Monday, May 21, 2012

“The story can resume, our story can resume, I will simply resume!”


Very few people touch your heart. And the fewest can dwell deep into your soul that some essence of them will be there in your conscience. A part of their perceptions and images more frequently visiting you back. Some people may change you, but very few sow the seeds of transformation, a transformation that you have feared to approach, hold hands, walk along, argue, and encounter every justification for the need of transformation that you have neglected so long. Answering so many whys and hows. There are far more differences between an ‘improvement’ and ‘transformation’. Some want you to improve so that you may meet somewhere at their ideal of their expectations, so that they can look at you, run their fingers through your hair and kiss you to squeeze out the elements that they never want you to hold, so that they can be secure and content. Some want you to transform, to stop your story, and to begin from the very beginning rather than a resumption.Forgiving yourself is the hardest part to do. If you don’t then the smile of the forgiver does not hit you, unnerve you, and won’t quench your regret. It will not make any difference. An ocean of forgiveness waiting you miles apart in the shape of people, moments and kindness. For all the mistakes you are going to do, you have an ocean of forgiveness in store for you. The only thing is you just refuse to plunge yourself into the water and get embraced by the waves and tears.

 The head slightly tilted every now and then. The fingers run faster than the thoughts. Thoughts striving to reach and slow down the far running words. What is it we call for forgiveness when the one who seeks for forgiveness cannot really seek for it anymore because those who have to forgive have slipped out of reality and distilled in to a memory? Atonement. Brione Tallis. Could they have forgiven her? Have they forgiven her before they get melted into the tears that they have shed over the years, over their unfulfilled love and passion? The fire of the two souls burns her, burning her, have always burnt her within, without, all over her existence! Guilt, cowardice, denial. False perception and false accusation by the sheer ignorance of a horrified, foolish girl.  She wrote when she was dejected and disturbed. She wrote with embellishments and adjectives, her imagination flaming like fire from the ignited phoenix surfaced from its ashes! Oh the ashes! The ashes of her supposed truth! The sense of truth has betrayed her. You didn’t know that truth can be lies! You didn’t know that your assumptions can’t be truths, that the world is different, that there are strange feelings yet to be tasted of. You didn’t know it because you were thirteen then! “How old do you have to be to know the difference between right and wrong?”  You “prevented” them from their very “ life”. Prevented them from their love that they deserved each other. Can your words ever serve for the atonement? Is it a reparation at all? If your mind has twisted your perception in a little other way round, if you were a little more grown to perceive it the right way,  then he would not have to be yearned for that resumption. Hoping their story to resume, he walked towards death, exhausted, pale, grey, still Cecilia in his vision, dream and voice.  “I will return, find you. Love you. Marry you. And live without shame.” 

Dorian Gray. His picture and his soul. Soul entrapped in his portrait. Soul rotting and soul decaying. Undying youth, unwithering charm. He sought for pleasure, “I am the flame!” The hardest flame he never allowed to flicker, the devilish pursuits unwavering his beauty, the lines of sin and its dread tracing and carving its ways in his picture. Worms wallowing and figuring in the face, the face of bartered soul, soul rasping and roaring by the most heinous crimes. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He lived in sensuality, he ruled his emotions, he revelled in his pleasures, sins, unpardonable deeds, bathing in fire of passion and ever gleaming youth. Dorian Gray. The man who forbid nothing, but his conscience. Conscience. Don’t you hear it? How often its grinding moans been reaching you! Don’t you hear it?  Beauty and youth had brought you everything. The picture has brought you everything. And the soul that you wished to abandon and merged into the picture has brought you everything and taken away one thing. Your conscience. Fatal wish! Fatal picture! Fatal hands that had painted it.  How often Wilde wrote of morality. Morality was never dissected like him with the most inverted and perverted way possible. The fashion statement of the time, the narcissicist who made use of his narcissism to flower his exquisite art, exquisite thought, exquisite wit. I wish you had resumed the story and led it to a good end. The story of Dorian Gray. Like the man in the Atonement who most yearningly, hungrily, intensely wished for the resumption of his story. Was Dorian not worth for a resumption? I guess he is not. Not worth of it. My conscience says so. I hadn’t pinned it to any picture. Not yet. Though I have pinned it so many other things.  

 Let me sweat in my wishes 
And be rinsed in my conscience.
Conscience. You know what it is? 
Is it the voice of the soul?
Or some bleak echo of some ingrained morality? 
I get wet in the rain,
Rain no longer perceived with romance,
But with the rocky dryness of a savage soul
That presses and dances and fidgets on digital gadgets.

Isn't that am doing now? Fidgeting on the gadgets instead of simply watching the rain? Let me simply resume. Let me simply resume from where my thoughts had started sailing from the drizzling water of the infinite roof. Our story can resume. Because some others could not resume;)

Thursday, May 3, 2012

"In Me Nothing is Extinguished or Forgotten!"


Good things buried should be resurrected.  Good things forgotten should be remembered. Good things however painfully gnawing should be stoically endured. The days were retrospective, melancholic, restless, hazed and foggy, insipid and plane.

I saw the stolen glassy rays from the tree tops playing on your cheeks
And I felt the bubbles of poetry clustering on my head
They refused to take shape
They dissolved the moment they were bulged
Like unrained clouds dissolving into nothing
Unblessed Water unblessed Rain
Unblessed Poetry.

Can you see me in the dark when your eyes sail far into the empty space at nights? Once I described you as a perpetual agony of my soul. Are you the same? Differences can hardly be seen for eyes whose vision is oblivion to the dalliance of colours. Colours once so subtle and effervescent. So tender and watery, they spilled and smeared on my fancy that I could almost see the stains on my fingers. There was a time I could imagine you in hues of sepia, your every detail, every angle wafting the embalmed memories of antique love. Like you and I have evolved from incarnated idols. I tried to embody you in strange metaphors for there was nothing as gratifying as poetry for praise. Some people are so beautiful that no truth will impart glory to them. Words should weep if thoughts never born for them in diluted truth and diluted lies. I searched for words that would make you want to disappear, to make you want to live only in words. Good things will resurrect never to give redemption for the liar in me. Never to give redemption for the frailty in me. For the sinner in me. Lie, frailty and sin. Sometimes they are too good to be bad.  You make me an old woman waiting for a redeemer who does not exist. You make me a little girl leaning onto the stairs for a visitor who does not exist. For I have made you invisible inch by inch from the moment we met. I thought I can’t but I could. I rubbed my eyes and saw your eclipsed beauty lamenting in the light. I made you invisible. It was hilarious to see you unseen in the light, your truth lost among the lights. I laughed.

Infatuations must die. But wait. It should go a long way. Let me leap into the fire for no water to extinguish it so soon. There is completeness to be half burnt. Infatuations not pernicious should not be loathed later.  As long as the tempter and the temptation are not known of it, it’s as sweet as untold melancholy lisping itself in the ever consuming time. Be not grieves of the evanescence of your charm. It will feed itself even in the drought of passion and dream. “In me nothing will be extinguished or forgotten”. Good things buried deep should be resurrected to blow your redemption out. Good things are never to be redeemed for redemption is often for the bad than the good;)