Wallpaper

He has something to say, but he won't say it. He doesn't like the sound of his own voice. Truth is, he never gives himself the chance to really hear it. He resents himself in every way.
He's standing with a group. He listens carefully to what they discuss. The topic is familiar. He is informed and he wishes to share. He forms an opinion, phrases it carefully in his mind and reviews it many times. He waits for a lapse. It comes. He speaks.
Too soft. No one heard. He dare not be louder for the fear of sounding foolish, too eager or too childish.
He flushes. The conversation revives, but the subjected has drifted. He is crestfallen.
He steps back, against the wall. He feels he belongs there. The wallpaper.

Inspiration

When inspired, we create, we innovate, we accomplish but we need not struggle. Inspiration enables us to achieve feats we could never have imagined and without much effort.
What we do, we do with grace and elements of truth and originality.
Within a matter of minutes, we outshine what we had actualized in time.

Inspiration is a Khoi Bag. It is promising and indeed, the returns are manifold.

But it is momentary.
Once the bag is burst, its bounties have dispersed and all within reach has been gathered, all that is left is a void.

It is crippling.
Of what value is ordinary prey to a tiger that has tasted human blood? Of what worth is rum or whiskey to he who has tasted wine? Would a pauper who has experienced a palatial lifestyle, be able to love his humble home?

Inspiration creates you. It also destroys you.

Failure

A lot has been said about failure. That it is essential t success. Is it?
How does it feel to fail at a task that you had always thought you'd win?
Does it motivate you to try harder? Or does it hold you down, discourage you? Even crush you?
What if there is no next time?

What if the marks the end of a journey that had only just begun and had promised to last.. but didn't?

It haunts you. Every day, every hour, every minute is a testimony to all that you had anticipated yet not accomplished. It crushes you from within, shattering your faith and confidence.
One always counts on a second chance. What if there isn't one?

Morning

7'o' Clock in the morning. Everything is still. The world is asleep.
The sun has risen. Daylight streams in through the windows. The occasional bird glides across the sky. It appears to be the only sign of life.

The air is cool, almost deceptive of the heat that is anticipated. There is no blare of car-horns, loquacious folks, screeching buses. The only sound one hears is that of the speeding fan.
The leaves of the trees, too, do not move. Are they asleep too?

This is indeed amongst the better times of the day. When all are asleep, not much harm can be rendered to anyone. Everyone is at his or her best behaviour. Unconscious. Who knows how many hearts they shall break through the day? Presently, they are serene, for they rest.


I lie here, watching daylight stream through the windows, listening to the hum of the fan.
The world is asleep.

Good Ol' Days

The air is devoid of apprehensions. As we ride away in a fast car, there is only mirth and elation.
Yesterday is of no significance. Tomorrow is not a concern.
The time is now.

Exams have been given. School is over. Our freedom cannot be contained. We have for ourselves an entire day and there is no schedule, no boundaries, few restrictions. Yet, not a second must be wasted.

It doesn't matter who all is present. We have with us them we treasure most. And we are all together. We are content.

A cup half full....

I laugh.
There is no reason for cheer.
But then, there is none for sorrow.
I laugh not because there is reason to but for there is none, not to.
I laugh today for I know not what shall come tomorrow. The near future may hold occasions for celebration. Then again, it may be embalmed with desolation. The distant future is insignificant.. now.
For today, now, I have no concern. And thus, I laugh.



And then, the moment had passed.

Games people play..

Why must people play games? Why do we speak in words so clear yet concealed?
Why can't we be honest and straightforward in the moment of truth?
What is this force that holds us back and compels us to reassess when the heart attempts to stride forward?
Why don't we seize the opportunity when it is presented to us on a silver tray?


In every triumph, there is an element of doubt. The heart is passionate and impulsive, but the mind is wary. This world and everything in it is not black and white but changes colour with time.
A butterfly sits on your fingertip and as you behold it, you admire its beauty. You thank your heavens for having sent it to you. It rests on your hand. It seems content. You feel a bond between it and you. The heart flutters. But the mind counsels you that it may leave any moment, and you cannot hold on to it, without damaging its wings or crushing it.
Indeed, the butterfly could return to another flower, or to its home. You are left behind, empty handed and disappointed.

words unspoken

I know that you can see right through my disguise.
Hard as I might try, I cannot throw a veil over your eyes.
My words are a fabric, torn to pieces by your mind.
All that is tangled, it unwinds.
My thoughts, my deeds are naked to your sight,
be it during day or in the depth of the night.
Yet you speak not of it to me, and I know why.
But for you, I am a living lie.
Though I wish you'd reach out to me
through actions only I could see.
A manner of exchange so discreet,
yet our minds, our hearts, our souls would meet.
We would remain strangers even still,
but for paper, ink and quill.

.... for granted.

I cannot understand you and your way.
What am I? An object of your attention? A toy?
Not a word for days that pass, and then suddenly, you call. You pretend that nothing has changed, and I believe it too. Laughter and joy, hope and faith. Not a concern in the world.
Soon you shall leave again, as you always do. And I am left, groping in the dark.
It had been long and the wound had healed. I had learnt to live with the loneliness and emptiness. And then you called, filling up the void that shall soon return.
Do you not see what it does to me?
I cannot understand you and your way.

Victim

They suggest. Your instinct warns you. You decline.
They persist, you decline.
A few hours go by. Your words carry no meaning. They still persist. Their word has finality. You give in.
The task is falliable. Your mind is uncertain, your heart is perturbed. You protest, a last attempt. They ignore.
A special day, ends a disaster. They soon forget. They move on. You are left behind to suffer the consequences, to gather the pieces.
For them, it was an incident. For you it was a shattering experience. It haunts your mind for weeks to come. It persists.
The losses are grave. All must be borne by you.
You resent them. It doesn't make matters any better. There is no solace.
Your heart is wounded. Your mind is scarred. You are a victim.
But they move on, and you are left behind, gathering the pieces.