Wabi-Sabi

    “By writing, you affirm your identity.”  A statement truly and well said. Writing is not merely a hobby but rather extends beyond that as a process. It is a process that affirms our identity and perspective. Writing goes hand in hand with development of objectivity and empathy. In this journey embarked upon, one grows not only as a writer but as an individual. In the process of sowing umpteen thoughts in the mind, one grows as a sapling towards the azure sky of prudence and conviction. One becomes a ladder while embodying the curiosity of a child who never ceases to climb up ardently towards anything that can be perceived as food for thought. A writer not only steps into the shoes of another homo sapien but also is able get into the skin of another character, whatever that character may be. As the writer tries to put together the pieces of a puzzle together, one kindles a new world of thought, a world where one can grasp one’s essence by being oneself as well as a stranger or an a

                            Check and mate. No other way? I wonder if that is the only way to end the pain; An end to the games we play. Black and white. Is that all we are capable of? No gradation of hues. Only fight.

As smokers, we learn early on to put up a mental wall of denial between our smoking habit and the harsh reality of the damage we're inflicting on ourselves with every cigarette smoked. We tell ourselves lies that allow us smoke with some level of comfort. We say we have time Cancer does not run in our family and we can quit any time we want to and many other lies are woven in our psyche everyday to hold up the carcass in creation or shall I rather say destruction. As smoking is a slow killer, it supports the wall of denial built brick by brick by the defence mechanism. We incessantly take the escape route from the voices in our head and put up a brave face in front of our peers as if the posh roll of tobacco held delicately between our fingers is a war in itself that we fight with aplomb. Sadly, the underlying disarray is lost in the puff of smoke. The demons creating a racket within are not paid heed to. If 4-5 cigarettes are ingested whole then the nicotine content

Let Thy words be my command. Thou art mine indeed. Thou wite my story. As I string words bead by bead. I know not if Thou art my creation or am I thine. There is no longer Thee and me. All that remains is Thee in me. With love to poetry.  

The whiff of varnish locked within closed doors; Curtains starched, pride suspended stiffly against walls monochrome. Sprawled over wooden floor, in the word game I count our scores. Our words lie crumbled as rubble within the structure of bricks and stone. We moved in with new quilts for comfort, Yet brought in a handful of sleepless nights. Behind layers of exquisite rouge I hid the hurt as you chose to feign indifference to fights. Afraid of rejection, my lover, of losing the game of pride in chess. We lost out on each other and silence gave way to emptiness. Scratch out my painted walls; let my plaster chip off as I hide my face. Hold my hand as the needle of time crawls, till we learn to heal together at the place that we had decided to call home. The life in us has never been in need of a plan. My love, let us shed the fear of being alone as long as we love in the best way that we can.