Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“She appeared to him like a night he could take a refuge in without a confrontation to his diluted past or concentrated future. He found himself like a thought lost in abyss seeking a shelter in the night’s door; which appeared mystified by its chaotic silence.

He remembers walking through that door that evening and how she without even looking at him passed him a glass of scotch at the counter. He felt she knew instantly what he was looking for; perhaps she could see through the body and soul. She felt to him like that tiny hour at sunrise or sunset that makes you confess to your crimes without even a little effort.

‘I am here to kill’ – he whispered when she came near to pour another round of scotch. She raised her face a little and went back to her business, as if it was nothing new. He felt surprised, he had just given away his secret and yet she did not react. He felt small in front of her grand shadow. He thought how every minute she must have been facing several like him day and night. For sure why should she bother who he was here to kill for, for it was a town of killers. To kill was as much a daily business, as buying vegetables in that locality. Killers were seen with certain awe, after-all they gave them hope that there was still some life in that ash covered smoked town which killers could choose to end. They felt alive at that thought. Killers were respected as a messiah of life who could take it back whenever he wished, and why not, for people owed it to them.  

He was lost in thought when she came near him again to pour another glass, but this time she drew a little too near and whispered with care – go to room 13, you will find what you need. He was drunk enough to be stunned and sober enough to resist, he simply gulped down his glass and moved towards stairs. It was already past mid-night.”

She!

"For she was like the night

That melts itself by the dawn

Little Dew drops upon

Flowers; as they bloom

For she was like the night

That let stars shine

And pretending fine

She lets her darkness grow

For it’s always someone’s darkness

That brings light to another

And someone’s ruins

Upon which other’s dreams flourish;

Being young; this tempts one into

Her dimension, only

To be disappointed

Often, for she never misses

To return the favor

She was like the night

This lets no one see her;

For it is either too dark

Or too bright - filled with moon-light

To be worried about

What she asks for, to

What she gives,

While she continues to smile

In the backyard of one’s ignorance."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 29/11/2015

Scribbling

Scribbling:

“You either think or love

You either think or hate

You either don’t do or just overdo”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“It was raining, and he was still sitting on the chair by her body, dead by now. He looked every now and then at the blade he had killed her with, it was carrying her warm blood upon it, it had her smell in it, a distinct smell he could sense miles away, it was as if she had cast a spell upon him since the moment he walked by the doors of that bar that night and saw her seeing him. He did feel puzzled yet decided to enjoy the feeling, for it was exotic for him. She was like a tango music which makes you groove despite not knowing it, all tangled up.

He could hear someone playing at a distance through the noise of storm, and there was she lying in silence, still as much alive she was few hours ago, before he killed her. He felt a strong urge to touch her, blood upon her neck was tempting him, as if she was calling him to taste her. He put the blade back into his pocket and slowly went near and held her close. He did not want to hurry, he did not want to wake her up from that long sleep, and she continued to rest upon his shoulder. She felt to him like a piano he could play all night, dead yet alive, which haunts one through its whispering screams, all he needed was to touch her and tap her here and there to let the song out of her float in that night; drunk upon her eyes, lifeless yet giving a hope of afterlife to him.

He undressed her slowly while continuing to hold her close, dancing to that distant music, he felt he too would melt and would be washed ashore. She was like a sea asking him to let go and submerge. He kissed her dry lips, licked her cheeks, let his hand run through her body all across, his fingers were thrilled, he felt the rush of blood in his veins, and it was becoming a goblet of fire. Even in the rain he felt dry as a lotus leaf; for he was already drenched by her.

He did realize suddenly, it was time to go, he could no longer hold onto that precious creation he had just ruined, as if a flower plucked off the stems. He looked into her lifeless eyes one more time, he saw himself eclipsed by her. Scribbled all across his body, she had become his poetry, and he felt being owned by her now.

He slowly put her down by the wall, draped her in a shawl and glanced at her one last time; she was as alive as ever. He felt embarrassed for he failed to understand her poetry and yet she had given him words to scribble. He would write her a poem someday, he murmured and walked back. Someone was still playing the music at distance.

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“As the virgin sun-rays touched the skin in the early hours of yet to bloom day of young winter, its warmth filling the heart with a joy inexpressible in words and while I sit there watching it embrace me, another thought sneaks through a corner in mind – same rays would be deflowered and robbed of their warmth by the hands of harsh winter days soon, and then it would be only in shades that It’s warm touch would remind me of a love, which was supposed to melt me, but alas! Ended up freezing me; while I watch the flame of passion diminish slowly in eclipse of oppressed dictates of fate. Only to sadden me even amidst that joyous moment, I carry a part of its longing and desire to witness it one more time brighter and warmer, I let myself burn in bits and pieces. I would wait for November again.”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“Imagine being locked in a dark room with no sound, how do you exist there, how would you or could you prove your existence to anyone including yourself. For there your body does not exist, your sense of self remains lost in the deep abyss of your mechanical mind, and all your ideas about life and death remains at large wondering of an escape. But, escape to where, being in n universe filled with dark matter all around, what it is if not a mere illusion carrying a matchbox. For at the end you would have to enter into reign of darkness, where nothing exists but consciousness – of being, not physical but metaphysical abstract. Where either you are connected to everything or you do not exist. Where all attempts to take over through mechanical invention are bound to fail amidst noisy chores of continuous attempts of proving oneself superior while trying desperately to control not knowing whom. Such has been tragedy of our existence; We were given ability to create, we mastered ability to destroy. We were taught to learn, we mastered art of manipulation. We were gifted with reason, we mastered pretention. Alas!
Though question would still arise what brought inside such huge dark room? May be nothing did or maybe it was always there; we just made up stories to convince ourselves of our intelligence and superiority deriving conclusions that were never there, and what else but only to make a fool out of ourselves.

Broken Thread!

“A piece of broken thread

Inside pages of a withered old book

Rusted, a bit dusted yet lying there

Holding onto stories it lived with,

Carrying words it died with

Did one use it to stitch wounds?

Or snatched it from bleeding heart ajar

Did one strangled oneself with it,

Or tried to hang another

Was it to burn within a candle?

To lighten up dark alleyways,

Or it was there to trip one

While passing by, and to fall

Stories untold, as this thread unfold

As the pages lay bare

As those words wear

As one holds broken thread as dear

As a piece of self

A piece of broken thread

Holding onto bits and pieces of solitude…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 17/11/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer!

“As the night came swiftly

She wore blackish attire

Carrying a dark smile

Holding onto her many shadows

She wore the moon

As if a bright diamond

Flashing onto eyes of curious on-lookers

While it’s sharp edges cut through their veins

Unaware one kept looking

As if to quench an ever unquenched heart

It rained stars, droplet of dreams

But, only to drench oneself

In the pool of nightmare

And while one – deprived of vigor

Drowns in its silent chaos

It offers to take the pain away, but only

At the cost of giving over

Self, one who blinks first

She tempted melancholia

While promising bright days ahead

Poor man fell in the trap

As one falls in the bog

Only to be lost in own screams

For every struggle turns fatal

And, every cry for help comes back

Only to haunt, for only if

He could help but sink

Slowly, while watching darkness owe him

In bits and pieces, and few words

Scribbled upon bare skin, alas!”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 05/11/2015