Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He kept staring at words, and words at him. They sat in front of each other, without any movement, they kept still as if a slight movement will cause the bombs explode held between them by the tip of the nib kept upon that white blank sheet and leave a trail of bloodied stain that would scream of its innocence out of black and blue dots. They feared devastation. They sat motionless, staring into each other, as if lovers, who out of too much love feels reluctant to touch fearing being melt by a single touch Or as if enemies, who at sudden confrontation goes numb on whether to shoot or to hide. They kept still, very careful, not to let go a single glance, eyes into each other as looking into own in front of mirror minutely noticing small fiber like nerves inside, as if they might be carrying some secret clue to bring one down. They kept staring and for long time, till there were tears wetting their eyelashes. Then there were thousands of them staring at each other through image in every drop and the number grew and continuously, till they could not see each other but only images, floating in dark space, whole night.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Paradox!

Paradox!

Thirsty

One walks miles, and thousands

Arrives, only to fear being drowned at a single touch of droplet

Plight

One cries for salvation, and many

Saved, one feels lost of pleasures endured at the backdrop of pain

Sad

One appears lost beneath clouds grey, gloomy

Happy, one remembers silently being drenched in tears at midnight

Lost

One looks for a walkway amidst dark, and none

Trekked out and about, one carves for smell of wild grass, bits and pieces still lying upon sleeve

Blind

One being unable to see what lies around, might be

Eyes, they miss the charisma of imagination at times that shows, and beyond

Unknown

One remains unheard, unseen like stars, distant-hidden twinkles

Known, stacked behind cages, flames diminished, to fake one must and glitters abode

Wounds

One stitches it in solitude, shivering, bloodied

Healed, one touches the marks, in hope to find it little ajar, still…

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 1/12/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer –

“Some bonds, connects us as if to keep us alive, to bring out of us what we could not ever on our own. Like bonds hidden, unseen or even unknown to us for most parts yet working all the time like force of gravitation. Keeping us at the edge, yet keeping our momentum intact. For such bonds are so strong and macro, we largely miss out to even recognize it, even to have a thought of it most of time it skips our visuals, deceives our intelligence, belies to our thoughts and yet when we finally get caught in mirage of imaginations even momentarily we feel it as we feel universe while laying down beneath a star-studded sky in a rather dark nights. Though unlike force of gravitation, these might not have any name, any guise to get a reorganization but they are always at work, in conscious or subconscious, making us feel safe and warm, something similar to when we think of bright sun in the middle of a cold day.

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He looked at his freshly washed finger nails of his hand, he liked them particularly for being kind of attractive, long, pink, smooth as he touched them he felt kind of kinky about them. He felt to lick them touch them all over his body, for it felt kind of famine part, soft and seductive. He often praised his hand-nails while disguised nails of his feet, for they were dirty, in bad shape and for sure a turn-off. He could not even masturbate if his legs were spread in front of him and nails looked upon as if an unclean aged old neighbor peeking through window of neighborhood wall for a chat he could never connect to, like rising prices of vegetables, for what did it matter when they could kill a turkey in their backyard and have a feast for no price. He hated it specifically. He hated those nails of his leg-fingers more than anything at that moment.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“No more a fantasy, a reality, a dream, a nightmare, I saw a shadow walking past me and i felt...strange...I thought to ask it for a light or just to start a random chat, about weather may be or about stores being too crowded today, does it matter anyway, and after all there must be a conversation-as what I thought. But before i could even whisper or later scream out to get attention of that shadow passing by, it was well beyond reach, beyond even sight almost, like that last hint of light by the end of dusk before night embraces it all, sudden as it happened, as always, you see that drop of light, you think of capturing it, you act in a fraction of second clinching your fist, yet what you remain left with is handful of darkness that grows over you by the time you shake it off your palm, as if sands by the beach that finds its way to all over your skin once you think of entering those thriving, waters, full of life walking by, Only to find yourself corrupted to core, drenched in salty moisture, sandy winds, dark skies and a moon hovering atop hoping to be given way by clouds that every now and then abduct it without any hesitation, leaves it in a kind of taint that never goes away, one could even see those tainted marks in broad day-light as that lifeless piece of rock appears before dusk in skies of eastern parts, awaiting for darkness to take over, for there are some lives that breaths well only in the lap of night.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“To scribble, for some a hobby one loves as gardening and watering their flower, for some a duty to be accomplished before being off to bed, for some a journey one travels far and wanders, wonders away only to come back-put it all down of things seen-unseen-heard-unheard, for some a necessity as if to breathe, to feed-to wake-up as to sleep, to some it remains that bitter flavor upon tip of that glass, as if bitter could bring sweetness in the words for someone to be able to read them even and to some it remains a fire-unburnt inside a piece of coal, pressed beneath world, lost beyond space and darkness that rules those stories only to glow and glow brighter in nights that finds them lay burning by the firepot slowly, silently as if cherishing every fraction of it, for that single moment would define them, forever… Indeed!”

Tragedy of Wanderer - Blood!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Blood! An ever strong stimulant to keep one high, for, the worst part with other narcotic is that they fade away sooner or later; leaving you in kind of vague periphery of abyss where you do not know whether you are high or even if could act like one. Blood! Its worthy of trust for it has kept us high for ages now and the pleasure it had endeavored upon has by no means less than a never ending orgasm. Ask them they would swear by it whole-heartedly.  Oh imagine tasting it for once and being in a state of trance forever. A state where you could scream right through torn fleshes, broken bones, scratched veins; of those bodies lying in the open drenched in mud or thrown in forests,  to draw out some more drops for yourself as souvenir. Souvenir, which would remind you of that moment when you had your first encounter with the crisp taste of it and you could never get out of its spell. If by any unfortunate tragedy you slip out of it, how dreadful it would be, you will wake-up being alive and stranded. Stranded on a piece of rock sinking in the heart of huge sea that could bring the worst of fears hidden behind your skull, forcing you to scratch your own nerves, biting out of numb teeth or to tear those drying skin atop veins, veins, one which might be carrying several of drops that you had possessed as souvenirs only to realize you are richer than anyone else, anyone ever can be and in ecstasy you find yourself unable to stop your tongue to lick those little red droplets, to not to let them falling in that horizon of salty blue horizon only to be wasted forever, you must suck them back, suck them as they are not your own but a souvenir, still… “

~ Praveen Parasar

O Moon!

O Moon!

O Moon, dear moon

As you seek your brightest

As I watch you growing and full

My obsession eclipses my passion

Lust takes over my love

For to wait, it has been long

And impatient, I long for you to take over

Darkness that has shadowed me beneath

For ages now, for every passing night

As you add, bits and pieces,

I lose mine, and already a mere thin thread of self

Hanging in ever growing abyss

I await touch of your cold lights

In one such night,

Upon my burning heart

For it has kept me warm for too long

But void grows and like a lost trail of river

That once carried life, desperate, it longs for

Shower of your touches, to be sunk

Beyond depth of deepest of desires

For where I no longer remain me

But to become a mirage of yourself

To inhale you,

I wait to be filled

And unveiled, even if it takes to be killed

By that innocent touch of yours

For as you seek you brightest

My heart burns and even more

For what could inflict pain,

And joy, unparalleled to any, but to wait

For to see you in all your glory,

Full, bright, and in a heavenly lull

Showering your magical moon-light.

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 5/12/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer –

“Drop by drop, melting, he found himself floating in that glass of liquor. There was no fire, yet it felt as if a volcano erupted every time he held that glass and saw through it, it showed him colors, black and blue, green and red, yellow and pink but not until it all faded, so much so that it showed him no more than shades of moments lost, one we often fail to endeavor upon while walking past a field at the arrival of dusk. While the fog steals even our shadows, leaves us at the mercy of winds, which, as if desperate to tell us story, tales of long lost heroics, which children cherished listening over a cup of tea by the fire as the rather old man sat and delivered that tale in all its grandness to make kids believe, yes there was a wolf, that did steal his heart, in one such night and yet he lived and lived long.”

~ Praveen parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“It had been long, ever since he made his palace out of pebbles chosen by the beach-side at the island of solitude. He came out to ensure the walls are ever so strong to carry on with confinement of emotions that ran high and low every now and then, but it must remain inside those walls, was thought when he built it high and wide. For once the noise leaks out you are no more on your own; you are joined by several others, for there are so many looking out, in a never ending search, probably forever.

He found pebbles falling, drowning in their own abyss, their colors losing its sheen, oh how colorful were they, when he chose them carefully walking by beach that fine evening along with young solitary shadow. It was such a joy, youthfulness, that summer carries till late august, before it starts raining and pours itself all over, ruining what had been smiling out till now in all its vigor. What follow are dark gloomy days, beneath clouds, black and grey, mocking over one for being loud and gay. 

He walked some more, looked over walls of his palace, one he built one day while picking pebbles of solitude by the sea-side of life. It was in bad condition; it asked for repair, it complained to him of being an unfair lover, condemned him for being liar. After-all one must take care of what he created out of love. He somehow understood, and walked by keeping his neck down, eyes on ground just in the line of tows, neglecting all the voices those walls, that palace screamed of, for he knew it was going to happen so, he had known it all the while, for a palace of solitude was supposed to be tomb of dead wanderer. What else, he wondered…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 25/11/2014

Addicted to Sadness!

Addicted to sadness

As if one addicted to rise

Only to fall back, and yet again

As if one addicted to be found

Only to be lost, and yet again

As if one addicted to love

Only to be hated, and yet again

Addicted to sadness

As if one addicted to smiles

Only to cry, and yet again

As if one addicted to stare upon

Only to have tears in eyes, and yet again

As if one addicted to hope

Only to be left pitied, and yet again

Addicted to sadness

As if one addicted to warmth

Only to be frozen beneath coldness of time, and yet again

As if one addicted to fly high

Only to be left grounded, dusted, and yet again

As if one addicted to be seen, heard

Only to be left unseen, unheard beneath shadows, noise, and yet again

Addicted to sadness

As if one addicted to keep walking

Only to be chained and yet again

As if one addicted to scream

Only to be left gagged and yet again

As if one addicted to dream

Only to have pieces of self scattered and yet again

Addicted to sadness

As if one addicted to lights

Only to be at peace in darkness and yet again

As if one addicted to silence

Only to have heart sunk in chaos and yet again

Addicted to sadness

As if one addicted to live

Only to die and yet again

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 17/11/2014

Journey!

"It’s a long way down boy, a long way down

For you go north, or you go south

Choose east or west, as you may please

It would not change the fact dear boy

That you have just arrived late

Late, not as if went any wrong way

Neither behind butter-flies, nor behind where angels fly

Oh dear, it was just as if you were slow

But to walk upon a hill, you must not frown

And walk little steps, and hold your back down

Must not let winds push you away, while you ask it to show you the way

Show you the way, you could have asked that little fire-fly

This roamed in dark nights behind a mango tree

A tree, you crossed on your way up and down

It sang you songs, it showed you things unseen

It watched you watch stars whole night and dream

And every morning you woke up to walk again

It followed you silently to another night it seems

And reminded you to hold your eyes steady

For being too delicate, dreams might been drown

Oh! But here you are boy, here comes the flat

You might take a yawn, may keep your back straight

But not more than a moment my boy, no more than a moment

For journey remains too long, and much more pits to fill

You better keep walking, and hold your heart,

Sing it a song, whistle if you will, for

It is long way down dear boy, long way down still."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 10/11/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“There is something poisonous about moonlights in winter, something viciously cruel. As if smiling upon you as you look above, hopeful of being soothed, to feel and touched by its coldness, for it has been too warm whole day amidst all that chorus of life’s hit and misses, you wish to soak yourself in such coldness as a bathtub full of ice, where even slicing out wrist would not let you die so easily and keep you at the edge, in a sort of trance, like a drunkard outside a bar-full of noise, sitting by the street puffing out of his almost burnt out cigarette. And with all such hopes while you look above, sitting alone on the roof, towards moon, you find him smiling but not that usual soft smiles, it is that cruel smile one you find usually in eyes of a trader who offers his cheap drug at double price at night, while you plead for a discount, but he will not, for he knows you must buy and have it, why should he?. You find it poisoning your blood, turning your nerves dark, as if diluting your skin with that darkness around, you find yourself falling into an abyss. You do not find moonlight soothing anymore; you find even a slight touch of it frightening, you just wish to get rid of it.” 

Trembling Shadow!

Trembling hand

Holding a glass of scotch

Like standing numb

Amidst downing sand

Wake-up

Hold still

Do not let it take over

Scream if you must

Cry if you will

Spill blood if you wish

For smell of it would keep you high

And will let you bear the pain

While your nerves get drained

Slowly, silently

Fading away

In darkness

For that being its sacred adobe

Where it finds space to breathe

While running away beyond lights, and in its slumber

As they call you dead

Or drunkard insane, if they wish

You must not run away

While burning down

Yet standing still

For to fill, the voids

To fill the space, dried and falling around

What could but your imaginations, be

Your salvation

Would fall through

And free, you will

If not lost in

Hollowness of own shadows

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 23/09/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

Pursuit! Such damn word, driving us insane, here and there, day and night, awake or asleep. You ask what it is about, hell knows. For it changes color like a lizard, playing hide and seek through bushes and while you keep on charging at it, running behind like a stupid maniac, you do not want it once you have it. It is dead already, you think so while putting it down. You find it all messed up like a coin dropped in shit. You do not want to carry it anymore. You leave it like that, disgusted and walk away looking for another piece of metal while scanning through bunch of garbage. Alas!

The desire stays still, like a cockroach inside sink pipes, waiting to walk out once its dark and to give you nightmares. Oh don’t you sleep, they might even hunt you down. They love licking your face, while laying their eggs upon your sleeping eyes, only to leave you blind, to not to let you see anything else but those, Pursuits!

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer –

“It was not first time, he felt corrupted, it happened often. May be that is the tragedy of being vague, having no certain feelings. He had thought this way it would be easier to wander through, may be, yet it often turned out to be one that wrecked his body and heart, left him feeling polluted and lost. He did not wish to portray self as innocent, he knew it is none but his own thoughts that makes him sick, and he must stand tight to bear the beating it brought back.

May be we all often make up our mind, imagine things in better and worse; for good and bad doesn’t excite anymore, only to fall victimized, behind closed doors of confession rooms, where they ensures nobody could hear you scream than your own solitude.

Alas! What could feel worse than feeling of being fallen to own prejudice, self.”

Lovers in dark!

Lovers in dark!

And, what now my dear, what you propose

For it is darker than ever, blackish as never

Here we hide behind shadows holding hands

While our heart beats faster than ever

For you might wish to lend me your heart

I might assure you not to let it fall upon rocks and break

But heaven knows what we intend to by dawn, futile

For tongues cannot stand erect and eyes cannot see in dark, yet

Whispering our secrets behind ears, unfolding self

That might not be best decoration our bodies held upon

Yet as I wear you, you wear me, our desire in flames

Passionate but mute, deaf and blind, drunk on lust

Lies, that it might turn out to be, and how beautiful one

To stand behind bushes, hidden from whole crowd

Dancing, singing cheering, unknown of us

We unknown of them, making love, thus unquestionable

But, beware, keep the shadows away; do not wish to put on light

Let us remain unseen, let us remain hidden, for

Veil of character; as placed, must remain intact, or gone

It might tear us apart, for vultures to feast upon

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 23/10/2014

Hangover!

Scribbling:

“He woke up and stumbled upon broken pieces of glasses still lying upon floor, as those pieces of dream he had all night fading slowly yet few pieces sticking upon his eyebrows, outside his half shut half open eyes. Night ran down as fast as his glasses of scotch and he was lost again, feeling resins of darkness still hanging in that bright blanket of dawn, while the sun smiled through and robbed him of his part of intimacy he was promised before gulping down several of those rounds while night was still young and thoughts were still building up. He wasn't sure whether he could pick up all those pieces; broken glass or dreams, one by one, knew it would continue to hurt in either case, he lay down again, shut his eyes and hoped to go back to where he was.

Alas! Hangover is like a sadistic lover, one who inflicts at you all those pieces, watches you scream while attempting to wake up while consoling you sarcastically, for he knows you can’t do much but to continue to roll up and down like a trapped mouse in a little box of steel.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Turmoil!

Turmoil!

Shadows upon eyes

Eyes upon dead

Dead walks alive

Carrying slain head

For, to witness own shadow

In backdrop of darkness

Having eyes bright and teeth sharp

Shining, As if a wolf

Standing in front

Drenched in sweat and blood

Blood thick and red

Red, as if fire

Fire that burns

In this tranquil hour

Of turmoil instead

Turmoil within mind

What lies ahead

Ahead being a pit

Pit that could hide,

When becomes grave

Grave, for where else

Could rest a slave

Slave, one who dreams to strangle

Self, beneath hoard of skin and flesh

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 17/10/2014

Scribbling

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He stared upon dead monitor for long, as long as it felt him alive, as it carried a half naked photo, of someone he did not know about. His mind rejected it as trash; his heart fell in love with its mischievous presence, while his body wanted her around, wanted to kiss, lick, stroke. He felt chaos, a big deal of it, it was noise, one he never liked yet it came back and again, in the veil of darkness and solitude, to haunt him. It scared him, it persuaded him, and it made him linger upon a blank space where his own weight wanted him to bury beneath his shadows.

To die is easier when you know nothing of, being unknown, unseen, unheard, like a wind from dead mountains to crying seas. To live is difficult, even if you have seen yourself in mirror, straight in own eyes despite lights being off, in the vicinity of bedroom, where the phantom lies.

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“It was silent, silent as if there were no one alive, alive as if they would never die. For it is the fear of death that makes us scream, scream to fill our heart and mind with noise, noise that corrupts the soul, makes it deaf and dumb, so they keep on crying and crying and nobody notices, and after all why should anyone? What’s new in someone’s crying over one thing or other. That has been our trail while designing civilization. To cry! Cry over making rules, cry over rule-breaking, cry to have more, cry to have none, cry to love, cry to hate, and cry to laugh, cry to cry. Cry, cry, and cry. Oh such madness!

He wanted to stop and concentrate, for suddenly he was not even able to hear his heartbeat or the whisper of his breathes; which used to tell him stories, in bits and pieces, flying here and there. While wind blew north to south, they said it carried unheard voices trapped in mountains, mountains who watched them rise and fall, like dawn and dusk, and yet somewhere time remained trapped beneath that thick layer of ice, like life in slums beneath glittering sky-scrappers.

But it was all silent this moment. Silent as if dead were waiting to wake-up. He had learnt how footsteps of ghosts caused no sound. He looked around, were anyone around? A ghost! Even that thought amazed him, gave him shiver, but not one that frightens but out of curiosity. He wanted to see a ghost since childhood. And whenever he thought so he touched his own body, he wanted to make sure he is not a ghost himself. He wished to look into own eyes, but alas! How could one look into own eyes, After all how could a ghost see another ghost, for if it could be so people would have recognized each other dead long ago.  Oh pity!

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 09/10/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:

“And again, he was sitting on the train, zooming past cities in slumber, slumber as if never to wake up again, as if ghosts have taken over lamp posts, lamp posts that screams of being tired of watching whole city crawl from dawn to dusk every day beneath and wonders who is cursed, he who has to watch them crawl daily, or they, who has to crawl daily beneath it.

Passing by silent fields holding blanket of darkness, darkness that lets many breathe, breathe as if suffocating for ages buried in light, light that keeps them unseen, unseen as if they do not exist, for darkness lets us see what light can never show.

Passing by woods and trees-still as if frozen in moment, moment that sways in silent nights, nights that brings them back buried in layers of skin one wears, wears as if faces-many, few, some, who knows but standing still they get a chance to hold on to those swaying moments and cherish upon them while firefly plays hide and seek around.

And, there was the moon, watching him watch him, through the thick window glasses; they know each other, for a long time now. They never spoke, never stood together, and could never hold onto each other before getting lost again in the grey clouds of life. They only saw each other often passing by, wandering, and wondering if they are to witness each other witnessing those sleeping cities, silent fields, frozen woods and swaying moments.

As they travelled that night together, again."

He Stole Books!

He stole books!

He stole books

As if one steals life out of a blood lashed war-zone

Sneaking past bodies, dead, scattered, life-less, haunting

Something he felt every day, now and then, while

Walking by crowded streets, outside platforms, in bus and trams

For he wished to hold them for a moment, people who he felt slipping away,

As if sands and he returned every time back to self,

A little confused, some grieves, few happy shades

For pages of books does carry life, and death.

He stole books

As if one steals breathes while standing, walking, passing by

Those motor cars, running away with life, and yet

Sleeping beneath those chimneys which

As if puffing smokes while staring at them as its prey

While one in faith of being alive, breathes and deep

Only to fall, and sooner, unconscious, to creep

A curse one must lay upon, for it being only gateway

To heaven, or hell, one might wonder

While he read in awe, breathing heavy

He stole books

As if one steals a glance, out of people passing by

As they meet for the first time, while walking side by side

While kissing each other, watching them fall asleep,

Having morning coffee after a night of violent love

Or sitting at dinner, amidst edges of themselves falling apart

For a little glance may shower a life, or fear, forever

While one gets stolen out of a little glance through the corner of eyes

As one stares at book after finishing, that says ‘the end’

He stole book or book stole him, he wondered!

He stole books

As if one steals a ray of light out of darkness

Fallen upon a street, full of bright faces, dresses, make-ups and eye-lashes

And yet unable to lighten up that corner of street, where lays some eyes

Behind a garbage bin, blind, yet searching for life out of darkness

Darker than rooms, filled with smokes of drugs and lust

For make noise, louder than those filthy cries of those, no more than leeches

What else lies in the dark, but god these days, for devil has a flickering new place

He stole books

As if a soldier steals a bullet, from a fellow soldier, dead now

Only to shoot at target, unknown, unseen

For, till one has bullet, one has life, he knows

Yet while another one comes zooming in blowing up his heart

He breathe slow, or fast, but deep, yet losing edges

As one breathes words, while reading towards the end

A soldier dies in silence amidst noise of raining bullets, while war continues

And so does a reader, dies too yet story continues

He stole books

As if a peasant steals a watch off a dead soldier’s hand

Fallen in the mud, while hiding behind a broken wall

At the edge of his field, torn split by bombs

Waits for another one to fall, die for he will get him this time

Their boot, and jacket too, for he feels cold being alive, they are dead now

And runs away, leaving behind corpses with open eyes, which watched him steal

While carrying a note in that stolen jacket, which read ‘we shall meet again’

As he read, and reread wondering for faces, left suffocating in the book, finished now

Finished at the same point, from where it started, as he picked another one.

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 27/09/2014

Scribbling

Scribbling:
"There seems to be no force greater than the force of expectations, though only competition could be is from force of hatred, for force of love is too delicate to be in such measurements at all."

~ Praveen Parasar

Known!

Known!

For who knows the darkness,

Knows to reveal

One, who has seen the light,

Knows to hide amidst gleam

Knows who of silence,

Knows how to scream

Alas! Victim of noise and sound

Knows the meanness behind voices, it seems

Knows who of soul,

Lets it to roll, behind

Fire and filth, yet finer

It goes as if a piece of gold

And what’s in a body

That decorates and flourishes

Yet disgusts, of a mind

Rotten beneath own shadows

Of corrupt imaginations

Dies one in dreams

Cherishing blooms of reality

While reality alive in its gloom

Shades over one in despair

Who walks by?

Who stays behind?

One who knows nothing

Or who knows it all, yet falls.

Knows who to carry

May hold upon it too long

Letting it suffocate, slay

Knows who to let go

May bring a smile, belong

It may not, but cares who

If life is not meant for ever

But, a moment’s dream

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 15/9/2014

Scribbling

Scribbling:
"it seems like a gamble, whether to put yourself randomly and let be free or giving yourself time to involve and improvise. for me the fun of writing is in the first part like an idea of honeymoon before marriage but I know somewhere that without getting into latter half, I won't be able to give them any shape at all. And all of it might be scattered and dusted eventually."

~ Praveen Parasar

Scribbling!

Scribbling:
"Probably it is not us who exists but only our names, we live for no more than few moments while our name exists for years and years. I wonder what could be worse than being defined by a petty name."

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“They held each other, as if holding on to time, carrying that tick tock on their shoulders while keeping world on their laps amidst it all being sleepy. Who were watching them, who were there to listen to their confessions to each other, their giggling, their mischievous acts, their playfulness all along, who knew suddenly it all will turn against them, conspire and hard, to make them silent, confiscate, force them to bury their heads beneath ground, and make them burn through the warmth of the breath of their own.

Well! And completely unknown to all such conspiracies they were still holding on to each other, still keeping pace with that tick-tock, caressing each other as if caressing wounds inflicted upon through those numbers on the dial. They touched each other, his fingers dipped upon her skin as if one puts his finger in a pond of still water, lost in oblivion for so long, and this touch fuelling life back into them, made them breathe. Breathe as if a storm raging, as if they would wipe it all, wipes all those walls that had kept them a prisoner for so long, as they kissed, as they loved. As the storm surged and raged.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“And suddenly, there was no destination, for there was no more any objective left, stranded aloof in that dark silent pathway, there was only memory of a spark that once lightened up all those paths and led them to that dream. Alas! It was same spark that burnt it all down, and so intense. For smoke painted and filled those pathways and darkened the skies, turned them all into a dark abyss, where he could do nothing but pour that darkness into own eyes and make himself blind and look through it, for it showed him his own hollow self being buried, beneath none other than his own shadows. He must have deserved it.”

~ Praveen Parasar

She!

Scribbling:

She -

“And she kept flowing, by heavier days and calmer nights. Kept walking away from those shadows and open skies, for words felt hard to define her, she knew no boundaries, she knew no sky, no earth, and no sea, no edges. She flew along, she dripped along, she fumed through the glasses, for she was in love, she was no more solid flesh but a mere pool of blood draining her in their orgasms that she felt too hard to resist.

For she was too light in his arms, too soft beside his shadow, too hot beneath his skin only to be burnt, dusted, buried and lost, for only is she knew how to walk away from his temptations, she felt too weak, too much lust in those arms, smell of his sweat made her heartbeat scream, she felt a sensation too strong to turn away. She decided to surrender. She wanted to be loved, as if not she must slice her skin to feel the kill she awaited through his fingers, silently, in the darkness, in the vicinity of dead lamps.

As the night witnessed them hunt each other.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Scribblings - She!

Scribbling:

She!
"Her skin were her ornament she wore elegantly, her flesh were her clothes she wore effortlessly, her hairs were her hat she held on to quite casually yet stylish as she looked for it was certainly beautiful and attractive. Gave her an edgy look for she kept her face hidden behind its shadow, and as usual it made her a mystery that everyone was curious to figure out. And she laughed of the speculation by flaunting off her curves as if the accessories chosen and matched carefully, but no less famine, she walked by putting her colour on display which some saw as a sun fading down by dusk while some as sun waking up by dawn, well what difference, for it both carried that golden touch that only gives an illusion of it being calm and soft, and you wait for few moments, it fires up and makes you almost blind, only to give burning if you dare watch for any longer, but through shadow it always passes on life it contains behind it’s hidden eyes. She was similar too, for she was white, she was black, she was brown, she was golden, and yet no one could figure out her colour till one kept on trying to find out, only to be disappointed and lost, but once one saw her through the edges she carried, there she was, transparent as water, flowing freely, effortlessly through their hands, mind, heart."

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer -
"for it disturbed him as if a someone had thrown not a piece of rock but a whole mountain, as if they conspired to drawn him entangled amidst rooted out trees of burnt forest, Alas! he was a wanderer who was made to suffer, suffer as if a plant of flower beneath a year old tree by the river side, as if having a protection for ever, for nothing could destroy it, and yet it was in pieces out of that storm and that tree was in pieces and whole river was in turmoil. Oh how hard now it was for him to trust, trust, something he could no never. probably this was his tragedy."

~ Praveen Parasar

Scribblings

Scribbling:
“For every time it rained, it burned her more, for she awaited it to sooth her and devilish droplets instead decided to tease her, as if to remind of moments drowned down those river, river that she had grown up along, grown up as if flowing through it, every day new, everyday afresh, still that moment stuck at her heart like a giant rock in the midst of that river, blocking it’s flow and failing so creating unwanted whirlpools, several of such whirlpool were wrecking her already causing her to ache.
Alas! How cruel that rain was to her, one whose heavy droplets falling discreetly upon her, were reminding her of those violent touches while the thunders made her remember of their screaming out of joy that was supposed to be lost yet every-time she touched the numb wet floor, she was broken in pieces as those droplets.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer -

“Tragedy with us has not been the conflicts surrounding our existence, or questioning our instinct, instead it has been our attempts to portray ourselves in as manipulative manner as gravely possible, leading to wider acclaim of being morally corrupt among all of them. Alas! Who have we been fooling, if not our own self? Only to find ourselves haunted by realities at every lonesome moments. Pity, we can’t even blame anyone for that assault (as we habitually do, for we must find someone to put our vengeance upon), only to find being hunted by reality sooner or later.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer –
For he found himself caged in the thoughts of burning, burning at the tips of his fingers, pouring nothing but words, words that ignited the fire, fire that had almost enslaved him. It was impossible to stop now. There is always certain measures that appears to be our accompanying manoeuvres in the wake of our surrendering, to none other than self, for having no other place to go, no other place to find that fire, fire that could let one burn, burn as if a wild fire raging through a forest, screaming aloud on every attempt to contempt it. He was burning, and he wished to leave no trace this time, Alas! There were traces of ashes every time, which rebuilt him, despite his wishes against it, for he must be standing again, only to be burnt again, it was a ritual to him now. Ritual as if written in a religious scripture, followed by billions blindly day and night, to burn each other. Only difference between them and him; they wished to burn each other, he wished to burn himself and both remained disappointed to find it all standing again after every dusk, before every dawn.

~ Praveen parasar 

Wanderings!

What bad a poison could be to one, dead?

What good nectar could be for one, well, alive?

What bad a curse could get for one already dying?

What good a prayer could be to one, hungry and crying?

What bad storm could get for a ship with hole, sinking?

What good sunlight could do for one who sees it all, yet blind?

What bad fate could get for one, lost in paradise yet mourning?

What good luck could bring to one who has it all yet wanting, denying?

What bad a thunder could do to a sky, bursting?

What good a turbulent wind would do to one, high and flying?

What bad fire could do to one, already burning?

What good water could be to one sinking, drowning?

What bad a secret could do to one who has nothing to hide

What good an answer be to one who knows it all, yet wanders

What good a key is to one chained in own shackles, yet defying?

What bad darkness would be to one, waited and long for dusk to arrive?

What good walls be to one with new wings, growing

What bad a cage could be to one, imprisoned in own mind

What good a heart is to one, knows nothing but to hate?

And

What bad evil could do to one, drenched in love, flowing?

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 08/07/2014

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer -

“For most of moments he ended up talking to himself, his own mind and heart, working in tandem, creating images and voices, that probably succeeded in fooling him to believe it to be of someone else, one who appears as a light source at the end of dark tunnel, tunnel that he has kept himself confined for long and even longer will it be for that source of light must fade-out, as soon as he appear to be approaching it close, for it never was there, it can never be, like a mirage in the middle of desert, yet to play with self knowingly is fun (for creation and interpretation of images and voices unknowingly can never be fun), fun that is as sacred for one, as a piece of broken toy for a child, and yet to do it again and again, and finding it’s temptation hard to let go, despite knowing there’s no way out, knowing such ways do not exist at all, or he might end up falling, hurting, overlapping himself. Playing with self, only who knows it.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of wanderer -

“As his own flesh seduced him, forced him to bite himself and taste own saliva and sweat dripping through cheeks, his eyes were red already as if dead drunk, he felt high of his own smell, his nails were already digging through the skin like he did not even want to wear them anymore. He wanted to be nude, for he wanted to look himself really close, as if to see-through, his mind was enslaved and had hand and legs tied as rough as possible, as he wanted it to suffer for the atrocities it forced on the name of being good and reasons. He felt angry, for how can it be wrong to love own self. His fists were clinched as he held himself real hard. He was about to love himself but not softly but violent and rough as if to blow himself in pieces like a volcano.

~ Praveen Parasar

Scribbling!

Scribbling:

“She might be a star, probably too far

Or a fairy, who tempts one being dearly

If real - a dream, or an illusion so mean

One fall to die, or imagine a beautiful lie

To fail is no option; to win is no wish-is just

To get drown in those eyes while attempting to swim

Through heartbeats so slim and yet

None being the chance to be broken out

Of trance, to meet with her, dreams do come true

Someday, somewhere, some-way, somehow, He will…”

~ Praveen Parasar