Tragedy of Wanderer:

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“Suddenly I feel being omnipotent, I feel being everywhere, in all those words, in all those musical notes, in all those shadows, in all those dark alleyways, beneath those dim lit lamp posts, in front of those bright spots at dusk or dawn, offering cure from my unknown symptoms, oh I look for it, and then I wonder what is it i wander for, what do I lack, what is it I am looking for, unable to identify-pain intensifies, it shoots as if a volcano in an unknown island, no one sees it, yet it shakes the earth beneath violently, as if trying to scream all my words at once yet I cannot utter a single word, as if being in space amidst dark matter drowning slowly towards a black hole, one that would suck all those words along with, or would they be able to escape through event horizon, would they be able to defy gravity? Of course there’s no reason how or why I should escape being torn and scattered in that huge space only to be lost being mortal, but words! Could or would they?”

Specters!

“When some notes, words a few

Takes you deep and further, inside lanes, dark and hazy

One been left untraced for long

Yet, carrying warmth of first love’s bosom

And embrace which melts one away

Through whispering voices and rather hot breathes

Falling upon bare skin, burning without fire

Leaves one smoked and unseen, buried beneath

Clouds of memories, Oh dear!

As one watches being trampled in silence

Notes rising high and low

Words upon flesh, as they grow

Trampled and wild, shy and gentle

Goose bumps inflicts, then it shows

What lies beyond those dark lanes

Few faces known, few touches worn

Some fingers holding a letter half-torn,

Whose words splashed by tears or rain?

Or was it sweat and blood when they met?

Hidden away, they keep it all safe

For who goes to tread along those narrow alleys anyways

Yet, when one does, only to be surprised

Those notes, those words

Still carry a life of their own

In another universe, being specters probably…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 27/05/2015

Scribbling:

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
"When you start realizing, you do not exist, but in your words that you scribble - being happy, sad, angry, anxious, excited, disappointed, being alive or while feeling a thousand deaths. in those moments of lightening or dead-calm, moments of storm or peace, for does it matter anymore, for being invisible as much as those tiny particles, sort of free electrons, hurrying through bonds and atoms, looking for where to stop; some get no-where but to end where they get destroyed through their own speed, for they couldn't stop themselves anymore, only to be vanished in silence, forever! it doesn't hurt, does it? i wonder...Words, what else!”

Desire!

Scribbling:

“Sitting by the roof watching the evening drench itself in a little drizzling, waving through strong winds after a rather hot summer day, appears to be similar to experience of self. Of days when things go by like clock on the wall, for it keeps on moving changing time, and prospects yet remaining un-noticed till the color of sky shows any sign of change. For here the sky must be the background where our thoughts inhabit and wander around, mostly in pieces but then in some evenings like this, gather around and starts to pour themselves upon us. I feel too compelled to lie down, closing my eyes, keeping my mouths open to taste those droplets that might be carrying a lifetime of words among them. And then I become greedy and wish to be a shell in the deep of oceans, awaiting a drop of rain to fall in its cocoon to form a pearl, in this case I should think of poetry. Could this be fulfilled, I wonder.

And then amidst feelings to lay down a banyan tree, by a lively river, or a silent lake, or a narrow stream passing by, while it drizzles in reality upon concrete floor, and with a force enough o break the imaginative mind as well vague looks scanning through the settings of this unexpected evening, as one does when words appear out of the blue, one realizes suddenly of reality being harsh yet imaginations being an alternative that provides for inhabitation amidst our chorus of days that passes by just like that. I think of those hills and woods getting alive during these drizzling, birds eager to sing sweeter, flowers to appear much romantic while sky keeps changing its colors from blue to grey to red.

Evening slowly starts to turn darker, not in melancholy but in sheer delight, as if all prepared to embrace the night holding onto its make-ups which the clouds and rain has laid upon it carefully, I see sky a little sad for it would be hard for anyone to recognize and to witness its colors yet holding onto a prospect of new delight in having stars around to sing and dance with as they would twinkle and sprinkle themselves, as I find myself holding a candle flickering in wind coming through windows expecting it to show me what lies beyond those blank sheets of paper laying in front of me upon table. I go out with candle to the roof and hold it high and compare it with the dimly lit sky, both are burning slowly, yet bringing words out of dark veil of night, as I watch them in delight and seek to embrace them, to lay down and sleep in their bosom, feeling them over self with utmost passion as one learns to make first love.”

There would be one…!

Of all the stars

Away and afar

Which glitters and flickers

There would be one - turning into a black-hole,

Slowly and darker as it would get, as much to

Keep all those lights; which showered all night,

Upon those faces lying along or singulars,

Prisoner of its darkness now

"Of all the flowers

In valleys of mountains and woods

Which blooms and attracts winds to caress them, and

Butterflies to sing for them song of love

Love which lovers carry while treading high and low

Through hills, while dreaming to trek down moon

Fascinating it as their treasure,

Of all the flowers,

There would be one - unaware of spring

Away for bloom, for no reason

And those butterflies would mock it while

Passing by carrying seeds of summer along

Of all the smiles upon faces

Wide and beautiful grins

This adds charm to those chit-chats

Loud or whispers

In the evening by the sea-shore

Of all those smiling faces

There would be one - lost in thoughts;

Unaware as if wasn’t informed to carry a smile,

That would watch sun setting down

Slowly through the clouds and a sky with red hue

Which as if wearing a make-up to compensate

For missing smile of that face

Of all the eyes

Large and small

Looking through haze of scenes to be looked upon

Some out of invitations,

Some drawn out of curiosity

Some simply looked upon without intending to do so

And amidst such chorus

Of all the eyes

There would be one – that would be looking

In blank space, at none

At what-ifs probably, after-all what sketches

A better scenario to look upon

Then those tiny what-ifs

Floating in leftover spaces in between

Things given to be looked at

And, things hidden out of sights…"

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 16/05/2015

Scribbling!

Scribbling
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“What good could it do to being pretentious? We need evil, we need that devil along with those evil acts and thoughts or how good our pretensions would be. An apparent feeling of being a hero gets over us in fraction of seconds and we could never help savoir it, and act as if in reality. This is such a feeling, and who would deny such feeling that makes one feel as it is worth it, worth several lives, where meaning of life mattered, may be not for self but so many others, Oh how divine, one feels as if descending through clouds of titans and Indra, in a picture perfect pose to save those fictitious victims. Who knew one would become victims himself in the process, knowingly or unknowingly, only to realize later, there never was any one to save, but only to be cursed. It all had to end. Alas!”

Sleepwalk!

"As the weather turns from bright to grey

As thoughts hover across mind’s alley

Fluffy, darker, and winds sway

Is that a storm brewing, asks the heart

Who knows, for it might just be – a play

What lies, what gets swept, and what stays

As the ship forays through haze

Beyond, and to meet all those gaze

Wonders the mind, what role does it lay

For one, who came to watch the show?

Ends up behind curtain amidst light and glare

And sounds in background asking to behave

As one should – when on stage

A place that brings some cheer to faces

Some tears to eyes, some bloods to scream

Yet holding on to suspense that comes

With an end which slays, expectations

For what good to presume, what bad to surrender

It might come hard, it could be tender

For the part to play may come sooner or later

Inevitable as it seems, unavoidable as it appears

To be played yet to play

And to act as if there is a ray,

Of light amidst dark, of doors beyond walls

Of mind and heart, an invisible quay

Beside the shores of the sea, being thirsty

For ever, amidst water for a drop of water, O Dear!"

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 13/05/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“ what could be worse than not being able to be drunk despite galloping several shots of liquor, for we have become such machine amidst our work, our ambitions, desire to have more of this and more of that and in the middle of all this missing still of not having something that could fill that void which keeps dragging us beneath the surface of our shadow. Lying down upon the grass could give us much more soothing then hours inside an air-conditioned chamber yet we avoid it for being not hygienic enough as some like to describe it scientifically oh how wonderful it would have been being illiterate, away from all this technological advances, listening to voice of birds and position of sun-moon to decide the time, using clay-pots to cook foods upon wooden fire whose earthy smell increased the appetite several times, drinking freshly fetched water by the well or hand-pump. Alas! All a dream. Despite knowing we never lived beyond past, present-a mere illusion, for all forms of energy through which we perceive it takes time to reach us-whether light or sound or whatever. We cannot even see anything in reality, for whatever we see is an illusion, as nothing shows its true colors to us but what it is not, as proved scientifically, but they cannot emphasis upon it, for it would ruin their business and spoil the rat-race they have done their best to keep-up and we would never try to get any deeper than our sexual phantasm amidst all this. A powerful orgasm is all we need to stay alive, what else, alas!

Doom!

"Even the most beautiful of flower

With exceptional scent which attracts one

Through day and night, alike

And arouses one to follow

Through mountains and woods, high and dense,

Sooner or later, starts to have a foul smell

If not received over a period of time, by

Fluttering bees and chirping birds

Bright sunshine and swirling breeze,

Falling and rotting in mud and grass

Lost in oblivion, slowly grows in to a bog

Only to swallow the ground around

And secluded, plant still grew the flower

But! O dear, now smell of bog takes over scent of the flower

And comes over spiders, venomous upon the branches

Forging it into a killer plant instead,

As one randomly terms from distance one day

This attracts butterflies, only to be eaten alive, alas!"

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 08/05/2015

Words!

"While the thoughts descends

As if dusk upon a sunny day

Brings colors of grey, as says

What remains unheard amidst chorus of days

And lays down words to be chosen from

As if flowers beneath pink trumpet trees

Hard to walk upon, impossible to pick all

We falter and scream, as if being unable

To touch the ray of morning light beyond prison wall

Leaving behind, as if mere corpse

We crawl and growl, while heart swells

And dwells upon what next, what next

Before darkness befalls,

We run around, we pick some in haste

Least it should be crushed and waste

We curse self for being ignorant

We go down on knees, and smell dust

We decide to scramble through

What was supposed to be a feast, alas!

We must reckon sooner than later

Words lie not upon flowers blooming, but

Upon thorns left tall and mighty

Naked on those branches all empty

Waiting for one to be pricked and taste

Unrest of own blood, flesh, and words do fly

As if birds out of broken cage, in a flash."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 06/05/2015