Dissections...

Finally all my days have become the same.

There are no more coincidences. Nothing is a surprise. This might be a sign of belated wisdom. I am hopeful. Or, overall boredom. I am cynical.

I do not remember a time when I did not seek pros with cons. Even before I heard of their combined powers from elders, parents, friends, teachers, random soothsayers, aunts, cab-drivers, men, more men, pimple-struck teenagers. Everybody. Almost.

Remember, I did not need sermons. I was born with enough noises in my head. And over years they have only multiplied and how! My 'how' is not an empty 'how'. The voices have multiplied overwhelmingly, so that now, I smile too much. Often dumbly. I smile at the parliament-like hullabaloo within my small head. I smile when people talk to me, and I do not follow much of their words.

Crack a joke and I will judge your humor. Judge it against mine. I will bestow my laughter judiciously. In the interim, I shall smile.

Pie-chart was my favorite idea of a graph. I often make it inside my head and come up with three sections- writing, movies, jabber. Often while hungry, my mental pie-chart takes on the form of a healthy pizza. An aloo-paratha, an enormous chocolate cake, and blah and blah depending on my appetite and craving.

Do not throw words at me till they have enough weight. Especially when my ears are on fire. I might throw pretty heavy ones back leading to much injury and bandage.

Finally, all my poems are identical. Till I sleep at the idea of reading them. Mundane and somber, like memoirs of things cliched and insignificant. Full of oranges, evenings, browns, embers, past, lost, you name it! You could!

Dead-ends are lessons. They tell you that you cannot run anymore.

Nothing Comes of Nothing.

I remember I wrote to you
Everyday in the Autumn.
I remember writing in Spring too
In Summer, Sadness,
Laughter, Languidness
Through the brown, sadder Rains.
I remember I wrote
Every Season
Everyday.

Nothing can come of nothing
King Lear roared in my ears
In old voices
In humid classrooms.
I wrote to you
Every way
Lest I be Hamlet.
Hamlet with the sweat on his brow,
Sigh, the monsoony Calcutta evenings.

I remember you had spoken,
Lighting up the fleeting
October purple
The dazed city sky
Hopeful of another dawn.
I remember Plath
And I remember Camus.
The scent of arguments on those walks
I remember your clear eyes.

I wrote, I wrote madly.
I spoke till our voices were tired
And lives choked.
I remember I wrote the end
The year-ends and silver evenings
Laden with failures,
Burnt like never before.

Nothing came of nothing.
Parmenides had proved,
Old Lear had told.
I remember the emptiness of all diaries,
The shrill cry of winter wind
Moaning.
I remember Ophelia drowning in those pages,
I remember I kept writing,
The sole writer of it all.