I

"I am no more you

I am no more me

I am no more whoever I could be

I simply do not exist

I strayed and lost

I became a ghost

I am to be away

I am to be hated and dread

Alas! This had to be this way

We must face as it is

To face ourselves

Often as troublesome as it could be

Life offers itself in pieces

Pieces of you

Pieces of me

Pieces of us, in droplets

Droplets of time

Carries the sea we make out of self

Day by day, night after night

Only to drown you and me

Washed ashore, trashed away

Who are you?

Who am I?

Who could be the face we carried all along?

I am no more questions

I am no more the answer

I am not to be asked

I am not to be answered

I is the grave

This carries the corpse

As calm and silent it looks above

As much a storm it is within

I has no face

I has no space

I is a shadow

That deserves no solace..."

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 27/2/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Death over life sounds cowardice, but isn’t life over death sounds too repetitive, too much mechanical like always, there’s no life left in life itself as it appears and even life seems to be screaming for a little of death, maybe that would help it to feel how being alive feels. What could be more tragic than life asking for a little death to feel alive, yet this is how it ends and often. He could see himself walking down the same line. He felt intense desire to feel a little death for life had grown all over him like fungi grows around water bodies, as if brightness had eclipsed the darkness, for the moon didn’t appear drunk anymore and twilight felt as if a blank screen he spent days staring at. He was scared of turning into a zombie walking in broad daylight, for he was a monster made to roam around in the dead of night, where he could get high licking his own blood and sniffing over his burnt lungs. He gulped down goblets anticipating it would help him recover, alas! He tried to stab him, hang him, cut himself into pieces but Life had grown too thick upon him and the death eluded him.  He cried, screamed with all his might, asking for a little of death, alas! Life gods had other plans for him, probably they wanted him to suffer, for he was too alive for life, for he was dead being alive, for he drank to death and danced upon his grave. For he knew he belongs to nowhere, but buried beneath shadows of faces he had owned all his life. Alas!”

A Night!

“To persist as the feeling of orgasm post love

To hang in the air as sunrays post sunset

To carry one through darkness of the dusk

To die as a moment just gone by, un-noticed

Who lives who dies, who wakes who sleeps

Who carries the corpse of last night?

Who flaunts the life beyond twilight?

Who dies to live, who lives to die?

A pity to stand, to carry forward dead life

A hope to hang upon, another death on offer

A wish granted never, a dream buried beneath

Shadows, as many as the faces of one

To pretend to be in a lonesome fight

To cry through smiles, to smile in cries

To lose self as those ice-cubes in a glass of scotch

Tastes as better as slower the death comes

It was either you or me

It was neither you nor me

It had to be one or another

It was neither one nor another

For one it was life

For one it was hell

For one it was wish to dream

For one it was as faint as a scream,

As faint as the light of that dim-lit lamp, post midnight…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 15/02/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

`                      photo-credit : https://web.facebook.com/LIL.RED.FINE.ART.PHOTOGRAPHY/
                      Eesah Peraldi/Lil Red Photography

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He never really understood how to cook his thoughts well; he often ended up burning them or serving them half cooked. He must learn how to cook thoughts well, he decided. It was a shame he felt unbearable, he felt as if he was too uncivilized to live among people, grown-ups, who know how to speak, what to speak, who to speak and so on. He looked at himself and all he could find is he only knew either how to scream or how to whisper and none of it concerned the world; for such abnormalities are forbidden past households beyond the walls of graveyards. Graves he felt was only place where one could do as one wished. But, even winning a right of grave was not easy, you must prove your candidature, you must yourself eligible, even if by pretending to be the just right candidate only to act the way you wished to. This thought puzzled him. Why must he pretend to act as he wished, but only probably because he was yet to know how the world works, what it prefers to eat and what it prefers to throw away?  Well, he did know he might be thrown out of plate for being over-cooked or half-cooked and then he would be nothing but food for few street dogs and some beggars who could not find anything better to eat. He felt sick, He was yet to learn how to cook his thoughts well and it was already dark; Night was growing over him slowly.

He decided to peel his skin, chop self into pieces, wash himself off his tears, and dip into fresh blood off his veins, before putting himself over his flesh and bones, to be cooked well upon the dim flame off the moon. The night was too young to frighten him, it was rather innocent and cried inconsistently every now and then over how he was not taking care of it. He was annoyed but he kept his calm, he did not want to spoil the process. He was determined to cook those subtle thoughts well tonight.

It was past midnight; drenched in the smoke off the pan he had put himself tonight. He could not see anything and vaguely played his fingers around and found himself drowned in saliva and sperms. He hurried to take it out and blow air around to cool it down. He wanted to take a good look, to confirm if it had cooked well, he was scared as well excited as a young teenager right before first sex. He felt he was either going to lose himself or to find himself like never before.

Our tragedy does not lie in the idea that we could not fit in the world, it lies in the idea that we try to fit ourselves in the world. He had committed similar crime. He could not see what was there on the plate, he was too afraid to even look at it. Cooking self to suit the palate of others had made him cook a monster. He felt as if he was lying in the plate, smoked and grilled, burnt to the point where nothing remains other than yourself, pieces of charcoal lying around, sort of black hole. He felt his cries and laughter making him deaf, his dreams and nightmares blinding him, his words mocking him standing right beyond horizon asking him to come out and pick them to poetry. He never felt more helpless than this. He had a feeling of déjà vu such moment will come. Pretension cannot lead you for long, you must return to face yourself, dead or alive; as those posters said in the streets outside for criminals who stole stuffs and acted as if too rich to buy several shots of scotch before passing out right outside the gates of the bar. Like them, he felt once drunk he too always needed someone to carry himself home. Sick!

He must learn to cook his thoughts well. It was past twilight already and soon the dawn would come with all its might. He must hurry…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 12/02/2016

Little naïve love…!

“When a little naïve love

Wrestles with evil young lust

It is often a scene

Where heart takes the toll

And being severed severely

It swears by, and again

Through a wave of dried tears

Claims even to withdraw at the least possible sign

But, only if it is not just to rain

To deprive it from slightest of respite

To remind it again

Of its thirst, which it did try to quench

Off the edge of the lips

Of a random lover, Alas!

Oh! how mean the moon appears

Post rain, through the veils of thin clouds…”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 11/02/2015

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

:

“It was like any other night, but something was amiss, or probably everything was there which was appearing a bit odd to him. He was all too human after-all. We grow up accustomed to find something amiss in moments. We are told to love our missing labyrinth, caress our scars and hold onto our dreams and nightmares alike in the entire lullaby sung while the moon sways away. What if there’s no labyrinth, no scar, no missing dream and nightmares; what if all of it comes right in-front of our slumbering eyes beneath the star ridden sky. We could discard them terming ourselves drunk but could we look beyond them. Our tragedy does not lie is moments we choose to unsee-to let go, it lies in moments we decide to see what lies there only to bring misery our heart deserves being little weak in its attempts to grow, to rise beyond the graves of lullabies, to look beyond dreams and find dead nightmares. Our tragedy belongs to our heart being little weak in its inability to  stand aloof and not tremble hearing its own footsteps, behind pits of our slumbering eyes which were still pretending to be drunk, as the night passed by.”

Scribbling

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“I ventured to love

But, in vain

For the love was already in love

With myself, oh pity

For I had to return

A little embarrassed

Only to fall in love

With self, for yet another time

Only if I could understand

How this love supersedes

The love I often ventured to look for

May be I should just stop and listen

To unheard whispers

And untouched kisses, Oh dear!”