Tuesday, November 19, 2013

How strangely and awkwardly the days past, 
Days blurr into months and years, as though it happened
 within a click of our fingers and now it has paused, slowed down
And how we are all grappling with our lives
Valiently, sometimes indifferently, forever given to despair
And everyday we tell ourselves we are too far behind
How we envy those who know for sure
We are given to frequent daydreams
Inquiring about insignificant details
Of what flowers we would put in the office
Once we get the job
Which place to travel to with our first paycheck
No other age has been as startling as the one
we have finally stumbled into late one night
Intoxicated with wine, peering stupidly at the mirror
Unaware of the threshold we had crossed
Such electrifying glory it was,
Given to great depths of joy 
And to think that all of this will be gone too
In a flash right in front of our glazed eyes,
Dissolving into each other like mist.

Friday, November 15, 2013


You are at age when nothing holds you,
Any slight contact with the world bruises you
You write
 but it's not quite writing
More of strange words disconnected from each other
Each word sitting alone
Unable to reach out 
and form a sentence.
There is too much thrashing and clawing
 for things that are too early for you to grasp on to.
And hope and belief seems fraudulent words
Your young heart is wary of them already,
Suspicious, watchful and stays away.
You dread the cold immense nights stretched out infront of you,
with daytime so far away
You still haven't gotten used to loneliness
Not yet.
But there are certain consolations, you tell yourself
Soaking in the warm winter sun with the book
 you were supposed to save up for the dreary days of December.
 And walks, long solitary aimless walks
 in which you end up dreaming out loud to yourself.
But what you really have
you don't know yet.
And that partly makes up
For what you can no longer call your own.