldn't see. She had rubbed the paint off. I never knew her.
She removed all colors and shed all clothes. And she had no reason.

My naivety, my love, her betrayals and her lies. I sowed them bit by bit
Fragment by fragment on my skin, passing the needle through little pores and
Letting drops of blood add colour. I had taken her skin and covered myself with it
I had taken my naivety and dressed her skin with it. And I walked in a room
Full of people. And they fell in love, I have never been loved so much.

I learned how to see and sing, and I learned how to write and cry. I talked to her often
And she wept very often, and never learned how to go. I dance with the clothes
On, and go many other places. So, in her knees my naivety lies and in my hands
Her lies. We walk together seldom and talk of tales. I remind her of that afternoon
When she left me with sweets and washed off paint.

The Summer Afternoon.

A hot summer afternoon stares at me through the door, bit by bit i feel it
Slowly creeping in and moving towards my body. The heat, the moist existence
Approaches me stealthy. Lying on the cotton sheets crumbled with my
Twists and turns, the restlessness and anxiety of this weather. Soon, i feel
the warmest touch on my neck, and it soon permeates my body.
I sense it travelling to my head, and i rustle up my hair, slowly the heat moves down
Lower to my eyes, and I lazily close them half. Running my fingers from my bosom
To my lips, I feel this heat growing rising within me. Making drops of sweat
Glisten and slip through my contours, I shake to drop it off. But it goes lower
Lower to my neck. The fan is too slow, and I hear its wings struggling to cool me down.
But i feel possessed, and the loneliness makes me careless. I slip out of my shirt
And move further into the sheets. Drops of sweat move further and deeper
Touching every pore and leaving a taste behind. My hand hurriedly tries to wipe it
Before it reaches my chest. Another failure, and further excited I move swiftly
Amongst the soft sheets, pressing my breasts towards the mattress and letting it hurt.
I run my hands through my damp hair and grab them tightly to release a moan.
Oh! This heat is excruciating, I stare up at the fan, it moves no faster. So I shed
Every piece and leave the bed unsatiated. Stepping out of the room, the heat follows me.
I see it teasing me from the back, and playing on my naked skin. I try and brush it off
But it's stubborn. So I turn the water on and step under the cold shower. The water
Amalgamates with the beads of sweat and travel through the shyest places.
I feel it taking in some heat and then leaving some more. I touch every where
Trying to get rid of this warm fierceness, but it gets stronger within me. I move my
Hands faster and try to relieve myself of this misery. But its taking over, I hear the water
Falling down and asking me to give in. So, I do. I give into the heat and surrender my passions
To it. I feel where it was  reigning and all the places it hid. The wetness becomes one with the warmth
It travels all over once again. And leaves me. The hot summer afternoon exits through the door,
And leaves me standing. Under the cool water, celebrating a turmoil, so pleasant and assuring.