Soumya Scribbles...

Your love is that of sea. You love mountains So your words echo, the ones you say. And for the silence, it's turbulent. It comes in waves and I taste salt. There are moments when we differ. We all do. Your anger comes in waves, dive and burst. You say I am oceanic. My emotions have no end but one must explore; you do. For the times you have waited for me to call your name, I have been busy keeping your memories in the heart of the ocean. You have asked, Have you been restless, ever? I have only tried. Depth is a burden at times. You will never know. The times I have cried and called your name, I was too deep. I am blue. SoUmY@

Let us not know each other tonight Let us not think what we could have said, what we had to, what we can, what we should. Let us just, unknowingly, make a story. Today you can just hold my hand, or not. We can keep silence; it grows distance which someone says, is comforting. I can blurt it out today. I can tell you how many times I have missed you and cried and laugh about it, just. You can count yours. Happy face? Let us not call it a love too. We have seen too much of it, haven't we? Let us just unknow what we don't And say, we knew each other, unknowingly. SoUmY@

Today I want to write about the imperial sadness that spreads way above you and me; Like the roots of a tree that threatens the earth and embraces like an octopus. Stoic is the sky and there is one moon that is sad. At this hour, darkness is silk You can wear it and cry unnoticed. We know not why even truths have versions. There are different truths; stories to tell. We choose convenience. Or sometimes the other. If you are afraid of heights, fly. You may meet a cocoon who decided to date back and became a caterpillar. SoUmY@

This winter the hummingbird did not come to the banyan tree in front of my room. I saw leaves ageing and dying and every morning hoped for the chirps I so longed to hear. Perhaps, birds are like humans. They just fly away someday and never return. I forget that even the ones with wings can be escapists. Or is it me, judgmental? Expectations have given me many a seasonal disappointments. People migrate from one place to the other; from one relation to another. Almost like seasons, they are. The traits, the aura, the magic each time is different. You can not blame one for doing that. Then that hummingbird is to be cursed first. But. Let us talk about the residue now. The remnance are the ashes which will kindle another candle. Yes emotions. I wonder if they change. I wonder if we feel differently if we love different people in different times. Is not that a migration too? Maybe some of you would be able to answer that yourself. Our earthly belongings - they move too. In my office I am ju...

1 2 3 4 5 6 I discuss no maths here. They are bricks, that pile up events after events, bygone, as remnants. Have you seen the sea shore? What is left of the sands After a wave passes by. Relations, us. I have seen togetherness die one night and in the next, individuals are born. Do they live? Some questions only embarrass the affected. I wonder if the ashes after death hold a life's memory. I feel they do. Futility adds a lot of understanding. Ashes are thus, such. For a leaf is born in the same place where the tree sheds in winters. And with our faded memories we cry, Why don't emotions have chlorophyll? SoUmY@

Someday I feel I will write an essay. Words should have the luxury of coming in twins, build a locality of its own. Poetry for them is a lonely space. Each preciously used to carry out a task ( we call meanings) and until they are done, pretend as if they are someone else. Metaphor, some call it. I wonder if I will ever be able to shred the too many 'I's I use in an I-tem. If ever I can live upto to write what is non personal. Something that talks about trees, seas, mountains, hills, Sun and the moon and for a moment reserves the blunt knife for some blunt-er souls ( like me ofcourse, no offense to you). Reality has come into halves all my life. I have dreamt the other. Like the conventional glass case, I have measured the half empty moments of life and treasured the half fulls. For a strange optimist I have been, the reason for pessimism has also been the same. I know people who invent ways to sadden themselves. There is a strange negative energy to it, a sense of security in ...

I want you to know tonight if I die in my sleep, do not forget to switch the AC off tomorrow. Bread, butter, jam will be on the table and oh yes, keys in the hall. I want you to know tomorrow if I do not wake up, Remember what is left of us is under the bed; Photos, letters - memories and a whole lot. Do not just leave me like any other day. Coming back will be a discomfort. I want you to know tonight if you be more indifferent, I would not mind. I am used to your late night whispers, pretensions conveniently termed 'office calls'. You were never a good liar. But, tomorrow I may just wake up as if I have changed my mind And burn this letter. Its the hundredth time. What you won't know is, Like that piece of paper, I have only dreamt of being read oneday. There has never been a pulp fiction. Perhaps there never will be. SoUmY@