The Silence

It is never a solo play. The head has a dozen plus one voices clamouring like an impoverished family living in a makeshift settlement.

It begs for silence. No trees, no stars, no eye candies.

And you can never tell what brings about that silence.

A graffiti, a sitcom pun, a blues track, Tiffany’s diamonds, brown orbs felt on your back, a pentagon or 666: the call of Satan. Who cares! Who cares what your silence is if it protects. .

.

And if you are one of those who judge the open use of middle fingers, well, breathe, it’s just a lack of silence.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

Advertisements

Sixteen

A sixteen year old once made this unique pact with life. And life, in her notorious search of amusement, accepted it.

The girl asked for poetry. Poetry at the cost of sadness.

Today, the 21 year old version of her can confidently say that she was wrong. Nothing in life is worth sadness. No beauty, no fame, no talent, no pretty boys.

Now, like the overgrown heap of malnourished art appreciators, many will exemplify Van Gogh. I say, “What in hell did Van Gogh earn from a life of sadness, lunacy and a maimed ear.

You say, “Art.”

I say,” You’re ignorant to think that the lost and departed soul of Gogh would be flying in ecstasy seeing his oil paintings nailed and secured on the walls being critiqued and tasted by a handful of conceited men and women who know their cuisine and snapped by million others that swarm around the bright and artsy like bumble bees.

The human heart feeds on happiness. It is a simple organ. Its painted red because blood is red, because wine is red, because emotions are red, because love is red. And that’s all it needs. Some red.

So after this, if you find yourself to suddenly be sixteen again, I beg you to choose happiness over everything.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

(Photo: Starry night- Van Gogh, Google images)

The perks of travel

There are two kind of artists. One with poetry running in their veins and others who inject poetry inside themselves . (We have vials of Radiohead, Shakespeare and Van Gogh in the nearest stores 24×7).

Second chooses the unrest that first tries to escape.

Anyhow, both create poetry in music, words and colours.

As an artist, you know what happiness is. The right cord, right metaphor, right stroke. But if you are the former category, you might know a different sort of happiness too. Oblivion. Forgetting that art exists. The only truth being breaths and headaches.

With all honesty, eeking poetry is wonderful. Then again, one has to bleed to do that. Bleeding releases endorphins, yes. But bleeding weakens. Up until regeneration. (It’s somewhere in the marrow. I’m sure of it).

Travel is for these moments of oblivion.

And if you are infested by darker stuff, the Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage kind of stuff, travel is just champagne to help in slow self devouring.

Well,

in the end,

Artists die of their art. In 20 years or 100. And travel, it sticks on their walls as both a milestone and a tombstone.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

**dissection of a staple poem **

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d […].

These four lines are known to me like the back of my hand.

Many familiar hearts recite it better than their own beats.

(As usual, a movie won over ink and paper).

My fondness to these classic lines made me play them in my head like a broken record.

With time,

the spell worked. Something is lost now. Something missing from inside of me. I can feel it. It’s been erased over centuries.

The painful realisation came later-

it’s always the mind that goes ‘spotless ‘. The bastard heart remembers.

It suffers.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

(Photo: Google images)

Birds and Farewells

I dreamt of birds.

Warm black in an icy blue sky.

They perched on a cherry blossom, the softest of pink if I remember correct. Like cotton candy atop a forbidden hill.

A ripple then.

The painting dissolved.

Branded my chest before farewell.

My heart smells of wet paint now.

The black birds soar free in it. The cherry blossom sheds in full glory.

He is in peace.

It’s Homecoming.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

(Photo: Google images)

Two pair of brown orbs

Two pair of brown orbs foxtrotting,

half stumbling, half hurting through two dimensions-

One unfolding lives and other unfolding bodies.

Two pair of brown orbs, unaware of impact,

maintain the gruesome contact

As crowds roll by and noise goes still.

Two pair of brown orbs, one making love to the celestial and other to some heart as the clock strikes 12.

Two pair of brown orbs crushing conscience,

shunning virtues to dance in ignorance on the Rooster’s call.

Two pair of brown orbs doomed on a lease, with sin and a death within.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

(Photo: Google images)

Dear Hydrophobe,

To love another broken human isn’t just a pretty piece of fiction. They have pointy edges and trembling hearts.

Play superhero within your might. No one hails a hydrophobic’s attempts at saving a drowning man.

You say, it is impossible to love under boundaries. I say that if you love yourself first, boundaries appear.

You say, true love doesn’t fear the other’s brokenness. I say that two broken hearts can only play one bad cacophony.

Lick your own wounds. If it doesn’t sting, go on! Mend the other. But if it does, wait. Heal.

Don’t get me wrong. I too believe that love is all powerful. But, under no circumstance, is self love any inferior to love for others.

Loving another human should not hurt.

Loving another human should not belittle you.

Heal yourself first.

Love yourself first.

And trust me, love will reward.


-Dusk-

All rights reserved @ofpapyrusandink

(Photo: Google images)