Let the wind...

Scribbling:
"Let the wind carry us
Like it carries the essence
of a flower
Through the graves
Of someone dear...
Let the wind carry us
To places
Where memories flourish
Where in we may find
Dried leafs of flower we hid
Beneath heaps of books
Let the wind carry us
Where lies poetries
And stories
For they are the places
Where we could be together
Forever, we could
Pluck the stars, kiss the moon
Lay down all night by sand dunes
Let the wind carry us
To you, to me
To us
And we could be alive
Forever... "

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Nature has no emotion, nature is raw, it plays by no rule, and it never cares who dies and who lives. We are born with no emotion, it is only once we realize how helpless we are all alone in the world since our birth, we learn to pretend, We learn to devise various ways to claim our means of livelihood. Nature in wild is raw, it kills and get killed and bothers little about mayhem around, it flourishes upon dead and alive alike.  We learnt to manipulate the nature, we learnt of emotions, we made ourselves believe in terms of love, hate, fear, power, rage, anger, pain, and so on… nature has no emotion, it is hungry it will kill its own child and feed itself, there’s no anger in it, no pain, no fear, no rage. Nature makes love and once satisfied it eats own mate like a ritual. We had devised emotion with a strong faith that it would help us rule upon nature, we would set up gods to guard upon us who would control the nature in return for us. Gods made by us, out of nature, to control nature, to guard us and help us rule nature in return for we would pray to those gods to let us do so. Alas! Nature plays by no rule and the moment it wishes we and our gods are left buried somewhere in wild wrapped in our manipulated emotions. Nature doesn’t cry upon dead, nature doesn’t celebrate life, it just continues, like a zombie sleep-walking across a dark alleyway.”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“You knew you were walking upon a swampland, sooner or later weight of your own shadow was going to swallow you still you chose to pretend to be on high ground. Ignorance, a willful act of crime, a human error, whatever you name it, it is not going to change the fact nobody else could be blamed for the act. Who is guilty when your own hangs you in thin air and leaves you gasping for little air?

Gasp, gasp and more but whatever little air you would suck out of blackened sky would only choke you, for you burnt it on your own for a long time; drop by drop you turned it into a cemetery while pretending to design a garden. You dug your own grave, planted yourself neck deep and convinced yourself you were standing still on firm ground. What else could be more tragic than to be betrayed off your own shadow, as if you were wandering for so long with a shadow of someone else?

He felt as if he was wearing skin of someone else, his flesh did not belong to him, his blood had color he had never seen or did he? He wanted to recognize himself but how? He was like an actor who was too good with his makeup to even recognize himself.”

Wanderings…!

“As if an abyss without darkness

You could see yourself falling, and falling

Down and deeper

As if across the length of a sea

You scream

To be an echo

While your voice

Float across horizon

As if clouds without rain

Wandering as if breeze

Carrying no poetry across mountains

Breeze of winter

Harsh and cold

As if life itself

For to be a poetry without words

And a night without darkness

What pity, it must be

To be left on one’s own

While listening to tick tock of the clock

As it dictates of the rulebook

While the world stifles to

Stand in attention

One must not miss

Yet, he felt left alone

As if a shot missed

While shooting to kill

He must be charged with felony

A crime of severe consequence

To devoid the world, himself

Of his self

How could he, how could he?

He wondered

Where was it leading to?

Run, run away

As strange as it felt

He flew away

As if for ever

But to where

As if flying over the sea

To no end, Alas!

Only if he knew what this ever meant

To be a sailor without ship

To be a poetry without words

To be an I without self

To be a you without I

Standing beneath

Shadow of himself

A banyan tree

Yet naked branches

Who resides among?

Who rests along?

A few mellow cries

A few shallow dreams

Or may be

Just a few hollow nightmares

He dreaded

Tagging along

Who cares anyway?

For life moves on

With you

Without you

As always,

Wake up

Sleep

Swim along

Buried beneath

while

Someone will place a bouquet

And a few words

For you,

Words

For who else

Could define

A life lived short

A death half lived

A drop of tear

Unsaid, unheard

Wiped away

Off the face

Just like that...”

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 06/03/2016

Scribbling

Scribbling:
"And the rain came by
As if a long lost romance
To pour itself all through the night
And as it drenched him, drowned him
As if in a dream, for who else could quench
A thirst he treasured..."

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Moments when your own shadows starts to pull you down beneath your feet, your ideas drag you behind your back, your own self trolls you for attempting a rescue, for where could you run after all. He remembered himself imagining being in a dark lane, dark as if even to imagine a self seemed like an illusion, no headway, a complete shallow ground full of thoughts springing every second in that unstable mind of his; where could he run to, to hide to, he was being exposed and he had no chance against those well-convinced thoughts to counter and keep himself standing. What could be more tragic than to see you being impounded with ideas you believed defined yourself. Apparently they did not define him but asked questions to him of his being, but only if he knew. His own self felt like an enigma to him, more he understood more it asked him to understand and the abyss of exploration continued. The more he tried, the more he felt non-existent, for even ideas need a firm ground to be seeded upon, alas! He felt too weak to be held responsible, as much that even his shadow thought of abandoning him…”

Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling
Tragedy of wanderer:
"Time did heal my wounds
And stitched my scars
Made a moon out of million stars
But only if time knew
It was none other than scars
Who kept me alive
As stars does to the sky
When night is alone and dark
For while the moon tempts and glows
Stars turn into black holes
Where nothing exists but a darkness exquisite
And now I am no more than
A dead body, wrapped in a white coffin
Without any sign of life
Pretending to rest in peace, alas!