Filthy Hands

My bare hands and I,
we leave prints around ,
One is the dot, the sun's eclipse spot.
another a cross mark on the ground.

I cut my fingers on barbed wire,
have burnt fate's lines in the fire,
and then dyed them in black or red,
for graffiti or simply bled.
bled from self,sometimes of other
and to cleanse them have I never bothered.

The earth in nails from the potters wheel
and the glass from mosaic on the walls
embedded in souls of my palms

like time frozen in instance of build

and the places where they have crawled.

They have folded themselves in
contemplation.
what  is thought and prayer at times.
They have held back in consideration

at others they have crossed the line.

They have given in dread of mistrust
and taken by a sincere thrust.
they have rested on a restless heart
and then stopped it in a clench  of fist
they have rubbed a temple in subdued thought
and then coaxed it to not resist.

they have held a warm body,cold and clinical

they have traced passion on beautiful forms

and have synchronized with tidal storms

cured the cold faces with their warmth,

in either my desire or their want

they have held and let go not for long.

fidgety devils in indecision

gods in rights of their precision.

my filthy hand will wash off one another.
my filthy hands will wash off one another.

Indiscretions and Indifferences of Withdrawal (Confessions of a caffeine addict in rehab)Part I

First week:

Why take subterfuge in sanity when you know you are extraordinaire and if the rest label it as some kind of an anomaly you need not care.

Now, I am aware of my bodies ability to adapt to the barrels of coffee that I would glut myself with indulgently as I would go through the hum drum of my life. What I was not aware of was the tendency of my body to adapt to caffeine as an endocrine secretion rather than an artificial substrate that tampers to a degree with the metabolism and hyper functioning of it.
 Caffeine metabolism and the adversities associated with it I would neglect because in philosophy I am more of a fatalist and a cynic when it comes to prophesying . The school of thought that gives no thought to the criteria lethal existence because death is inevitable or as the less informed commoners would spell it out as YOLO.

Bah!!

So if the thought of the  impending doom being accelerated was not a concern ,what was it?  One may question.Well, you could say it was a very Rise of the Dark Knight situation where in the spirit of the human soul to survive in the face of adversity struck and struck me hard.

I never thought it was a confession to make and forget me Father but I have not sinned in having a spoonful of heavens delightful brown earthy fruit in my cup.Only if I am to be accused of something then let it be the unending need for the holy spirit that pours from filter kettles into my mouth wide open.Aah, the sin of gluttony...umm ..no, lust perhaps.

I was made to realize by none other than the ghost of my present that I being one of these people who is a fatalist in philosophy but a survivalist in action is challenging her own survival by being a heavily dependent piece of machinery that would die the day it's fuel would cease to be. Worse would die if stranded on an island(the ghost of my presents is brilliant at throwing at me convincing logical arguments especially when they cater to the cynic in me)Truth be told after having watched Cast Away at the age of five ,it has been one of my most dreaded nightmares.I realized that bringing up a coffee plantation with salt water to irrigate the fields in the sand did not seem like a viable solution and the osmosis of sea water on such a large scale is well impractical.

So, what choice do I have? I am extraordinaire in my capability to absorb caffeine as my own but I am in all my capacity bound by the human restriction of not being able to produce it through hormonal secretion induced or natural.

Hence the ghost of my present talked into me sense. The worse part about interacting with the ghost of my present was the fact that it made its argument inscrutable by denying me the much needed cup of coffee while it talked to me. That's when I knew the conclusion was watertight. I had to quit otherwise the little voices in my head would die.

In the first week of my abstinence, I feel dead, I feel like I am the ghost of my past. I feel hungry all the time, I have fallen sick and feel drowsy and feeble and fragile and bleak.I walk through the streets avoiding the sight of cafes and anything close to the reminder of my elixir turned poison.
The lesson to be taken from the indiscretions and the feigned indifference is:

If I can do it, so can you.For updates on the same, keep reading.

Lamenting(part III)

Of all the things I undo,
and undo as knotted strings,
I have learnt to fret not
but rue the misgivings,
of a woman so foolish in love,
or a man so blind in logic
 so staunch in pride
that vulnerability sheers to tragic
and to have them both in one,
fragile glass like frame,
both daunting at the surface,
both extremes in the same.

Of all the things I rue,
I rue one not my own,
such object of a life,
misplaced in misfortune,
I  could feel the two spirits in me,
I wonder if he had one,
What flames does it take
 for the soul to twist and turn,
be such as a coil of a weak alloy
be such as the vapours of
a substance smoked to dry.

Of all the things I give up,
I give into this one rue,(I hoped forgetting was brisk)
oblivion never found my doorstep,
it was in haste to find you. (easier to find stone obelisks)
Of all the things I love,
I wonder what is my passion,
An unnatural borne progression,
Epicene in it's nature,
for you were dead I now know,
 the two spirits in hate I harbour.

The sea of Okhotsk....I am the island.

Navigation through this sea is almost impossible in the winters.I am the island that stands frozen midst the ice.
everything around me is the white sheet that covers the bubbling life beneath them. stranded? Not so, here by    the desire to be unpossessed. . Claims to me are numerous yet I am abandoned, do I regret?

I stand here in between grandiose and puny . Large land lost in it's own vastness is one of my my neighbors, mighty in nature and expansive like an ocean of land, tumultuous in endowments but laid back by choice, scattered in it's ravished and pristine landscapes, fertile yet barren, still so vast.
Puny, the little dots of lands, overflowing , virtual life, swinging in schedules,so much that each second gone is on the pulses of the living who tick like robotic devices.A vigor that would send a floating feather from one end to the other shore over the mechanized tracks, and the feather would fade in a whimper as it is swooped by the wind that entails the machine in motion.

Both on the map, one by the virtue of it's natural endowments and other by the virtue of their proliferation. I stand devoid of any. Most complete in my existence ,off the radar, off the map, a safe haven only visited by stranded boatmen and curious tourists. Uninhabited, untouched, utopia in it's solitude. Left alone, sustaining life on it's own. The sanctuary of all that lives in neither extremes, that knows the tales of both , that rest with none.
An island I am...an Island I'll be, not in the remotest but midst life, cut off from the worlds by sheets of ice. Cold ,pale ice that would thin on the crust and then melt into the Sea of Okhotsk.I'll stand their with all my wonders intact , visit me perhaps, I do not ask of you to stay.Please do not stay.For now, the sea is frozen.

Testing the waters.

I throw caution to the wind if it is an impulse. I am enslaved by my whims that are masters of their own will, so much that I have started thinking of an evil twin as an answer to all my inexplicable conducts. I admit I have always wanted to ride my own wave and do a bit of a jig in a crowded street with the abandon of a fakir. I resolve not to think much and drop my guards when I need to.I fight to survive the repercussions, but have I hit back with the ruthlessness that I posses in resolve?

That perhaps alters the whole essence of my being. I now test the waters before I take a dive. They say it's a realist's approach, with all due respect to the realists, I do not think I fall on their side of the line.There is another way of following the instinct and going for the nosedive. It 'is' a 'nosedive' and going by how the world should be and how the last pieces of idealism can actually put it in sync with the theories that it holds high. That is a dreamers way.

An idealist  survives all such nosedives and even if the waters are choppy , sinking should be a temporary state of reality catching up, the idealist resurfaces from troubled waters and even makes a way back to the shore.It requires a not so ideal way of testing the waters and even if they seem deviated from the ideal temperature ,take the plunge. Just as caution is no way to live, ideal or real,surrender is no way to survive. Convenience and inconvenience, they are relative to the situation per se. Sometimes drowning is more convenient than staying afloat,hence they are no perimeters of  determining the state of my existence.

 If I live on and on its impractically ideal, If I survive and live on , its induced idealism but if  I take to being real, It wont be either ,survival or living. It's a little too dead to be experienced, the state of staying still at the shore. .

I took the plunge, I was asphyxiated , Has no idealist ever heard of a revival ? It is survival with regrets drowned.I learnt after I did sink. 

Scars

A wound is fatal when it heals from the surface but in roots develops a septic that stems from being infested. When external elements invade it before it sealed it's own.  While some ooze , others dry, fresh beyond the first layer and pain seething inside.  Now the clot and the cicatrices are the apparent signs of healing and time remains no caliper to measure the extent. No external remedy can heal it, it would not be soaked in now. The wound has become immune to remedy by sewing itself close from the skin. The scar will have to be broken again, rather it should be cut. The shrapnel that had twitched itself within will have to be pulled by a healing force and uprooted, it may lead to a swell of blood but to drain the malice is the only way to heal. Instantaneous but sharp pain removes it's chronic counterpart. Scars do not always point to healing. Do they?

The Love of the pressed flowers and the creation from a carnage.

December has quietly seeped into my life,
and such a sordid sourness has taken its space between us,
and all seems frigid, all seems struck by the numbness, 
that touches my cold fingers as I reach out.

Living in a subtropical region, I should look forward to the sweet short winters that last barely a quarter of the year, but the frost is not just outside it manages to creek in and the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness starts eating it's way into all warmth and hope. The terrains inside become so cold, that if you haven't been to those lands it might just become hard to justify them to you. It's like the poles, only more vast and more lost and cut off.

I have often wished to save the summers or it's vibrant sister spring in a jar, put in the safe corner of  the corner most wooden cupboard so that the winter does not ravish it like all things that make the slightest contact with it, and so I did.
The pebbles from the bedrock of the river Tavi brought back from a short summer jaunt, or the seasonal herbs that sprout in the February fervour.Then there are flowers, blossoms that have fallen off after a short lived romance with the spring breeze. To soak in the sunshine I opened the cupboard the other day, and took out these priced possessions, gathering some optimism when I needed it the most.The pebbles round and smooth took me back to the stream with it's deep grey waters,white foam swimming atop, It felt good.The herbs, (I admit it was not jus herbs but herbs soaked in a bit of Calendula essence)  comforting and lingering scents swarmed my nasal tract, revived a bit of hope.

I skimmed through the coarse pages of hand made diaries looking for the flowers that I had preserved in their realms, Some flaked petals fell down , before they could touch the floor, I sat down in a reflex trying to catch hold of them. As I gathered them I felt something eerily wrong, the petals that were now strewn, half withered, half faded, did not give me the same joy as the other mementos . It felt rather sad looking at their lamentable state,the winter had seeped in my little wooden cabinet. and become worse.

I ruefully held the last of them in my palms, afraid to fold them. I studied them for some time, thin lines of phloem visible on their surfaces like wrinkles on an old face. That is when it struck me. winter with all it's ruthless and merciless carnage , it's creep like curse was like revival. The blossoms that I had tried to preserve had died indeed and they could serve no purpouse other than arousing nostalgia,that would become a deep depression if there were not an anticipation of the new. Suddenly the transition seemed peaceful and the concept of creation stemming from carnage was demonstrated.

I love the pressed flowers still, memories of every season are worth a keep, but they do not remain with the feel good winter essentials any more. They have their own place. As for hope, it still lives. I can not negotiate enough with winters to call them a pleasant experience but I have accepted them.

I am who I am irrespective of what I am to you.

I may be your daughter, your sister, your better half, your friend, a stranger, an acquaintance. I do not care. You see me as the material entity and then label me as the world would see me or as you would want the world to associate me with yourself.. You create a shell around me, the kind that is made of my virtues and vice, again defining my innate qualities from a perspective that could never come out of the shallowness of it's own creator. I am not a slave of  the nous or the instinct that you possess,. why then the ramifications of my eccentricity seem like betrayals to your understanding ? 

I do not owe, I have not obliged.I have only been in the process that has been existent for years, much like you, a part of a mechanism that's incessant and as indispensable. A social fabric that is formed from the threads of a pseudo spiritual stitch. Much tattered by inferences that like barbed wires have entangled it and then modified it leaving holes and patches that have loose ends with no binding forces. Within this fabric there lies the weave spun by the more intricate and meaningful standards of social dependence and nature's laws but why synthesize the essence that is only binding by adding the catalyzing by products of skewed intellectualism and the free radicals of imbalanced emotions.I s covering the outer form not enough that now you want to tether even the spirit of it to this synthetic.

I refuse , I rebel, I differ and I break the  frailness of  the concocted and tear out the fabric caring not to disperse the thread that matters. It still holds the values that were before they got corrupted by the versions.
I am still pure, still unadulterated.'Resilient'.I am who I am.