Inspiration.

I sit around
Trying to work things out
Fitting together
The jigsaw pieces of life
The world spinning round and round

It takes inspiration
To reach a worthy destination
Not just too much preparation
Or unending perspiration

Dealing with a wordly fascination
With acceptance and inhibition
Procrastination fit for an entire generation
And that's a pretty lethal combination.

What inspires me the most
It could be the pitter-patter of precipitation
Or the bustling life, the moving colours
Or a railway station.

It takes inspiration
To create poetry in motion
Writing fiction with conviction
Silly superstitions
The same pen, paper and imagination.

IndiBlogger Nomination and Other Stuff

Ten years in this school and I finally get something published in the Gallop, that's the school magazine, by the way. Though I didn't want it to happen, it did. And that too.. I won for writing a poem which I didn't even consider worth looking at. It was fun writing.. but not so fun when you read it. I'll post it on here soon.. and it's not so much a poem as something written by a rap artist or a songwriter.. not as poetic as I usually go for. But writing on 'Inspiration' in a set time of 40 minutes isn't my idea of creative freedom. But what the hey :D

So, I've nominated my blog for the IndiBlogger of the Month competition. So I guess you could vote for it if you feel like. I blog this just for the record. And NOT for votes. But I would really like it if I lose by a small margin. I don't have a chance winning, so as well lose with a little flair.

http://www.indiblogger.in/nominations.php?id=4

People who aren't on IndiBlogger yet could sign up. It's an interesting place to spend your time in. Thanks a bunch if you vote, and thanks again if you don't. I'll know I have to get better at this and improve. I already know that but little reminders go a long way.

Nostalgia's a funny thing. It's always in this sepia-coloured faded sort of background, the landscape of the days and the years. Old and faded, folded around the corners, crumpled in places ..

It's like a song which keeps playing in your head. On the loop. Never stopping.

What with all the old, smiling, wise faces, the part which I know as well as the back of my hand. And sometimes I'm scared of a bright, shiny new character popping up on the screen in my head. Which really doesn't belong there.

But something brighter and new keeps coming up. And like a naive, innocent, stupid child I stare into it instead of shielding my eyes like one ought to. It hurts.

Untried, unstested. New and alien. It's like a blotch, overpowering the comforting smell of nostalgia, keeping you awake like a bad dream does. Only except you don't know if it's good or bad.

It thrills and leaves you wishing it were true. When you look back and see that you've got all that you need.. it comes snapping back at you.. whispering your own words in your ear. And sometimes you revel in the glory and sometimes you back away from it.

Shut your mind to it. And try to hum the song that always played in your head. But there's a new song now. A new feeling. A new meaning. It's like ecstacy.

But most of the time, it hurts. It hurts because you know you aren't supposed to do it. Time has made you wise, almost like the wise faces in your old photograph. But you are not them. And you wish "time" had been different.

That you could still be the naive innocent, stupid child that stares into the brightness, and lets it engulf her being. Burn her to the core. But now she's shielded, she's strong, she can no long do anything wrong.. because she knows.

The present's a void I'm not pressed to fill in. It exists like an empty room. Unwanted. Un-needed. It's like an extension of the past, a few metres behind the starting line, the past's like the starting credit of a movie, and the future's the beginning of the end credits.. I picture the first line in white against black as they start rolling in.

And the movie could be a tragedy, a comedy, drama.. or a genre that hasn't even been invented yet. I just hope I can figure it out well before the end.

It takes you on a ride.. smashed you up in a freak accident. And then pushes on as if nothing ever happened. It's like a circle that has no end. It's like thar bright red dot on a sepia background.

The only downside to my condition is that there's not much to write without a perspective. Confusion does nothing. I don't do anything. I'm stuck. And it's just there.

Soliloquy.

As I lie on my back
And I breath out
Waves of quiteness
Wash over me

As I live on

I wander outside
Look at the trees
The birds
And I smile

Words
People
Ideas
And thoughts

Pass through
The panorama
Of my mind
Unattended

I feel the coldness
On my skin
The warmth
In my heart

Bereft
Of
Searing fire
The icy sting

The graceful ballad
It used to sing

Instead

There hums a trifle tune
A fire just went up
In fumes

And I wonder
If that's really
What I want
Is this me,

Am I mine?

Ill-equipped
Disinformed
Can solipsism
Really turn me on

I really don't feel
Too strong
As I feel my way
Against the wall

Framed
In the mirror
Is this
What it feels like

Being free
Being strong
Telling yourself
You are not

Wrong

Peace
All around
Utopia
It is found

And I wonder
If that's really
What I want
Is this me,

Am I mine?

But then
Why
Does this all
Feel so wrong?

The softness
The touch
The caress
The whisper

Your eyes
Your lips
Your hair
Your fingers

A throbbing heart
A calm conversation
The pain
Of simple reason

And I wonder
If that's really
What I want
Is this me,

Am I mine?

Do I
Mean to be..
Am I..
Are you..
Is our world

Really.. "Fine"?

The answers
Remain
A bit
Too far

But

The truth is out
For you to see

Remember
What I said
Was not always
True

I don't belong to me

I was
Am
Will be

Always

Part of You.

. . .

"It's Raining. Let's Go For a Walk."

Being born in July, it's like I found a twin. It always will be the sweetest experience. Undeniably. The ecstatic stinging drops dancing on you, the first ones of the season. Never miss them. Well, yes, even after they tell you about the acid in it.

My first memories of the rain would be going out on my birthdays.. with my father, in the front seat of the car. The wipers going swish swish on the screen, and me leaning ahead to catch up with the changing scene. The precious 3 seconds I could I get a clear view. And nearing a speed-breaker my father would gently push me back with his left hand as he steered with his right. I would look at him and smile.

It always rained on my birthday. And I loved it. Loved every bit of it. With the core of my heart. It would be around half past four in the evening when I'd step out in my birthday glory, all dressed up and shiny. Under an umbrella, I'd rush out to the car and settle back. Like a princess. In her glorious carriage. A carriage shaped like a pumpkin maybe. I was Cinderella. And my 12 O'Clock would last forever.

We would reach the bakery, get the cake. I would always get an extra slice of blackforest pastry to go, and eat it on the way home. All I would see out of the window was black and green. The rain soaked roads. And the highlighted trees. The fresh, crispy crunchy air hitting me on the face. Little droplets of happiness plopping on my arm. And I would burst out laughing in joy.

Then it was ooh-aahing in the balcony with now long-lost friends. We would stretch out our arms to get as many raindrops as we possibly could and then would rub it all over. Sprinkle it on each other. And stand grinning stupidly at the rain.

I was 6 and Dil Se came out. And then I was 7 and Taal happened. I fell more in love the rain. Knee deep. Sinking, maybe. The starting scene in Dil Se is timeless. I fall in love with it more and more, every time I watch it. Though probably I didn't understand much of it when I was 6, it still flicked on some swtich in me. And it has probably made me who I am.

I haven't watched Taal many times but it seemed to as if rain was there for half the movie at least. And it looked beautiful. It was all that mattered. And I live in a place where there's about a dozen trees for a house. And not many houses. Not too close together. The green jumps out of my visions and goes deep inside me. It's like love at first sight all over again. And again.

Life happened when I was 8. It was my new school. It is the most beautiful building I've ever set eyes on. Will always remain that. And it had a special connection with rain. I started school in July. The first year it opened. Nothing can tear away good memories.

I remember rain in a lot of places. At the lake. At home. At school. A number of places outside my city. There is a multitude of sounds and smells that say "rain". That say monsoon. They tell me that life is what I want it to be. I wish I could make a soundtrack of my life. The rain wouldn't stop playing all along.

Remember going back from my friend's house, walking on the street against a strong monsoon gale. Torrential rain slashing through everything. When I finally made it home I wanted to go back out again.

When I’ll look back at my life some decades later, walking in the rain would be an important part of growing up. Whether it was with dreamy, screamy teenage angsty music hooked on to my ears or with just the rain, it had its charm. It was mostly in the nights, when I wasn’t locking myself up in my room. Outside, it was cold, the darkness enveloping me, it was comforting. While I cried about a thing or two, sighed and then let it go.

I remember going outside at 3 in the night, and grinning at the sky like some maniac. I remember telling someone, “I like romancing the rain.” And I sort of of feel he should’ve been confused about if he should be jealous. But I don’t know.

A kiss in the rain. That has made its place in almost everyone’s “things to do before I die” list. I had it on mine too. But I’m not so sure now. Just sometimes. I’m scared if two happy memories would cancel each other out. But I truly hope not. I’ve never been good at math.

Lying in bed, listening to the staccato sound of the pattering rain. While I lay on my bed, and sighed and wished it went on forever. Not many sounds compare. Yes, the sound of someone’s voice in the night. Whispering sweet nothings. Like sometimes the rain does. It imbibes a feeling of hope. It’s like a little elixir, water, when you’re dying of say, scorpion poison, wandering around in a desert. A thousand miles to go. And you find an oasis. But sometimes it’s just a mirage and you can’t quite get there.

It’s unfair how people use the terms “don’t rain on my parade”, or something similar. It’s almost insulting. I also hate the sun after the rain. Well, I hope it doesn’t quite get there as not going aww when you see a cute puppy (yes, now THAT it inhuman).

Last week, there was English class. Torrential unbelievable rain storm. Window. Classroom. Rang bells. But someone was missing. Some things were missing. That sinking feeling of helplessness. As I wake up tomorrow I’d see the rain, I’d stretch my hand out, and live for another day.

It all ties itself up in knots, the insurmountable happiness, the tearing pain I connect with the raindrops. Going for walks with my dog. An occasional game of football in the mud. Catching crabs when they came out. Some in the garden, some in the backyard. But we always let them go back in the evening. For they had dinner to eat. A school to go to. Well, who knows what they get up to. What equals the “rainy happiness”.

People say and repeat the quotation, they walk in the rain so that no-one sees them crying. Well, I walk in the rain so I can stop crying. Crazy stuff. Crazy life.

I’d wake up tomorrow and go out and stretch out my hand and feel the rain. ‘Cause I know it will be there. And it all ends in the sweet realization that every year, around the same time, bringing the same ecstasy, there would be rain. There would be happiness and there would be hope. Even if no one or nothing else is with me. Even if nothing remains. It teaches me to live. It teaches me to love.