Chasing Sunshine

We could go on a walk,
You and I,
And it wouldn’t be round the block
Or a quick run to the library;
Nay, we would go where our feet
Would take us to,
Far from the chaos, of our lives.

We could go on a walk,
You and I,
We could take it slow,
And find what we could find;
Under the moss laden rocks,
And the soggy, once dried leaves.
We could hear the birdsong,
And the snapping of dried twigs,
Breathe in for one moment,
And forget that we exist.

We could go on a walk,
You and I,
Instead we stay inside,
Under this blanket,
That is both our cocoon
And our bane;
I know you wonder,
And keep doing so,
About all that must remain
Obscured under a shroud,
If we are to stay sane,
We could go on a walk,
You and I,
And pretend we are,
A stitch in the flawless pattern,
On this tapestry of mundane.

They had no right
And yet they took yours,
Oh to be, careless and free,
Oh to be, a little wild –
You didn’t fight,
‘Cause you were stuck –
Your feet locked tight,
Your tongue, utterly tied,
Your eyes, eerily dry,
And your gaze, vacant
As if lost in pursuit,
Of your truant mind –
And yet, they had no right.

I was looking for a needle
Not in a haystack, no,
But yes, I was looking for one,
That I had dropped,
Behind the closed door,
When I realised I couldn’t quite
Get past that barricade
For it was locked.

I went looking next,
For the key that fit
Into its lock,
One I had used,
Not long ago –
But try as I might
I couldn’t find
The elusive key
That would unlock the door.

“Forget it”, they said,
“It’s just a needle!
It wasn’t made of gold,
Was it?”
And true as it was,
All that they said,
My mind refused,
To bow down to logic.
So I’m still a-looking,
For a key, and a needle,
For that needle,
The one I dropped,
Is now, impossibly lost.

Nobody belongs anywhere –
Everyone is a wanderer,
Roaming the lands,
Settling down for a while,
But never quite,
For the call of the open,
The call of the wild,
Is far too exciting
To let go of –
And so we uproot ourselves,
And go on,
Nomadic to the very core,
Of our wandering selves,
Trusting we will belong,
For a fleeting breath,
On the land we tread.

Nothing is clear –
Like rain drops
That fall into the ocean
And disappear,
So are these wisps.

Are they mere thoughts?
Perhaps Imaginings?
Or are they real?
More importantly,
What do they mean?

Why have they chosen
To haunt, not just the mind,
But also the body?

As much as you try
To resist and to deny,
It slowly becomes clear,
You are unraveling;
And that this deep seated fear
Of stark exposure,
May drive you to the edge
Of your threadbare sanity.

The soul that stood
At the precipice
Of the other world,
Before stepping into
The earthly realm,
Wondered what it held,
As possibility.

The soul has stayed
For far too long,
And the possibilities,
Never too many to begin with,
Have dwindled down to virtually none.

This tiptoeing through life,
Seeps into its depth,
Draining its very essence;
Just like the being it inhabits,
The soul feels crushed beyond repair,
Under the unbearable weight
Of lukewarm-turning-cold tea like despair.

I
The girl who stood alone
in the middle of a crowd
had no words in defence
against their allegations.
Perhaps her mind
was already lost
in the nothingness
of yesterday.

II
I could rage.
I could mope.
I could despair.
There is merit in each,
profit in none.

This tug of war
that has begun
in the nether
of my being
may be the end of me.

And why not?
From where I stand
and look out
over the plains,
everything appears
a vague mist
spreading over
a hazy nothingness.

No forms
to hold on to.
No contours
to envision.
No trills
to lend my ears to.

No—
there is nothing
but nothingness:
a blank, black wall
of only it.

III
Perhaps I’ll never know
what lies beyond
this massive wall,
a virtual blank
my mind grapples around—
like someone blinded
by a sudden flash
of intense light.

Only,
there is no amount
of blinking rapidly
that can break this barrier
between knowing
and knowing.

I

“Perhaps the fragrance,
Of the dainty roses
On the rose bush,
In the garden on the corner,
Will serve to elevate,
My despondent spirit”,
I think, as I walk
Around the block.

On another day,
I sit on a wooden bench,
Under a very benevolent maple,
Its gorgeously decadent foliage,
Casting a ripple of sunshine,
On my dark coat sleeve,
And I grasp at the warmth
From the autumn sun,
Hoping it will sink deep
Drenching my weary soul.

I decide then,
That the kitchen garden
Of a tiny cottage,
Sat amidst the verdant green
On a lonely mountain,
Would be the perfect antidote
To this treacherous poison,
That runs deep within,
My aging veins.

II

No fragrant scent,
Nor pretty scene,
Nor indeed,
The warmth of the sun,
Could hold a candle,
To the pitch black,
Of this endless darkness.

In stories you will never come across,
Two characters with the same name,
Every person sits neatly with their lot,
Of identity, relationships and traits, that fit the plot.

In stories you will find a thread,
To bind the beginning, middle, and end,
It is the same thread that ties together,
Every act performed by each character.

The stories we have heard, growing up,
The stories we read, and the ones we watched
Come to life on screens, small and big,
Are just that – fables wrapped in gossamer.

The stories we watch unfold,
As we live out our days on earth,
Are stories from a different mould,
Names, plots, threads, and all,
Melded in a large frothing pot,
Of twisted realities that seek to leave you shaken,
Fact indeed, is vastly different,
To its tame alter ego – canned fiction.

Everyone is afraid,
Of disrupting
The natural order of things,
In their little world.

Nobody really admits
That this fear exists,
In a corner of their heart,
Or mind, or wherever it is,
That these things take root.

But it is perchance why,
Such things as faith,
Or even the lack thereof,
Came into being.

Those who believe
In a greater power,
Refuse to let go,
Even for a wee bit,
For what if this power
Got upset, and unleashed fury
All over their little world?

And those who don’t,
You know… believe in the greater power,
Sat in clouds or beyond,
Hold on to their belief,
In that lack of belief,
As that’s the thing that holds,
Their little world afloat.

But if a little world,
Should someday shatter,
Not from lack of care,
But despite it,
The mantle of belief,
Or its lack thereof,
Is discarded,
And in its stead,
Is left behind,
A broken shell,
Of what was once,
A promise.

Image Credit: Photo by Edu Lauton on StockSnap