Tragedy of Wanderer!

Tragedy of Wanderer:

And suddenly he felt them coming all at once, for which he wasn't ready and it was not that he did not want it, he dreamt of it but now at its real sight, it scared him more than anything. He found words all over his body, burying him below, suffocating his breath, blocking his nerves, sucking his blood out of tensed veins. He felt the air getting heavier around, he was losing sight of everything. He took out his glasses, wiped it couple of times, placed it back upon his eyes but alas! It was all getting blurred so fast, damn not because he could not see them, but because they were too many to see anything through them. His eyes started feeling the pain hard, he got to do something fast, but what, he could not think of. Drink! Drink! A voice came, but who was it, never-mind, he opened the bottle gulped down mouthful of that bitter fluid. Boom! He had been kind of bulldozed off his body and thrown in a dark corner of his own shadow, where he saw nothing but darkness beneath his Skeleton being licked by source of millions of ant like words, poisonous and thirsty. He offered them his bottle; they laughed and filled their glass with his blood, Smell of his own blood started making him high. He started losing grip off his glass slowly, Being cursed! 

~ Praveen Parasar

Be...!

Be…!

 

Be, like water

But that of a river, not pond

For it flows forever, moving on

Lively and regrets never

 

Be, like a tree

But of wild, not of fancy flower-pots

For it grows and bows

Offers shadow to all that goes

By, sticks to roots yet touches

Sky, asks for nothing but

A gentle hug and lets one fly

 

Be, like sea

But of deepness and silence, not to rage

For it accepts them all and yet stays calm

Cursed it may be, as left longing of own thirst

But life to many and carrier of pearls, just

A courage to dive deep, asks for no more

Glimpse of distant horizon, let’s you sail adrift

 

Be, like a soul

But that of a child, not of grown men-women

For it being a pure as dew drop upon the grass

Away from greed, and nothing to hide

And corrupt being those of later

Smiles for no reason, loves whatever be the season

Paints a rainbow in the sky, amidst dark clouds raging

 

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 24/02/2014

 

Togetherness!

Togetherness!

 

Temptation of one distant and far

Silent night amidst murmur of stars

Left to burn in shadow of darkness

Who holds forth, dimly lit candle or bleeding heart ajar?

 

Looked all around, looked high above

Looked by dawn, and did so to dusk

Looked beyond sights and looked afar

Alas! Looked not within, looked not by the side

Not even once, O dear! Such pity

 

Ignorance being punishment, for

Dusk offers a glimpse, to

Poor of poorest, lover’s biased art

Un-imaginative, afraid of dark

Thus corrupt, fools, who else but retard

 

But, said none her heart, said none her eyes

Cried alike that candle burning slowly by her side

For she being the one of similar fate and tried

Fading in his shadow, yet showed him his path

 

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 16/01/2014

 

Picture art by: Milton Avery - White Moon, 1957

 

 

 

 

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“There was no escape anymore; being made in-charge of his own solitary ruins, he was supposed to make a castle upon them, for his kingdom of solitude, with bricks of lost moments lying here and there as if pebbles of no significance. He would have to choose them one by one and raise walls around, for they might let him hear echoes of his whispering heart, to which he has failed to hear mostly till now. He would need a bit of light too, once inside. He could use rays of broken thoughts hanging here and there upon the mists, for they carry several colors, he remembers how he stole some of them while wandering around, passing by those left-over huts around that sea-shore. What next? How about a bit of fire, to keep him warm, maybe he could use fireballs made of scribbled paper which he has been keeping in the pocket of his shirt, placed just above heart, for it was what has kept his heart warm, though his skin carries scar of several burns deep inside but he never took it serious, for his heart felt better in their warm embrace, though burning.

He thought about what else he might need in that kingdom once built and locked, forever. Oh! how could he forget, he would need to scribble still and then he smiled, he needed nothing else, for He has his skin as paper, blank as a pathway walked a long time ago by a pair of soft feet and numb ever-since. For pen, he had those fingers who probably knew more than him, of scribbling, for being the first to hold that flying kite, first to touch and feel the tension of the thread, first to be robbed when they got to hold his own head, cut and bleeding. For ink, he would use his blood, before it dries to be dusted and red being his favorite color ever since he has learned about colors, fascinating and hypnotizing, he has felt its power once upon his lips and has carved for it since then. The thoughts made him shiver yet glad, filled him with a kind of aderline rush in his slowing nerves.”

 

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:

“There was no escape anymore; being made in-charge of his own solitary ruins, he was supposed to make a castle upon them, for his kingdom of solitude, with bricks of lost moments lying here and there as if pebbles of no significance. He would have to choose them one by one and raise walls around, for they might let him hear echoes of his whispering heart, to which he has failed to hear mostly till now. He would need a bit of light too, once inside. He could use rays of broken thoughts hanging here and there upon the mists, for they carry several colors, he remembers how he stole some of them while wandering around, passing by those left-over huts around that sea-shore. What next? How about a bit of fire, to keep him warm, maybe he could use fireballs made of scribbled paper which he has been keeping in the pocket of his shirt, placed just above heart, for it was what has kept his heart warm, though his skin carries scar of several burns deep inside but he never took it serious, for his heart felt better in their warm embrace, though burning.

He thought about what else he might need in that kingdom once built and locked, forever. Oh! how could he forget, he would need to scribble still and then he smiled, he needed nothing else, for He has his skin as paper, blank as a pathway walked a long time ago by a pair of soft feet and numb ever-since. For pen, he had those fingers who probably knew more than him, of scribbling, for being the first to hold that flying kite, first to touch and feel the tension of the thread, first to be robbed when they got to hold his own head, cut and bleeding. For ink, he would use his blood, before it dries to be dusted and red being his favorite color ever since he has learned about colors, fascinating and hypnotizing, he has felt its power once upon his lips and has carved for it since then. The thoughts made him shiver yet glad, filled him with a kind of adrenaline rush in his slowing nerves.”

 

~ Praveen Parasar

Tragedy of Wanderer 9

Scribbling:

 Tragedy of Wanderer -

 "For only if he would have dared to look into the eyes of his own image in front of mirror, he wouldn't have needed to hide himself behind those glasses upon his eyes, for may be he was scared to face himself, afraid of being haunted by it's questions forever, for he just chose not to and ended up being eaten inside-out raw. And now those glasses placed beside mirror sits there silently watching in that hollow void around his image hanging upon the wall, as if still mocking him, offering him a solitary glance, for free, Alas!"

Tragedy of Wanderer!

Tragedy of Wanderer!

As sensual, that touch appeared

Never any other, O why

As seductive those whispers seemed

Voice none another, O how

So lovely that one kiss felt

Lips and tongue got feathers, O what

Turned bodies all red

Rivers flowing onto each other, O heaven

Suddenly one looked so beautiful

Eyes were pleased as never ever, curious wanderer!

 

A mere illusion, a lie to self, O whether

An enduring truth, amidst false rage

Walking through a burning desert, O when

Thy shadow offered a little solace

 

Unable to fathom silence of own heart, or

Desired to forego what waited ahead,

Good or bad, this or that place

Devils own trail or a sacred trace, O none

But magic in that instant, that shows

Brighter to appear, pleasing than ever

Soothes one’s soul, leaves no fear, and there

Love being of fools, life of wise

Wanderer whistled past them wearing grand smile, O dear

For one being there just to perceive, and scribble

Hold thy close in that little closet once in a while, O again

Only to be lost in self exile

For, he learnt no good, he knew no bad

He found no love, he owed no life

 

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 07/01/2014

Tragedy of wanderer!

Scribbling:
Tragedy of wanderer -

"Probably he sensed the coming destruction from the very moment of inventing an urge of self-renaissance, to understand the very nature and desires. it always followed him like a shadow from that moment., like a deja-vu he tried to ignore them initially, kept his eyes closed despite their repeated attempts to sneak-in, not allowing hidden to take-over, for probably he understood the consequences but only till it started giving him the nightmares and what followed was even scarier though not un-expected, Disconnection!"

~ Praveen Parasar
   Date: 10/01/2014