Brave, but not really.

I am brave. Like in physical things that solicit brazen rebellion. But in the quiet things,...those whisperings of the soul that appear shrouded and foggy even to your own mind...I fail. I give in. To the definitive baritone of patriarchy. Every fucking time. That which pumps self doubt into my anatomy. Deepening my blue every passing minute.

Brave, but not really.

Musings

On days when I run

A race I am not meant to

The disappointment creeps up

With tugs I don’t relent to

I hold my head high

And try and justify

The wanderings of a soul

That can’t pin what it’s into

Soil softened, tenderized by firm pattering rain

Like dough kneaded intimately with round fingertips

Like skin made supple by massage

Emits a distinctive smell

The smell of touch

The soil, it smells of a new beginning

As if a new possibility has arrived borne by the dark rain clouds

As if a new look of love has come into the eyes of your old lover.

My conversations with you

wordless and unreal they are

Yet I feel I can pick

them up at the exact place

where I left you so many years back.

You know exactly what I have to say

And when I hear you speak

I am reminded that we are old souls

Back in time

When the world was young

And we were wise

Together we would be

In a psychedelic of time and space,

Conversing.

So is it that what we had?

Give and take, caress and rake

With words?

Was our love just a love for words

I seriously wonder…

And hence, today when we can’t see each other

It’s them that stay

It’s our conversation that rings through the canyon of everyday existence.

We were nothing else.

We were everything

That a conversation could be.

Distractions are the allies of poets

The banker-poet

The lawyer-poet

Where would they be if not

for the distracting little birdies

that rustle about in their hair

and chirp in their ears.

The butterflies among the bulls

who beg to differ

who ache to not become

the banker banker

the lawyer lawyer

the nonconformists.

Ambition is a vice?

From what I have seen of people, Ambition has been seen to mark its bearer with a certain ruthlessness that translates to unfairness and apathy of others at times. True a man or a woman without ambition may not appear to be as driven as their counterparts but then are they the ones who are cleaner of being and nobler of souls? When Ashoka’s eyes had been coloured red with the fire of ambition to conquer, was he the same man he became towards the end? 

There is a young man I see every morning on my way to work. He must be about 25 years of age and to put it euphemistically there are things that aren’t right with his head. He sits on the sidewalk every single day and does exactly the same thing, collects gravel in his hands and smiles at the world. He is a gentleman, I personally have never spotted him in any mad rage, instead, he calls out benignly to any passing vehicle or animal and smiles shyly at them.