Silence

I sense an emptiness around me
It echoes the emptiness I feel inside
One that I have been ignoring
Persistently
Steadfastly

In the silence that surrounds me
My thoughts pour in
Filling the spaces
The nooks and crannies
Of my being
Unbidden
Strong
Confused
Countless

Insecurities
Fears
Doubts
Memories
Fragments of poems
Checklists
Worries
Places to visit
Budgets
Pictures, photographs
Quotes, dialogues
Movies to watch
Books to read
Lines
Words

All rushing over each other
Around each other
Tumbling
Tossing
Waves crashing on the shore
Raindrops falling
Freeflowing sand through fingers

Yet
They do nothing
Mean nothing and everything

While around me
There is still
Silence

Of honey eyes
And moonlight waltzes
Whispered desires
Hands clasped
Fingers entwined

Whisky and wine
White sand
The night sky
Murmurs and silence

With talks of the tides
Of love and friendship
Plans and promises
Tunes hummed
Wishes sent to the universe
On the crests of the waves

Of honey eyes
And moonlight waltzes

As night falls
And the warm embrace of sleep beckons
I say 'good night, my love'

I hear you fall asleep
Drifting away
Your breathing settling
Into a familiar pattern
Your cares forgotten
Worries left behind

And I smile to myself
For soon we will meet
Because what are dreams
But connections transcending space and time?
And together we will walk
If only
In the land of the night

There is something about the stars that just makes everything okay.

When I look at the stars, splattered across the pitch-black sky like an artist just flicked her paint-filled brush across it, their very disorder reassures me. The very chaos of those tiny pin points of light makes me feel like it's okay for crazy to exist. Because as humans, we found order even in that chaos. We made ourselves believe they formed shapes and gave names and characteristics to them and even made multiple sciences out of their study. If we could fool ourselves into believing that the very stars have order, then finding order in our lives is child's play.

The science behind the birth and the death of stars and knowing that their light reaches us so very long after it leaves the star itself is fascinating. That sometimes the stars we see aren't even stars but just memories of them, with their light reaching us long after they die.

The most important thing I see when I look at a starry sky is my own insignificance. Compared to the endless magnitude of the sky and the trillions of stars it, who am I really? My life and issues seem so very unnecessary. When I look down at the tiny amount of physical space that I occupy in this planet and then compare it to the sheer infinity of the night sky and the stars in it, I realise how very worthless I am in the great scheme of things.

Those stars are a reality check.

I wish I could see the stars in Bangalore more often.

I can't seem to be able look at my hands anymore. Every time my eyes stray towards my fingers, as I type these words out, as I'm riding my scooter, as I raise my spoon to my lips, I avert them. Because I just can't look at them.

They remind me of how I broke everything. How I dashed it all to pieces against the ground. They remind me of sandcastles in the air which I crushed. Of dreams I built so carefully and then tore into fragments, each flying in a different direction.

They remind me how weak I am, can be. They remind me how I cut myself when I tried to pick the pieces up and how I gave up because it hurt too much. They remind me that the thing those pieces were part of wasn't mine to break, wasn't mine to destroy.

My hands, my fingers, they remind me of what I let go of. What I used to hold on to so tightly. They remind me how you used to fit and how I let you go. They remind me of the things I used to write, the crumpled papers and the letters. They remind me of dark movie theatres, of cold nights and how your pocket was always warmer than mine.

The chewed up cuticles remind me of a deal we made.

The veins on the back of my hand don't stick out any more because now all I have to hold on to is empty air.

I cannot look at my hands anymore. They remind me of you too much.

Waltz to the sound of the waves
Feel the sand between your toes
The smell of the sea
The music of the tides

Take in the power of the moon
As every day she calls
And the waves fall over each other
To do her bidding

Inexorable, tireless, powerful
Yet drawn every day
By her magic

And as you stand by the sea
With the water lapping at your soles
Just remember,
You are only a tiny grain of sand,
On the vast unending, unbroken expanse of time

Waiting to turn into a wave
When your moon calls

In the story Hansel and Gretel, the kids left breadcrumbs to mark the route they were taking. A path they could retrace. In the Greek story of Theseus and the Minotaur, he unravelled a ball of string as he entered the maze so that he could find his way out after killing the monster.

I function with a similar idea, only I do the opposite. I collect breadcrumbs. A spool of thread of sorts. I collect bits and pieces from places I go to, things I experience. So that later, when I need to find my way back to that moment, and my memory doesn't serve me well enough, I have a token to help me along. A bill, a stone from the pot outside the restaurant, a plastic spoon from the ice-cream parlour, a leaf from the tree I was standing under. Small things, all of them. Junk is what others would call it. But for me, they're memories. Yes I know about memories and encapsulating a perfect moment in your head and no one can take that away. But I also use these tiny things as my personal guide, scrapbook, the thread through the maze I call life.

Which is also why I love photographs. Which is why I write down thoughts. All of these things together form an account of my life.

It is foolish to attach meaning to these material things. These transient objects which could break, fade, get lost. But well, I do it. They mark the moments of my life I'd like to remember. A guide to finding that moment in my head.

So I collect, I store, I hoard, I remember.