Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“He wanted to destroy himself. Destroy as if to wipe away any trace of his trails, which he feared would bring attention to his attempts of silly escape out of sacred obligations and words would find him half-way again, running away, naked, drunk, hallucinating upon nothing but thin air. He felt ashamed every time upon being caught while trying to flee leaving behind echoes of screams scattered around, broken pieces of left-over nights, only to be accused by them of being a shameless attention seeker, who would go to any length to be advertised prostituting himself through his failing, falling escapades. He was a labeled outcast who must not be allowed to let himself disguise beneath his rotting flesh and fading shadows.”

Allegory of solitude!

“Of all those mundane nights

Crawling through stifling days

And a yearning for emancipation

Deserted along the blank spaces

Carrying heaps of broken words, and

A desperate attempt to give them a meaning

Meanings! As if a mere hallucination

The words turning into a monster

Swallowing one into the void

A few drop of ink

a few drop of blood, and

blurred horizon of dirtied pages…”

Praveen Parasar

02/12/2017

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“There are moments which are closer to us more than the others, the music which speaks to us more than others, the night which are sacred more than others and few of those words which appear be the savior, the only one every time we look up to all those words in thesaurus. What could it tell us about ourselves, he always wondered. Does it mean we are more like ourselves at certain moments or it just we celebrate pour exaggerated self at certain moment more than other. This conflict between different aspect of the self was what started to diluting his glasses while he desperately tried to get drunk only to find himself more and more vulnerable and at the mercy of gods, gods he had decided not to romanticize anymore while he prepared himself to rival them. He felt as if begging to words such as longing, solitude, darkness, void, abyss, the night, Oh… begging them to come forward and accept his meek proposition and all he could find were a few of scattered adjectives and prepositions, all in front of a trail of ruins which could have been a castle of words…Alas!

The insignificant man…

 

"The insignificant man

Carrying around

apathy abound

Along with heaps of

Angst and hatred

Thrown upon

While walking past

The garden of significance

Carefully watered

Aesthetically implanted

Upon the barren lands

Of hypocrisy, and indifference

Such contrast to notice

While

Shrill voices

Curses, chases away

The insignificant man

The insignificant man

Running away

Holding onto

Long list of if and buts

And wondering

Confused, hesitant

To add another of the same

Obsolete what-ifs

While

Hiding behind

The walls of

See-through wants

While

A little beyond

lies a secret graveyard of

murdered demands

The insignificant man

Must not stop

Being insignificant

even at the danger of

being labeled

significant

Alas…!”

Praveen Parasar

11/11/2017

The act…

 

“it’s the night

and one must give up

the act of acting

as if doing something

performance must be halted

echoes the chorus, only

to simply lay down

and act of acting

as if not doing anything

performance must be continued

echoes the void, only

to leave one

at the mercy

of that ever monotonous

watches

hanging at the wall

carrying around the corpses

of time

which appears

to have run out of its own time

desolated and deserted

its screams

lost

in the hollowness of

its own tick-tocks

while the night continues

to grow

into an abyss

deep enough

to engulf the

unsuspecting day

at the other end…”

Praveen Parasar

11/10/2017

Metamorphosis…!

“Devoid of people

Those buildings

appear

As if

vague memories

Fading

in its own grandness

Which fails to recognize

The occupants

Sooner or later

Standing still

indifferent

Amidst the ruins

Where screams of

Trampled nights

And made-up days

Turns them slowly into

A macabrish corner

Carefully quarantined

To keep away

What is wanted no more

Until a chaotic attempt

Of someone

to fill it

to inhabit

the uninhabitable

to grieve upon

to mark it as one’s own

as if a broken graveyard

one digs in desperation

only to end up adding his own

version of bruised breaths

Alas! for

Beyond those hurried recognitions

And forceful recollections, to reclaim

those buildings

instead now appears

As if a ghetto

carrying

people, wanted no more.”

Praveen Parasar

22/10/2017

Search

“Looking for a moment of silence

Long before I fall, dead

Long before silence encompasses me

Engulfs me, overwhelms me

Looking for a moment of silence

Long before I fall, deaf and blind

Long before the darkness turns into an abyss

Of an ever growing void

A cursed spectator, a spectre

Looking for moment of silence

Long before the silence itself lays bare

To haunt me of its nakedness

To seduce me, tempt me

Make me scream, drown me

In my own dirty exaggerations, intentions

Leaving me at the mercy of the days

Scattered around, trampled upon

Looking for a moment of silence

As if to taste the death

A distant glimpse, an introduction

Long before I fall, addicted

Long before the longing kills me

Buries me in the depths of

My hollow conscience, empty volitions

Sacred fears and cheap regrets

Looking for a moment of silence

Long before I rest in peace, alas...”

Praveen Parasar

03/09/2017

The words…!

“When the words fail

To hold us dear

In those frightful nights

And leave us behind

Stranded with solitude

We still cry for it,

Look for it in the blackness

Pick its bits and pieces

Scattered around

As if the stars

And attempt to rhythm a moon out of them

A moon

Too dark to lighten up

And fill the void

Of a forlorn night

Haunted

of its own shadows

blinded

Of its own agony

overwhelmed

Of its own volitions…”

Praveen Parasar

20/7/2017

The Ritual…!

“As if the ritual

To burn

To suffer

To scream

And pray

For salvation

At the feet of the bygone

As if the pacification

Being a privilege

Of corpses

As if the cries

Are meant to be

Lullaby

As if the tattering shadows

are meant to carry

the weight of darkness

in the wide open graves

robbed of its gloom

off the wailing nights

where silence is a delicacy

often served dipped in

blood and tears

where luxury of solitude

requires one to pay

the price of

emancipation

to the mob

that enthralls itself

at the sight of

kneeling heap of cowards

and treads upon

their hollow groan

chanting liberation

as if a ritual

to succumb

to fall, in

an unavoidable chasm

of regrets

as if a ritual

to perform

the sermons of life…”

Praveen Parasar

20/7/2017

Funeral!

“Droplet of words

Collected over time

Hardened enough

To withstand

The wrath of silence

Placed carefully

one upon another

Erecting a tomb

For

The beloved scream

Who died

Isolated, stranded

In that grave

Haunted of its own

Unable to escape

Walls of the days

Built around

Thick enough to

Suffocate

passing by nights

And strangle

The leftover darkness

Kept hidden

Beneath those eyes

Wide awake

Watching themselves

Being stoned

By the rocks

Made of blank papers

Carrying stains

Of tears

And leaving behind

A trail of withered solitude…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“As if one must have something to identify with. Be it language, color, religion, nation, tradition, culture and the list continues to habits and interests. What defines our existence is not our intellectual capability but our ability to carry on the legacy of animalistic past of having an identification as a must to survive in the jungle where only rule that applies is survival of fittest and fit are only those who could make themselves a part of something, and hence the primordial struggle or rather conspiration to form and break them. There is no individual existence, having nothing to identify with. You don’t exist as a phantom, with a mask or blank papers. Ask god, even they could not, alas! 

Mirage…!

“I could feel

our love

like a droplet of rain

upon bare skin

on a hot summer afternoon

I could feel it

Like the smell of

Dust, dry soil

Being drenched in rain

As if I was being drenched

In your smell

I could feel it

Like the lazy sunshine

On a Sunday morning

Sneaking inside

Taking a peek

Kissing you softly, and

Watching you watch it

Melt, drown in your embrace

I could feel you

Like a vague dream

Lucid enough to be believed

Being real, a mirage…”

Praveen parasar

18/06/2017

Existence!

Droplets of time

Rolling down

cheeks of space

drowning the shadow

in abyss of darkness

while weight of gravity

feels too much to hold

the universe explodes

here and now

there and then

initiates a tragedy

inflating itself

engulfing it all

until a moment

where it gets to meet

its nemesis

there exists

a melancholia so deep

which dries the sea of time

and soaks the flesh of space

and buries the gravity deep

beneath its own weight

where nothing exists

neither a birth

nor a death

where day is a prisoner

of its own dilemma

and night wanders around

drunk

where the darkness

offers glimpses

into

void of emptiness

there lies

deserted graves

carrying fragments of chaos

filled with

an absolute

nothingness

as if left behind

awaiting salvation

asking passer-by

‘here, come and rest

in silent abode of dead’

In that moment

Which brings

death in bits of life

life in chunks of death

and a few drops of tears

to quench

the primordial thirst, alas!”

Praveen Parasar

14/06/2017