The Pandemic, of writing

I think people who had abandoned writing across the world would have picked it up by now. Here's me trying to catch up with them. And 'writing' is going to be pissed with me for not doting on it. Sorry! What can I say!

Social distancing seems to be just my sort of thing. I have a good mind to call many many people and tell them 'Hey, you know we are supposed to be doing social distancing correct? Which means we don't call or text'. That does not make a lot of sense, announcing to individuals on a call that I do not want to be bothered. That's a lot of work in itself. I know I am not making sense. There's something very medieval-type-romantic about not making sense. About writing completely narcissistic prose about nothing at all. And no I am not high. I am just re-discovering the virtues of solitude.

While the pandemic is filling up blog pages exponentially, there, I did my bit

Education

I wrote when I was falling in love. When any amount of reasoning could not prevent me from falling in love. There are bits of you which I couldn't let go. There are bits of you I didn't want around. I am sure, it would have been the same vice versa. Oh, wait! I am not so sure anymore. There probably weren't any bits of me you didn't want around.

Even as we part, I should tell that what we had for each other was heart-wrenchingly beautiful. But the heart-wrenchingly beautiful parts were not enough, we knew. These parts were some glue, but not the right glue. 

She died? Who is she?

She didn’t have to die,

Did she? She did!

You killed her!

She doesn’t want to liken herself to the phoenix,

She doesn’t like clichés,

She wants people to know she has come back to life,

Hush! Don’t mention the phoenix now.

She wants to convey the news of her rebirth in subtler words,

She is trying but she can’t, yet.

She wants to put it in words you’d read and like,

She thinks you’d read this,

She wants you to know she thinks so much,

She wants you to know she does THINK,

She intends to make up for the years of death,

Months of death maybe,

She isn’t sure,

She loses track of time when she dies,

Not really her fault.

She wants to tell the world how you killed her,

She thinks it matters,

Though I tried convincing her it doesn’t.

She wants to tell the world who she is,

The obnoxious narcissist that she is!

She thinks she should be given a chance,

After all, she might die again.

She’s the rambler in me,

She comes to life when you forget I exist,

She dies when you remember,

She makes me write,

Kill her soon, please!

Sorry I'm sane.

What if sanity is a handicap, a disease that afflicts most of us and in insanity lay our true potential.

What if sanity is merely the incapacity to see beyond the confines of human cognition, to see beyond what is considered normalcy. After all, normalcy is arbitrary. 

Child marriage is madness now, lesbianism was madness then. Someday our definitions of sanity would be inclusive of today's insanity

When madness sets in, is there a way back to hold oneself from it? Do they give in to the madness, unable to bear the pain and monotony sanity comes with? Did they have a voice telling them 'don't dare go there, for, there lies insanity'? Why do I think 'giving in' is beautiful? 

Trite

Was it music,
Was it noise?
Was I deceiving,
Was I deceived?
Did I intrigue you,
Was I intrigued?
Was it love,
Was it lust,
Was it both,
Was it neither?
Did you touch,
Did you punish?
Did I touch,
Did I pretend?
Did I care,
Was I not bothered?
Was it her,
Was it him?
Was it wine,
Was it pain?
Did we reconcile,
Did we drift apart?
Did I kill you,
Did you kill us?
Did you live,
Did you die?
Was I deluded or
Was I deluded?

Evanescence

A shade of dependence,
A layer of belligerence,
A tad less love or lust,
A redundant moment of silence,
An elfin sting of acrid honesty,
A fleck more of dishonesty,
An inadvertent burp of curiosity,
A tad more love,
Could tip the balance,
Today and just today,
When you are incognisant of the unrest,
In you and me.

Don't wake up

Still lost
Staring at the suns that the sun wouldn't let you look at,
At the patterns they make,
And what they mean to you.
Still lost
In the world the patterns take you to,
In familiarising yourself with these constellations,
Still lost in the joy of being a speck in the universe.

Still lost in the ups and downs,
Of those compressions and rarefactions,
Lost in the math of these waves,
Rejoicing in the synchrony
Between your mind and the composer's.

Still lost
In the hues the boring blue sky breaks into every evening,
The hues the clouds absorb and disperse,
The hues that your busy polluted city refuses to appreciate,
The hues that light up the horizon.

When would you realise you lost me?