Dot to dot

This was never meant to be about you. It was meant to be about you realising that it's all about the people around you.

The shreds.

The biggest scars are unseen and unremembered, always from a smile you forgot long ago. We would never get anything done otherwise.

The return to green.

Oh shut up. Every time it rains, it stops raining. Every time you hurt, you heal. After darkness, there is always light and you get reminded of this every morning but still you choose to believe that the night will last forever. Nothing lasts forever. Not the good or the bad. So you might as well smile while you're here.

The way you lie.

Don't you dare tell me nothing matters. Everything matters. Every fucking drop of rain, every ray of sunlight, every wisp of cloud matters and they matter because I can see them and if I can see them then they can see me and I know that there's an entire world that cares out there, hiding behind a world that doesn't, afraid to show who it really is and with or without you, I will drag that world out of the dirt and the blood and the muck until we live in it. Until we all live in it.

The perfect apathy.

You remember and dwell on all the things you've lost and ignore all the things you haven't. Because your scars are like stars. Yet the night stays perfectly black.

Fancy name tags.

These aren't consumers.
They're people.
These aren't foreigners.
They're people.
These aren't civilians.
They're people.
These are people.
They are people.
And one on their own is a person.
Just like you.

The tower in the asylum.

Yet, no matter how accurately you write it or mumble it under your breath, it won't change the way things stand between you. A poem, let alone a paragraph, is not a magic spell. And the only people who can write those stay in padded rooms, listening to music no one's ever played.

The seat next to you.

When I sit near you, my hands suddenly become alien things and I don't know where to put them or what they usually do, like this is the first time I've ever had hands and maybe they go in my pockets and maybe they don't.

The 'whether' weather

You think you’re waiting for help. For someone to tell you what the right thing to do is. Even though, at the back of your mind, you already know what that is. So all you’re really waiting for, is a time when you’re forced to do it.

The hope of symmetry.

So you look for patterns because that's what humans do to try and make sense of things. In hope of some divine order. And you look in movies and songs and the things that you read for symbols, points and swirls that match your own. But the only real pattern there is, is the one you make when you hold up a mirror. And reflect.

Breathe blue.

When hurt turns red and a piece of your heart is missing. When the cold bites deep and you’ve got that feeling like you just got out of surgery. When the only way to stay sane is to concentrate on anything else but how you feel. When you count the tiles in the ceiling. When you push the earphones closer. When the first day of winter arrives. When you remember every nuance of every word of every time. When all this happens.

Embrace it. Feel every feeling. Cry every tear. Sob every sob. Because this is what it feels like to have loved.

The haunt.

Sometimes the night is dark and stormy. Sometimes the ghosts of what you had run their fingers down a spine.

And when that happens, you want to turn to the last page. Don't. You'll ruin the story.

The Angel of almost.

Then I was somewhere else, and it was bright. A voice said

"If you'd carried on practicing that song you almost got right, you would've been great. Bigger than the Beatles."

It continued

"If you'd carried on working on that book you almost finished, it would've changed the lives of many, many people."

Then it said

"If you'd tried to reach the one you loved just a little bit more, when you almost had them, your life would've been completely different."

And I asked

"Is this what happens when I die?"

And the voice said

"Almost."

The place I love, everyday.

This place is in my head and no matter where I run, it's always here, all around me. It's a big room and my voice echoes when I yell, and there are days when I think you couldn't make it to the other side if you tried.

Wake up at 5:45

And in you and in all of us, there is nothing more than the capacity to be a force for, or a force against. And to wonder, how many people wake up each morning and can't decide if they want to save the world, or destroy it.

The worlds breathe for you.

When the world is cold and alone, you will be the one who keeps us warm through that frost bitten final night, letting us live to see a rising sun one more time.

Humanity, as a whole, would like to thank you for being you. Now that we all know about your life, and what you went through, you're an inspiration to all of us. Thank you for never losing your faith in us, when the time comes, we shall have our faith in you. And you will be great.

The King.

One thing you must do, is prevent the King of The World from taking power. When the aliens landed, they laughed at us because we hadn’t, after all this time, elected one planetary leader. So, we took genes from every race and region on the planet, whisked them together in a test tube, and grew our new leader up in the space lab (we couldn’t do it anywhere on earth, everyone would get upset that he wasn’t being raised in their own country, and this was the only way to be sure he wasn’t influenced or compromised). Anyway, he’s the son of mankind but also a bastard, you need to stop him. You’ll know how when the time comes.

Headstones.

Now that we can communicate with the dead, a few of them you might know, have something to say to you:

I know how you felt, even if sometimes you didn't show it. I know why now (I know everything now) and I understand. I wish I could've done more for you. I wish I could've known you better. 

-

Stop being so SAD (lol). You're not the one who died!

-

Brush your teeth. Take your vitamins. I'm watching you.

-

Times.

Times will be tough like old leather and gravel roads occasionally. Times will be easy, like Sunday morning, every now and then. What you do during these times will define you as a person and a human being. Your humanity towards others, your will to make the world a better place for you and those around you and your identity as a citizen of the world. All these things count.

The colour.

You think I don't feel that awkwardness when my race stands next to yours. You're not the only one who's uncomfortable. I'm sorry I wasn't the same colour as you. I'm sorry you weren't the same colour as me. It's all works out in the end though. We get past it.

Reality of it all.

Other people will suck the reality off you sometimes, make you suddenly self conscious of who and what you are. And there's nothing wrong with that. Let the feeling wash over you, accept it, and move on past it. You seemed really concerned about this when you were younger.

The way they used to make them.

The way there are no clocks in casinos and whenever you walk into one, the people in there are the people who shouldn't be in there.

The way supermarket aisles are designed to be confusing and no one in their right mind would put laundry detergent next to dog food.

The way economy class seats on an airplane could easily be more comfortable but they want you to pay to upgrade to first class.

The way everything you buy is designed to break so that soon, you'll have to buy a new one.

The way the whole world tries everything in its power to break you too.

The way you refuse, under any circumstances, to show the slightest crack.

Your movie

You have this idea of what kind of movie your life is and you expect the characters you cast to behave a certain way. To read from the script.

But the best ones never do.

The day you stop.

One day, you will die.

You will stop and the world will carry on. Lovers will love. Others will shop, laugh and cry. Sometimes alone. Sometimes together. The radio will keep playing.

But you will be gone.

Only the love you gave, the souls you touched and the people you changed, will remain.

They will carry on for you. They will pick up where you left off.

There is nothing to be sad about here.

The Forelook

When the moment comes, you know what you came in with, you know what you prepared for, what you got. So when the time comes, only you control the outcome.

Rising and falling.

And if you look a little closer, you'll see that if a person believes that life is terrible, they’ll constantly look for proof of this, to confirm their view of the world. They’ll find quotes and situations and events in their life and magnify them a hundred times.

If a person believes that life is wonderful, they’ll look for the corresponding signage and behave in a similar manner to the previous person with their view of the world.

Often, this is the same person on different days of the week.

Evidence of history.

If nothing else, one day you can look someone straight in the eyes and say

"But I lived through it. And it made me who I am today. You are just an echo trailing behind my voice."

The foreign holiday.

If you've never felt your ribs pushing against your skin. 

If you know when you're next going to eat.

If you slept under a roof last night. 

If you know how to use a computer. 

If you can see this picture. 

If you can read these words.

If you know someone you can share this with.

You have a lot to be thankful for. 

Ditto.

Hanging by a wire-line.
Take a look.

Series.

There are moments of pure, sublime, unparalleled perfection that will force you to close your eyes and hold on to them as best you can.

Life is a series of these moments. Everything else is just waiting for them.

The Difference.

You know the difference between good and bad, right and wrong. No matter how much the voice inside your head tries to fool you, deep down, you know how your actions will affect the universe around you. Obey the silence inside. Ignore the noise.

A voice waiting to be heard.

"For the young people who are sick of sitting on the sidelines and seeing their country drown in despair, the lynching of the Sialkot brothers acted as a wake-up call." - Karachi Digest.

“The youth will no longer sit at home. We’re now going to come out on the streets and do whatever it takes to bring justice back to this country,” said Faraz Butt.

“All of us are to blame. We need to unite to show that humanity is above all. Aggression and ignorance will not achieve anything,” said Maliha Rao

“An eye for an eye will make the whole world go blind,” Ali Abbas quoted Gandhi.

A mass of more or less than 300 people gathered at Karachi Arts Counsel recently, protesting against the brutal tortures and murders of the two brothers in Sialkot. Television screen actress Bushra Ansari was too on the scene as reported by the Karachi Digest. 

I just have some questions. What took you so long? You needed a massacre to remind you of who you are, and what you can do? You needed public killings to remind you of your strength?

- "Lawyer and television show host Ayesha Tammy Haq said that the police and the existing laws need to be improved. She added, however, that the people first need to improve their own behaviour, before they point fingers at the system"

With due respect, miss, shut up. People do not have cracked sea-shells for brains, miss. They react to what they get. 

It's nice to see people trying to make a difference. Yesterday, it must have been 30 people. Today, 300. Tomorrow maybe a couple more thousand. So whether you're at home or at the streets, make yourself be heard.

http://www.petitionvoice.com/justice-for-mughees-and-muneeb-and-petition.html

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/justiceformugheesandmuneeb/

The things I've never seen or heard.

I honestly couldn't care less if you like the same bands or you've read the same books. Tell me one original thing, tell me one true, real thing that brings me to my fucking knees that I've never heard before and I'm yours

Minute.

You think you’re the only one who feels small. You think you’re the only one who isn’t sure what tomorrow might bring. You think you’re the only one who’s scared the world might eat them.

We suffer together and hold each other tight because when we touch each other, we know.

You are never alone. Ever.

Hope.

(Taken by Moaaz Khan. http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=780235991#!/pages/The-Colours/149586711727703)

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

The point.

When you're at that point, when you feel it's all pointless... It's not. The trick is to just keep doing it, that's how you succeed in the end. It's the secret to life, do anything often enough, and for long enough, and you get good at it. So keep on. Keep writing. Keep painting. Keep singing. Keep dancing. Keep fighting. Keep. On.

The medicine is the sickness.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who won’t let me in on the freeway.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to let people in on the freeway.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waking up to 50 assholes pretending to be me.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waking up feeling like an asshole because I yelled at those assholes.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who turn the things I say into insipid greeting card messages.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s turning a bunch of ideas into a laundry list.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s that feeling you get when you scratch something new.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not knowing what’s wrong with someone and all you want to do is make them feel better.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s knowing that my mind naturally gravitates towards the negative and not being able to stop it.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who become your friend, to become your friends’ friend.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being really busy and using that as an excuse to ignore your email.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to acknowledge that my feelings are my own, no one else’s. And, my responsibility.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s forgetting that and taking the way I feel out on the world.

If there's one thing I hate, it's people who criticise things, who can't take criticism.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s going to the same job day-after-day for the same pay.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not having a job.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not you.

It's me.

The day you read this.

On this day, you read something that moved you and made you realise there were no more fears to fear. No tears to cry. No head to hang in shame. That every time you thought you’d offended someone, it was all just in your head and really, they love you with all their heart and nothing will ever change that. That everyone and everything lives on inside you. That that doesn’t make any of it any less real.

That soft touches will change you and stay with you longer than hard ones.

That being alone means you’re free. That old lovers miss you and new lovers want you and the one you’re with is the one you’re meant to be with. That the tingles running down your arms are angel feathers and they whisper in your ear, constantly, if you choose to hear them. That everything you want to happen, will happen, if you decide you want it enough. That every time you think a sad thought, you can think a happy one instead.

That you control that completely.

That the people who make you laugh are more beautiful than beautiful people. That you laugh more than you cry. That crying is good for you. That the people you hate wish you would stop and you do too.

That your friends are reflections of the best parts of you. That you are more than the sum total of the things you know and how you react to them. That dancing is sometimes more important than listening to the music.

That the most embarrassing, awkward moments of your life are only remembered by you and no one else. That no one judges you when you walk into a room and all they really want to know, is if you’re judging them. That what you make and what you do with your time is more important than you’ll ever fathom and should be treated as such. That the difference between a job and art is passion. That neither defines who you are. That talking to strangers is how you make friends.

That bad days end but a smile can go around the world. That life contradicts itself, constantly. That that’s why it’s worth living.

That the difference between pain and love is time. That love is only as real as you want it to be. That if you feel good, you look good but it doesn’t always work the other way around.

That the sun will rise each day and it’s up to you each day if you match it. That nothing matters up until this point. That what you decide now, in this moment, will change the future. Forever. That rain is beautiful.

And so are you.

The time it rained underwater.

But nothing is wasted. There's no song you can listen to, no person you can speak to, no moment it takes to see things as they are that doesn't teach you something.

You need everything you know.

The need for honesty every night.

Not the first one in the morning or the one on the TV, the well-meaning phone call on a Monday night one or some you find on the radio - The voice that whispers between your ears before you fall asleep, that's the one you pay attention to

The midnight that lasted forever.

I do not have to look at the clock to know that it's midnight. I can feel the day rushing across the world, as fast as time.

But somewhere, there is a beach that time cannot reach. Where everyone and everything has always been and never was.

In that place, time cannot touch.

The Next Stop.

Only because it's still so raw and real. Soon I'll just be a series of images that sometimes flash through your mind, when you least expect it. And after that, only a few will stay. Then, one. A memory of a memory.

End of the line.

And so your great grandfathers and mothers died working the earth, generation upon generation since the dawn of time, so that one day, you could sit here and be able to read this. To enjoy life. To play. To love.

You owe it to them to have more fun.

The day I've had.

Today, I wrote a pamphlet for you and your family in the refugee camp, letting you know that there is still love in this world.

Today, I got all my old clothes together and put them in the boot of my car.

Today, I asked everyone I knew for help.

And today, it still wasn't enough.

The voice in the machine.

Thank you for calling/standing near me/being concerned. But I am not here right now. I am somewhere else. And you cannot reach me. Please leave me at the sound of the beep.

To: tellus@sundaytimes.co.za

Dear President Jacob Zuma,
South Africa.

Firstly, I would like to congratulate you and your countrymen on hosting an incredibly successful World Cup. When the world’s eyes were upon you, you rose to the challenge.

Unfortunately, my attention has recently been bought to the detention of a reporter named Mzilikazi wa Afrika. I have several questions for you in this regard.


Why were 6 police vehicles required to arrest one journalist?

Why were photographers prevented from taking pictures, by police?

Why was he arrested for a story that was never published?

Why was he not allowed to see a lawyer?

Why did you only begin to question him at 2:30am in the morning?

Does this not remind you of the actions of the Apartheid government?

I sincerely urge you to look into this matter and to provide answers at the earliest possible opportunity. Because, as they were during Apartheid, as they were during the World Cup, and as they are now:

The eyes of the world are upon you.

Sincerely,

Saud Shahid.

Pakistan.

I ought to write more. :/

The truth is born in strange places.

Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends.

Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.

Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.

Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia.

Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He's an old man on a factory line. You wouldn't recognise him.

Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.

And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.

It doesn't come when you look for it.

At some point we all revert back into the old days, when a million stars twinkled imaginatively in the sky and each one was someone's lost beloved, a piece of soul shining every night to reassure those who were left behind. When we'd prop eager hands under eager chins and listen to stories, pretend to sleep for half an hour just so the teacher would let us splash paint on cheap-paper-covered-plastic-canvas and allow us to call it a goat, a cat, an apple, a chair, our Mommy. In a good way, nothing was ever entirely one thing. You could slap someone for not sharing, and then be best friends in two minutes. When your parents fought, you would command your father's attention, urge it with a desperateness "Baba! Baba! Babaaaaaaa!!", tap him on his shoulder or pull on his sleeve, something he couldn't ignore and when he said "Yes Baba?", you'd ask an inane question or two, and feel self-satisfied believing you'd done all you could to stop the fight and anger.

Then the magic steadily faded, the stars were merely a collection of gases waiting the end of their own time as we're waiting the end of ours. And shooting stars were enough to make people swallow cyanide. We became old enough to tell our own stories, old enough to make them sordid, old enough to regret them and not tell them to anyone in our shame, let alone little children (as we once were) with their hands under their chins. Old enough to see the flaws in the pillars we once saw as invincible, to become them. When we unearthed the masterpieces we had created- after the pretend-nap that somehow turned real and our teacher gently shook us awake, groggy eyed as only kindergartners can be after twenty minutes of sound sleep- we saw how it was neither an apple, nor a cat. It was nothing like those, nothing in between. Nothing, but a blob of cheap, bright poster paint that was preserved only because your mother kept it in a plastic folder and forgot all about it. And sleep? That came and went, came and went- easily, fitfully, restlessly, dreamless. What had once been seamless became a hotchpotch of  adjectives, with the key one missing acutely: peacefully. You grew old enough to see the patriarch in your father, then old enough to hate him, then old enough to channel your resentment into things that would annoy him enough to fire up his already tempestuous anger just to test the limits and toe the lines. And when he was no more, you were old enough to handle it in your own strangely sad way of growing up too soon for all the wrong reasons and all the wrong people.

Then, when you were finally old enough to consider why things happened as they did, why your father was the tyrannical patriarch he was, why it wasn't his fault, why it wasn't simply black or white, why there were endless lines and maps that lead to the same place and yet took you on different rides, why you were part of the one person you had hated with all the force of a child in a hurry to grow up. When all that came to be, there simply was nothing left to talk about, the doctrine of Nothing Is Ever Entirely One Thing became maddening.

And then you reverted back into the memories of when a million starsouls shared one home.

Cut And Paste.

Other people will edit you your whole life. They'll take what you say and keep the bits they like and throw away the rest.

Don't edit yourself. Let other people do it for you

The fire at sea.

When the tide goes out for the last time, all the shipwrecks will be waiting for us and the bones of the earth will shine bright white in the sun.


When the tide goes out for the last time, I'll meet you by the planes that never made it past Bermuda.

When the tide goes out for the last time, I swear, we will have nothing left to lose.

The circus is cheaper when it rains.

I’ve taken the same ride too many times.

I could fall asleep in the loop.

I know the clowns wipe the fake, makeup smiles off their faces once the show is done.

I know the lions sleep in cages at night.

I know the tightrope walkers have blisters on their feet.

I know the ringmaster doesn’t believe in what he yells to the crowd anymore.

I know the strongman, isn’t as strong as he once was.

I know the candy floss has always been, just sugar and air.

The end of nothing really important.

And just as we built them, we took the buildings down, brick by brick. We took the steel and the gold and the silver and the oil and put them back beneath the skin of the earth where they belonged. We turned the roads back to rocks and grass and flowers. We told the animals "We're sorry." We felt the breeze one more time.

Then we turned around, and walked back into the sea.

The messenger was dead when I got here.

You should tell them the truth. Tell them that if they hold on too tightly, love might cut them. Tell them to hold on tightly anyway. Tell them everything is worth it and that the richness of life is only ever enhanced by its inevitable, brief flashes of sadness and loss.

Such a big turn to a smooth blog?

I do NOT usually have to come up with such a post, but Kaibee thought otherwise. I have been tagged on her blog, and asked to answer 10 simple questions. Those questions have, thus, been answered.

• Do you have a tattoo? If you don't would you like to get tattooed one day?

Do I have a tattoo? No. Would I like to get one? If you asked me that before, sure! But now, I abhor the very fact of having them. Even if I do get one, I wouldn't go showing around.

• What is your guilty pleasure?

Sometimes, I buy a box of baby cereal and eat it with milk and sugar. Yes, that's right, I eat sugar too, though not by itself. I do feel a little embarrassed standing in the grocery line having regular food, and a lonely box of baby cereal. But I buy it anyway.

• What is that one thing you would really like to do before you die?

Write a book, or release a music album. (Both things hold the same significance)

• If you get a chance to meet one of your blog readers, who would you like to meet and why?

I meet my blog readers all the time.

• If you get a chance to live the life of one of the characters you have read in a book. Which character would you choose and why?

That's a pretty straight answer. Albus Dumbledore(I need not mention the book). Sugar, spice and everything nice. He wasn't respected for the powers that he had, he was respected for what he did with that power. I wouldn't even mind getting hit by a spell nor falling down a tower.

• 
  
  Name that one book or movie or piece of art or music, that you think should be burned.

Screw burning music. Someone should go and crucify the Jonas brothers. (P.S: I'm sorry Kaibee) :D

• What is the sweetest, most heart-stopping thing anyone has ever said to you. You can also mention who said it! :D

What more could a blogger want? A VERY frequent visitor once said, "Your blog soothes me". Nothing comparable to that. Thankyou, I know you're reading this! :)

AND

I was once at my cousin's place and was really, REALLY bored. And my sister messages me "I miss you!", that made my stay worthwhile after that. (P.S: She usually doesnt do that)

• What is that one thing that never fails to make you cry or smile?

The first speck of dawn never fails to etch a smile on my face every time.

• Describe yourself in one word.

Extrovert.

• Dark chocolate, Milk Chocolate or white chocolate?

Dark Chocolate.

• If you were a season, which one would you like to be? (Optional)

Winter, I guess.

--

Fin.

The Tracks Go On Forever.

I never sat down and decided to become a story.

I just wanted to tell one.

I never wanted to be thought of as special.

Just human.

I never set out to help people or make them feel better.

I just needed someone because I felt alone.

I never wanted any credit for the way you feel.

I just wanted you to know.

The Choice

Life can be a constant struggle, filled with hardships and obstacles. Or it can be a grand adventure filled with challenges and intrigue. Every second of every day, it's entirely up to how you live it. It all ends in the same way. How you feel when you get there is the only one thing you have control over.

The Ghost Of Too Much.

There's not enough soil in the earth for how deep I want to be buried.
There's not enough water in the oceans for how slowly I want to sink.
There's not enough fire in the sun for how brightly I want to burn.
There aren't enough words in my head to say all the things I can't.
There's not enough blood in my body for all I need to bleed.
There aren't enough couches in the world for how long I want to sleep.
There's not enough life in me, for all I want to live.

The Perfect Moment.

Which is when the world stopped turning.
Which is when the birds fell silent.
Which is when the clouds all breathed in at the same time.
Which is when lies became truth.
Which is when pain became love.
Which is when fires became blue.
Which is when red flowers bloomed.
Which is when snow fell.
Which is when ice became water.
Which is when the universe smiled.
Which is when the sunshine and the moonlight met.
Which is when gravity gave up the ghost.
Which is when every guitar in the world strummed the same three chords over and over.
Which is when the dead rolled over and wished to live again.
Which is when the songs turned itself up.
Which is when  the aliens on other worlds looked up into the heavens and gasped.
Which is when hurricanes and storms and floods swept through us.
Which is when tears fell from willows at the beauty of it all.
Which is when riots and madness chased themselves though the streets.
Which is when millions of glasses committed suicide, throwing themselves from kitchen cupboards.
Which is when angels were filled with envy.
Which is when vampires threw back their heads and howled.
Which is when..

Skin crawled.

The Reason The Willow Weeps.

It weeps for you late at night, when sleep usually does not come easily. It weeps for the one you miss. It weeps for the dreams on the tips of your fingers. It weeps for appointments missed and it weeps for the tears in your pillow. It weeps for the silence and it weeps for the noise. It weeps for formal letters once were, language was spoken as close to your ear as possible. It weeps for betrayal, intended or not. It weeps for friends you once were. It weeps for the colours faded. It weeps for sunrise. It weeps for death in a family and it weeps when a baby is born. It weeps for the last time you touched. It weeps for words that can never be taken back. It weeps so hard and so much and so often. So you don't have to. So you can carry on. It weeps for you. When you have run out of weeping.

The place I am in.

You can not kill me here. Bring your soldiers, your death, your disease, your collapsed economy because it doesn't matter, I have nothing left to lose and you can not kill me here. Bring the tears of orphans, and the wails of a mother's loss, bring your god damn air force and Jesus on a cross, bring your hate and bitterness and long working hours, bring your empty wallets and love long since gone  but you can not kill me here. Bring your sneers, your snide remarks, your friendship that never felt, your letters never sent, cigarettes smoked to the bone and cancer killing fears but you can not kill me.

For I may fall and I may fail, but I will stand again each time and you will find no satisfaction. Because you can not kill me here.

Take your course wisely, but firmly; and having taken it, hold upon it with heroic resolution, and the Alps will sink before you.

Critical.

So yes, I laughed. I laughed at the pain and the futility and the frustration and the heartache to keep it separate from me. And while it may seem like insanity to you, it is the thing that prevents it, for me.

The Idea.

Your own ideas are the best ideas. Because only you can see them clearly enough to explain them to the world.

Use them more often.

The prisons we made for ourselves.

You should put them in a cage. The beggars and the vagrants and the ones who fight against you. The people we disagree with. The ones who look or sound different from us. The neighbours who talk about us. Let's put the whole god damn world in a cage. Until the walls enclose it all. And only we are left on the outside.

.. I fear being the completely acceptable sheep in society :/

The Midnight Sea Memorial.

Dragons, angels, gnomes, creatures beneath the Earth that make words with hammers, a shooting star that shoots back, rain falling from the ground to the sky, bars that refuse to serve dwarfs or wanderers, a foundtain that makes you young(and lonely) while those around you grow old, saplings that know everything, a sea made of tears from every lover you never loved, a silver boat with a sail made of pages from all the books that were never written.

All my dreams are beautiful. But you are the reason I return here each morning.

The Stranger of Stage.

Don't give the crowd what they want. If they knew what they wanted, they'd be on stage. Not you.

The Fear

I asked if you had seen any good horror movies lately. You said

"There arent any good horror movies anymore. In the 90's we were scared of the end of the world, so we made movies about that. In the 80's it was serial killers and psycopaths. Today, we just turn on the news."

It would be nice to have good horror movies again.

The scratches that made me.

You buy things and you keep them clean. You take care of them. Keep them in a special pocket. Away from keys and coins. Away from other things that should be kept clean and taken care of as well. Then they get scratched. And again. And again. And again. Soon, you dont care about them anymore. You dont keep them in a special pocket. You thrown them in the bag with everything else. They've surpassed their form and become nothing but function. People are like that. You keep them clean. In a special pocket. And then you scratch them. Not on purpose. Sometimes, you just drop them by accident or forget which pocket they're in. But after the first scratch, it's all downhill from there. You see past their form. They become function. Only their essence remains.

The world you can not fly in.

They've taken us from the edge of the sky (where sky is just our reflection, looking down) and brought us here, my love. I can no longer breathe and you, you and the world have begun to melt and fade.

They've taken us, my love, in their cruel nets and crude boats to their own dark sky.

They think us ugly. But we're not the ugly ones here.

The growl of a canine.

Witness my greatness! I am the ruler of parks and trees from here until the end of the street, I have howled at the moon until it was mine, I am the master of all I survey and I answer to no one.

The fact that you know nothing about me is a flagrant display of ignorance. I pity you.

Craft.

Take your time and craft the things you do. Love them. Love the process. God is in the details. And you can be an artist in everything you do.

The thought of eating.

You used to eat all the chips first, while they were still warm but then you were too full to enjoy the burger.

Then you ate the burger first but by the time you finished, the chips were cold.

Now you eat half the chips first, then the burger, then the rest of the chips.

Maybe you should stop thinking about it so much and just enjoy the meal.

The desire for destruction and creation.

You might not have a wrecking ball but you can still take down a wall, one brick at a time.

The Nature of Being.

So I sat there on the bench and got lost in the faces of people I'd know or meet because like them, my life is too busy for strangers.

I miss school.

When you read this, you go through a series of steps, all of which are personal. To you. And you alone. Your eyes see the symbols joined together to make words, the graphical representation of sounds. These sounds are then translated into meaning. They are also given voice by your observation of them. You have no choice in matter.

Try not to read this sentence.

Thousands of people may read this but each of them will read it in their own way. It is unique to them.

To you. That's why I wrote it.

Because you are unique in your voice and your own way. You are special. A unique aspet of a glimmering whole.. We are all the whole. But you alone are you. And because I speak to you and you alone, intimately, I know you as well as I know myself.

And that is why I have the faith I do in you. You will be great. You will be amazing.

You will change the world. I know you.

The Stretching.

The world weeps for itself on days like this and you stretch and stare to find the things that make it worthwhile. Atleast it's not boring. You keep telling yourself that. Perspective is nine tenths of everything.

Battle of Glass.

We wanted a war, but we called it peace. And we bombed each other's cities till nothing was left. Now, you've left me alone to take care of the wounded. The least you could have done was help me bury the dead.

In circles.

Our lives are like circles we revolve in. We believe we are behind all the time, no matter how many laps we take. The person you run with, is always 'ahead', regardless of how many times he goes around, regardless of how many times you overtake him, regardless of how many times you beat him. Regardless of how many times you outshine him. Because that's how you see it.

The corner offfice of my mind.

You can tell me that everything is rented. That even my time, is borrowed. Well, sir, at least my thoughts are my own.

The Children Of Time.

January has isues with his mother, February is always thinking about things he wants to do while March does them, April eats sweets and May pays for them. June is the oldest but not the wisest, and July has an opinion on everything. August never stops trying to do the right thing, even if he doesnt always know what it is. September once saw something so sad, she never stopped crying. October holds the lift for everyone, vice-presidents and street-sweepers alike(for his memory, not theirs) and November makes fun of him for this. December is tired, but hopeful. He has never stopped believing.

Monday's obviously a bastard, quite literally as dad can't remember what or who he was doing. Tuesday's temperamental but ok as long as you stay on her good side. Wednesday doesnt say much and Thursday sometimes hums just to break the silence. They're in love. Friday's always wasted and she and Saturday hold each other tightly until their delirium fades.

But Sunday, Sunday knows she's the end. But she closes her eyes, and she pretends with all her strength in her tiny heart that really, she's the dawn.

The city that forgot to paint the Sun.

From bright Yellow to singed Orange,

from singed Orange to hot Red,

from hot Red to dull Gray,

from dull Gray,

It died.

The fire in the smoke.

What I meant to say was, sometimes I stare at the cigarette in my hand and beg it to stop wasting my time and just kill me. But, I figured they didnt want to hear that.

The end bit, is animated.

We helped people when big things happen to them, when you see them getting hit by a car, when a brother or a sister or a father or a mother dies, we're there for them because we can see that death kills more than the person it takes. And yet, the people around us who die a little all the time, moment by moment, who require the least help, the smallest sacrifice, are the ones we ignore completely.

Look inside; look inside your tiny mind, and play a bit harder.

Right now, I'm just a silent back row spectator. What makes you think you're the smartest dog on the planet baby?

Yesterday, I slipped and fell backwards. Had a minor concussion which caused deja vus and amnesia at the same time. So forgetting and remembering at the same time was shit confusing. I got a little worried how I'd remember all the chemistry for my exams, but the I thought, 'What exams?' :/

Hidden meanings.

For some reason, a long time ago, we sat down and said that on this day, we would set aside everything and try to find some meaning in the chaos of the world around us.

So, in spite of the people who will fight around you, the family members who'll argue, the one's who'll tell you it's a waste of time and money, on your own or with someone else, you go out there and you find a moment. One serene beautiful moment when the world and everything in it makes sense. It's rare. And it doesn't get handed to you on a platter. Which is why you've got an entire day to look for it.

The Layers Unseen.

There is magic even here, in gridlock, in loneliness, in too much work, in late nights gone too long, in shopping trolleys with broken wheels, in boredom, in tax payments, the same magic that made a man write about a princess that slept until she was kissed, long golden hair draped over a balcony fingers pricked with needles. There is magic even here, in sewer-holes along a neat road, in not having the right change(you pat your pockets), arriving late and missing the school bus, the same magic that caused a woman in France to think that God spoke to her, that made another sit down at the front of the bus and refuse to move, that lead a man to think that maybe the world wasn't flat and the moon could be walked upon by human feet. There is magic. Even here. In a dim-lit, lonely room.

The catwalk in the sky.

And, it may look to you that I am just walking through your city with my head held high.

But in my head, I am not in your city.

Don't wait for a fullstop.

Okay so you're out the gates and in the race and you get an education a job and a wife and a kid and you drink and you eat and you consume things like your lover and a cigarette and a drink and a bite to eat before you sleep and then wake up and do it all over again because you can and you will and that's what's expected of you just like they expected it of your father and his father before him and one day they'll expect it from your kids too and then their kids will follow your over trodden footsteps into the office and get a cup of coffee and talk by the water cooler about what movies they saw last night.

You need to slow down. There is more than this.

Shades.

Our buildings. Your car. An iPod. These things don't make us feel special. They are no different from a peacock's feathers or a butterfly's wings. Civilization is just another colour on nature's pallet, and our lives are flashes of light across her canvas.

The Song.

Play the song loudly and hear it because you like it. Not because you want them to hear you liking it.

The Look.

See the windows. See the world. See the tiny blue dot. See the sun. See the moon. See the stars. See the rain. See the joy. See the children. See the lovers. See the night. See the dawn. See the now. See the then. See the always. See the falling. See the running. See the saving. See the goodbye. See the hello. See the fear. See the hope. See the me. See the you.

You need to open your eyes.

The Grass

You didn't walk up stairs when you were little. You skipped them, two at a time. You didn't go around the garden. You went straight through. You didn't avoid walls and fences. You hopped over them.

Life is too short not to walk on the grass.

The remembering.

Your life will be remembered. You will be reborn on the lips of storytellers. A whispering around a fire. A telling of a tale.

You will become a legend. Then, a myth. Then simply an idea.

Ask yourself "What do I want to be remembered for? What idea do I want to become?"

Then answer yourself. And do it.

The Missing Exclamation Marks

You're ok. Breathe. Just breathe. Open your eyes. Come back. It's ok. It's over now. You're ok. Wake up. Please wake up. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me. Come back. It's over now. Wake up.

So you wrote words on the walls of the prison. Never noticing that the paragraph became cages. Each sentence, a bar. Each word, another lock.

Let's run around in the malls. Let's drive very fast. Let's turn up the volume to as loud as it can get. Let's put a couch on an island in the middle of the freeway, and wave at everyone on their way to work. Let's hug strangers in the parking lot. Let's hand out secret messages at traffic lights. Let's make lists of all the things that make us smile and tick them off, one at a time. The world will carry on with out us when we're gone.  Then, let it carry on without us, today

The best way to run into traffic.

It does not count if you believe in yourself when it's easy to believe in yourself. It does not count if you believe the world can be a better place when the future looks bright. It does not count if think you can make it when the finish line is right in front of you.

It counts when it's hard to believe in yourself, when it looks like the world's going to end and you've still a long way to go.

That's when it counts. That's when it matters the most.

The place where you get off.

Outside the station, she stands with her child on the side of the street, taking pictures of cars. You think she's insane. Until, one day, you notice that she's taking pictures of the license plates of the cars her child gets into.

Because you look. But, you do not see.

And she walks out the shop with bags full of cat food. You think she's some crazy cat lady until you find out, she has no cats.

Because you eat. But, you do not taste.

It's been a while since their last album but he assures you, he's doing just fine these days, white flecks on his nostrils. Then he asks you if he can spend the night on your couch, even though it stinks.

Because you sniff. But, you do not smell.

And they say "Just OK" when you ask them how school was. Then you wonder what they're hiding until you find their diary and the last entry reads "I wish you'd give me some privacy."

Because you listen. But, you do not hear.

And they've got a bruise over their eye and you run the tips of your fingers over it and how ask them how it happened. You believe them. Until it happens again.

Because you touch. But, you do not feel.

And they walk past you everyday, one million stories, each waiting to be told. Waiting for you to ask.

Because you live. But very few, care.

The person you are is better than the ghost you were.

If the type of person you wish existed, doesn't; then that is who you must become.

The Stranger In You

My parents gave me a book and it told me I was made of dirt and dust. But you, you were made of ash.

The Law of the little.

I happened to be around a couple of kids recently which brought back memories of childhood. As I have grown older, I have forgotten so many rules and regulations I once followed religiously, and I am sure you have too. I must say that I have learned more about laws and rules from these kids in the past few days than I have learned in years. Let me share some observations.

Once I got a chance to observe a heated conversation between my a seven-year old boy and his six-year old cousin. They were playing together. Things were going fine. The first happened to have a pocket full of candy. The other didn't. He asked him for a piece of that candy. He said no. The first tried again, and was refused, again. It was on the third try that the second made his threat.
"If you don't give me some candy, you are not my cousin anymore."
And there it was. I had forgotten one of the greatest aspects of childhood. It was pure, it was simple, and it was being enacted right before me.
The laws that govern the little.

As silly as 'you are not my cousin anymore' sounds to adults, to a six-year old, it's serious business. At six years old, you can have your cousinhood annulled verbally! It was a valid threat, and it worked! The other coughed up some candy real quick!

You can't help but admire the simplicity of the kiddie legal system. No lawyers, no paperwork. Just word. Yet, so many legal areas are covered.

Insurance was big back then, I remember.

You're playing cricket, and you've got a new ball that cost you twenty rupees. Before the game starts, you make an announcement.
"Jo Gumaye ga, woh bharega"
Bingo! You just bought insurance. Now, if someone loses that ball, hits it on the roof, throws it down the sewer, you're covered. That person is responsible for re-imbursing you.

"Dibs" on the other hand, was how you staked your claim to something that wasn't your's yet.
Dad's driving to get a job done. He asks if you and your sibling want to come along. Without wasting a precious second, you shout!
"Dibs on the front seat!"
Now you can take your sweet time getting to the car. You wanted a certain piece of real estate, and "dibs" was your down payment. But "dibs" could be tricky, like any legal contract, you had to be guarded against loopholes. At any moment, your sibling could shout:
"Dibs on the front seat.. on the way back!"

It was a simple system. But you had to know all the ins and outs, otherwise you could end up in the backseat until you had your own car.

If only we have the same system among the adults. Simple, pure and cheap. Of course, once you become an adult, you realize the necessity of our complicated legal system. Yes, it'd be nice to get rid of all the red tape, but think of how high the divorce rate would be if all it took was:

Husband: "You're not my wife anymore."
Wife: "Dibs on all your money."

;)