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