Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling:

“Spiders, for all the reasons cannot get over the fact that they are prisoner of their habit of weaving webs which ultimately proves fatal to them more than anyone else, which is bound to be their graveyard, yet they can’t help it. They must continue with putting webs all around, they must prepare themselves to be swallowed in their own webs in all their silence and solitude at their strongest, for if they could break away from it, so does their prey. They make it bigger and stronger every day, little by little, they add saliva and blood to it, and they ensure it is strong enough to strangle a life out of fluttering wings despite all those violent resistance to get away from it, but it must remain in vain. No life should escape its deadly strings.

Words work more or less on similar pattern, words are little web one puts while sitting leisurely watching sun set behind hazy sky through sea-shore, or in early tranquil hours of sunrise, aiming to scribble what pleases his heart, not knowing every words uttered could come back to haunt in its most killer forms, and when they do, one often has nowhere to run to. One cannot defend against own words, for they come mostly at darkest of hours when one is at vulnerable best. It takes life on its will, as and when it pleases and one cannot do anything but watch it helplessly suck the blood out of its veins in the dark of night while sipping a glass of liquor having no anticipation of such nightmare, but probably that’s how scribbling works, no?.

it was one such night of horror and death, while those words turning most scariest of killers, silent at their best, precise like sting of desert scorpion, venom of it spreading across face of their victim as he watched in terror approaching them approach towards him, he knew there were no escape and he must let them finish their job as swiftly as possible. May be at his heart he knew of it, he could sense it for a long time and had made up his mind little by little thinking of any such outcome. And there he was, it was not so painful after-all as he watched himself fall like a shadow just before the lamp flickers for one last time, as bright as it could be, as strong as he could be, only to rest in peace (piece?) ever after. Alas!”

Scribbling

“She was lying upon the bed, feeling as empty as that moon in the sky which roams the sky every night, and yet remains unseen for several nights. For they made a rule which says she cannot be seen all the time, but only when she is told to. She must remain behind veil of clouds rest of times, negotiating with her emotion which threatened to expose her on the day of full-moon. She was a rebel, she threatened to cross the mark and there she was, cut loose and thrown in the backyard of the civilized society like those comets, which occasionally appear across the horizon only to raise a little curiosity about them before they get lost in the darkness of space, forever. After-all space was planned by male-gods carefully not to let its intelligence expose them off their little pleasure moments.”

Rest in Piece!

“To paint yourself in the dead of night

To see yourself alive and naked

To scribble poetry upon your own skin

To see your blood emptied through that pen

To find your eyes placed atop a clock,

For to watch time as it ticks away

To see yourself unable to hear your cries

To find yourself hysteric off your own laughs

To find pity for self being delusional

To carry condolences for the world in grief;

Grief made of lies and manipulations

And attachment made of false hope and biased emotion,

To be able to stand up to them

To confront them eye to eye and be called a coward

To watch them trample upon your voice

To hear them curse you, being cursed

While a sound within calls for a revolt

While a word upon paper reads – go away

And while you witness the moment

In a frightening silence diluted in the last drop of liquor, only

To be able to wear melancholia

To walk along solitude

You must be ready to carry yourself to the grave

You must be able to bury yourself deep down

Where your voice eats away your flesh

And your screams blow your bones to bits

While the world chants – rest in peace

And your poem sings – rest in piece!”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 26/01/2016

The Pillow!

“I whispered my secrets

Upon that pillow

Every night

In return

It sang me my poetry

As lullaby

And being generous

Than any of acquaintance

Gave me words

To decorate my slumbering eyes

For dreams had proved

Rather nightmarish;

Nights are long

And dawn never far

Amidst all this chaos

I find it there, every night

Silently awaiting me to return

A companion for life, the pillow!”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 22/01/2016

Chasm!

“A chasm

Along the edge

Of a rainbow

So many colors

Yet none to fill

Dreams

One seeks

To know

What gleams?

A mirage in the middle of

Waves of hue

Or yet another nightmare

Yes or no

Does it matter?

Probably not

For what is hidden

Does not exist

What exists,

We do not wish to see

And the heart asks

To let go

In silence

Chaos weaves a beautiful web

Only

To strangle

And watch one

Befall

Through

The chasm

Into an abyss

Forever

Oh! Probably that’s how

One travels to stars…”

                                                            

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 19/01/2016

Scribbling

Scribbling:

“Light probably could not define her, for she was too bright for lights and so she moved on to darkness, or so she thought. She was searching for what could define her, what could let her see her shadows long lost behind while she kept moving through alleyways of lust and love. She was too pure to be corrupted, she did not belong to those narrow streets for her place belonged to a castle she had made in her mind one night while mimicking to be herself in front of mirror; she was too young to understand what she meant by her castle and too old to forget about it, so it lingered in background of her mind.

Light or darkness; none could define you if you do not understand how and why, they are incomplete without each other themselves. You must allow them together to let them show you what your soul had asked for.  they are merely a mirror held against your face where you could see yourself too close to recognize and hence you often end up missing what they show you in moments of solitude while you continue searching; yet the significance of search never loses the part, sooner or later you return to the point where you could recognize yourself from miles away, you know by intuition there is you and you feel a rather strong urge to embrace it.

She was as bright as ever; like a piece of gold, flames of past had made her shine even brighter. She did not despise darkness anymore nor dreaded the light she had felt difficult to hold on to. She was the woman after-all. Woman who creates the world; she created her own world too.

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Moments, when words betrayed him, left him with nothing but heart-rending nerves drowned in manipulated shadows built slowly and steadily, a carefully built trap for self which was supposed to strangle self and now when it does so he felt ashamed to scream, after all it was his own decision to be led into decisive alleyways of lies and filth. We can lick our spit but we can’t stand even slightest of smell of our lies. we have a natural tendency to stay away from any confrontation which might lead to revelations of our deeply rooted fear, distrust and insecurities; this lead him to paint his words white and black, dipped in honey of colors, to hide the areas of grey which carried what he desired to speak, but could not or just would not. It is not difficult to understand the reason behind what made him feel sick now, is it?

Darkness was not so dark after-all, silence was not so silent, chaos seemed no more chaotic, and desire of emotion was never desired probably. It appeared as lifeless as those eyes filled with false promises. Let the night win, let it laugh upon as triumphantly as in an orgasmic euphoria while he looked for solace in words, and it denounced him as soon as he reached for its hands. Oh! What could be more tragic than to be betrayed by words and not knowing who failed whom. Alas!”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“So you thought you could escape darkness simply by holding a lighted candle, you thought a ray of light would extinguish all that darkness just like that. And while you thought of it, darkness laughed at your childish thought, amused, for being ignorant of its very existence right there at the roots of that melting candle, roots which held that flickering light, only if you could see it is none other than darkness which brings light to life, for it knows it would need him at the end, it would need to embrace its shadows which has been drenched in the darkness for nights after nights. A single dawn cannot wash away all those dusk stitched to ones bone and flesh though dusk could eclipse a life full of bright mornings. Only if you would have realized you had already drank several glasses of darkness while looking for a way out only to fall back in and deeper. It is always one way; it is an addiction, addiction of darkness. An addiction lethal than addiction to love or even that of hate. You simply cannot get over it; even before you realize you had become a slave of it, now only thing you could do is to become master of it even if through despise and dreads.”

Scribbling

Scribbling:
"To die of thirst; in a desert, slow,
To die of thirst quenched; by the sea,
aggravated
Life! To live in the shadows of paradoxes..."

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

All I remember was she lying upside down with her bare back facing me and dumbstruck I continued staring at it like a child stares at the moon around puberty. I continued gazing at that soft skin while my fingers did the tap dancing all around, I watched them amazed at their skill, I wished I could match their rhythm but they were acting too expert, silent sounds of their tapping were bringing out music too seductive to control, I let myself drown. It appeared my fountain pen was filled with darkness and I could scribble all over her bare back like the night writes over the sky, a language understood only either by lovers or by those left alone to bear the burden of solitude. Soon she had become a poem filled with darkness and I felt like the North Star waiting for her to allow me to kiss, to love, to guide myself towards north where sages live; for she was sensual, she was a spark, a poetry who would tempt hearts for eternity but being a fading star I could only live when she was near me, at her darkest, where her secrets shone like the moon, and I couldn’t resist anymore but to kiss her groovy rib-cages.