April 15, 2011

Waiting.

AS I sit in my room fully lit by dead light of charcoal, burnt and dead. I can see the breeze trying to unsettle the plastic packaging of a small-filtered cigarette. The burning, hurting of the smoke in my lungs - near my heart, amplifies the feeling that I have for her. Wishfully I imagine her sleeping alone, her only company - tear stained blankets with my name on them. The computer screen displays the red, blue and green of our lives. No colors. Just a charcoal stained universe. A charcoal is ash. Nothing else. Ashes of our dreams, aspirations, future, our lives. All has turned grey, in the flickering of the florescent lamps, the waiting impatient air. We are stuck in the nanosecond of our life, waiting for a metro, that'll wait for a birthday, for a funeral, for a meeting - future. A meeting of old friends, of love lost so painfully, that you don't feel anything anymore. As I wait smoking every cigarette to the filter, as they run out. Nostalgia mixed with hopes.I know everyone will miss this metro, now or later or maybe even in the past.I think of it as a solution to our mistakes, shortcomings, dead ends - the truth. This metro, the subterranial train, drawing all the sewage of our lives to the future. I know...we...I will miss this one.
  The time for burning guitars, of raven, dry, wild hair, of peace misunderstood and youth that'll be forgiven has already past. All those ashes, all that weight laden as fragrance on the night breeze has long past turned the honeysuckle to stone and my eyes to a bloodshot red. We have come a bit close to the Sun I think. She has gone a bit too far from me...I believe.
  The truth in sense is that we have migrated from the surface to find an underground passage to rectify the past. Jimi Hendrix can only be alive in the black and white movies of his recordings. Pink Floyd can only be real now-a-days on the oscilloscopes of our music players and Music can only help us to try and shake our brains off our bodies.
  Breathe in. Burn. Stain my fingers yellow, my air grey. Where do I hide these tears? Tears of ages, From childhood till today. How many bags of pearls wasted and recorded in memories? How will you feel the rain that is falling continually? Tell me how shall I measure her tears? How may I carry their weight? How do I have any hope to dream, that I might tell her, that I'm still waiting in the rains of that forgotten monsoon? When she's gone so far away in the rain, that my sound may not reach her - that maybe she doesn't want to hear me. How long will little Joshua wander till he finds a home?
  Exhausted and sleepless I sit on this damp chair, waiting and smoking. All that has been done. All the battles and chances lost, have drained me. My time is ticking in sync with the melancholy music of the last nickels in my pocket. It is still raining and will always for me, so I don't feel it. I want to shake that neat ironed suit, bespectacled and tense, to return to his daughter and hold her in his arms. I want to tell him if he boards this train, he will miss little Julia forever. And as the sound of the train approaches I wish to delay its coming for a fuzzy haired man, racing to the station through the traffic. Just for a second.
  And as the metro arrives, I walk upto the doors and hope that I might find her, waiting for me. The doors close. A second. I don't find her. Then I sit and light another one. Not all dreams come true, some become flames and ashes that escape into the dark cold universe, never to return. And some ghosts shall live to haunt the universe forever. And the only thing that matters is that: You Breathe, because in dreams there is no air. Only storms and sunshine.
Amen.

1 comment:

Aadi said...

As Osho says, this comment has now become a lie. I can just feel it all.