Tag Archives: thoughts

शायद .

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अब तक उलझी हु अपने सवालो में
दो-चार सवाल तू भी पूछ ले,
शायद कुछ सुलझ जाये
बंधी घुटन की डोर, शायद टूट जाये.

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To Be Worthy Or Not To Be!

There are days when I write a four-line poem and am satisfied with my days product.

 

And then there are days when I go out for a walk, eat the best and the healthiest, pray, get an exceptional work out before sleep (if you know what I mean), rest, work, study for my papers, read a 100 pages of the book I am reading, write an angry poetry, watch a movie (everything not necessarily in the same order) and yet I am just not satisfied! It all still feels worthless and I don’t know what to do with myself.

 

It is somewhere in the middle that I want to be, trying to find a balance. I don’ want to overdo, and neither do I want to be worthless. But then again, who is to say, I might be just as worthless.

Writing dilemma!

When you are both a reader and a writer, how do you deal with it? I mean to say, that both requires equal attention, peace and time and for me both mingles with each other. While I am reading, sometimes I get ideas of what I can write, but then as a writer, I think that somehow if I write about that particular thought, it would be duplicitous. It will be a by-product of someone else’s work and then I will be ‘not original’. But then when I do write it down, I do feel that what I was reading was just a way of an inspiration for me to create something else. Now, when I put it that way, I don’t sound like a cheater, but deep down I still wonder if it is original or am I just plagiarizing. Now, if the later is the situation, then I should stop writing with immediate effect. I have no notions of copying work.

 

In various fields of art, it has been repeatedly said, you look for inspirations; sometimes inspiration doesn’t come to you. And if we are looking for it, chances are we look for it in similar fields and even if the filed is different, it is we who are looking for the so-called inspiration, and so our options are limited. Don’t get me wrong; I am not justifying myself in any way. I have no intentions of doing so, what so ever. What I am trying to decipher is what if some of my writings are a product of something that I read? Now, if it was re-telling I would simply declare that it is a re-telling, but what if some specific idea, image, or even a line sticks with me and brings out an entire different picture?

 

I don’t know if you guys go through this, but as a reader I do face this occasionally which makes me trash some of the things I wrote, and if not trash, they remain unpublished, hidden on my hibernating folders and journals!

 

Do share your thoughts on this one. What do you think about it? Does this happen with you?

The Arrested Fear.

I am sitting

Huddled among my friends

Or beside my love

But I am sitting

And I am laughing, talking.

I am happy.

Or so I thought-

For I was sure, sitting

But I was alone

Where did he go?

Why did the people leave me?

I was confused

Scared.

And then I saw someone

A pair of innocent black eyes

Walking towards me

Callously strolling,

A flicker of smile

Spread across his handsome face.

His bare chest

Trailing down to a carved V

Ending right above the

Loose white pair of trousers.

His pace quickens

And his eyes aren’t innocent anymore.

His smile isn’t handsome anymore.

And I get up and run.

I run.

But where do I run?

Somehow, I am on a five inch wide railing

And he is walking on it,

Towards me.

But I can’t walk.

I can barely stand straight.

He is walking.

And I am freezing.

I realize- I need to get away

And so I shut my eyes

And jump.

But there is nowhere to jump.

There is no railing

There is no falling

There is nothing.

But then where am I standing?

I open my eyes in a hurry

To find all blurry.

He is still walking towards me

And I am still there

Somewhere!

I need to run, I remind myself

So I run.

I am running back

To there

As far as I can see

And he is inches away from me

Devoid of any hurry

But full of innocence

And if there is innocence

Then why am I running away?

But I run.

I still run

Panting

Tired

Without a sense

I run.

There is a pleading noise from behind me

But I am so scared

I still run

And then there is nothing

Except for a log jump

Off the elongated sky

And then there are

Stairs.

So I run off them

Two at a time.

I keep going down

I run without a breath

Devoid of a thought

Panting

Sweating

Trembling

With fear.

And after about a hundred stairs

I am blocked.

There are four walls

No doors.

And I beat myself against each one of them

None moves.

I try again.

I am terrified.

Horrified.

I am tired.

I here a meek laughter from above

But I see no one.

There is nothing.

And I am trapped.

But how am I trapped

When there is nothing?

Yet, here I am

Eyes aghast

Fear gripping every inch of my body

The faint innocent eyes hiding

My soul writhing in agony

The dream subsiding the depravity.

A blackballed blizzard.

Like the oceans galore

My feelings remain

Like the prisoners of war.

 

Concealed

Hushed

Dejected.

 

Like the waves tumultuous

My thoughts remain

Secretively voluptuous.

 

Melancholic

Wretched

Rising from the purgatory.

 

Like the looming storm

Burdened, heavy

Burning my eyes like a sandstorm.

 

Hesitantly swarming in my chest

I have locked them up

Leaving myself bereft.

 

Do not try your pretending words, balmy

For they are raging inside

Threatening to surrender like a Tsunami.