Yesterday

It held my hand and helped me see,

what I have been and what I could be.

Yesterday just before I went to bed,

it tiptoed up to me and said:

"I'll tell you a secret that nobody knows,

a secret inside me that simply grows.

I can tell you because I know you'll see

that I'm the secret and that it lies within me."

Almost Grown

There were times when I would forget what tears taste like. I'd forget all that I knew once and all that I could know. There are fears that circle like vultures all the while waiting to swoop. Afraid of love, afraid to live. Afraid to even try. Now that we're nearly there, I wonder if it wasn't the most prudent thing to not have been afraid at all.

We are almost grown. Almost. I stand at the window and look at the coldness outside and the clouds rushing home to where they feel warm. The sun, looks like the way I feel : trying it's best to be, what it used to be.

I love Winnie the Pooh

“I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words bother me.” __ Winnie the Pooh

I feel that it's high time I confessed. I feel very much like a bear, who has very little brain, and who is bothered about everything including long words. The Winnie the Pooh I own is tubbier in appearance and a lot more cuter and loves honey etc. but I do genuinely feel that if we were ever to chance upon each other in life, we'd get along. It'd be good.

Modern Day Ghalib

A listless look, an upside down book,
and glasses perched upon his head.
A newspaper, and many other things
in sweet chaos litter the bed.

About Love

Have spent the better part of the morning listening to ghazals- the only kind of music that truly speaks to me. I've been wanting to write these lines down for someone to read for a while:

तेरे बारे में जब सोचा नहीं था,
मैं तन्हा था मगर इतना नहीं था.
तेरी तस्वीर से होती थी बातें,
मेरे कमरे में आइना नहीं था.

As I write, I'm pretty confident I'm delirious with fever and I can feel my eyes burn with the heat from my heart. A friend recently informed me (in utmost seriousness) that he thought that I was a closet masochist. Late night conversations end up sounding quite silly, so I paid no heed. Now that I come to think of it. It may be true. The conversation was meandering it's way through various aspects of love and people. I, obviously, was failing miserably in attempts to reason with his logic.

Beauty is always breathtaking or exhilirating. Anything other than that is just pretty and transient. There is a certain charm to pained love. I think I'm a bit of a psycho and now all those who know me well and actually give a damn have resigned themselves to the fact that I can't be part of affairs that are not torrid or crazy. In fact, I am convinced that I am incapable of loving any other way.