I’m afraid of the dark, of the light
My stomach churns, curdling my insides
A feeling of sinking with no shore to see
Trees cast shadows of despair,
Sounds rustle my thoughts
Faces once familiar smile with evil inside
I know not who to trust, to cry upon
Little do I know, my life is to end
The sorrow remains and the fear lingers.

A bird in the sky

Let me fly, my wings wide open
the gush of air against my bosom
past the hills and meadows
over the castles and rocks
no worry on my chest, no hurry on my breath
afar afar beyond what I can see
tears rolling down my cheek
pain easing through my neck
the joy of flight in my plight
only if I knew my day is to end
the sun in the sky about to go down
into the darkness I go, into the depths I go
shadows of agony falling on my skin
memories and thoughts rushing into my skull
I see no more, I hear no more
my body aching to rest
in a cave of silence
where I lie awaiting my death
only to wake up and fly again and again.

The microcosm

Each day, you wake up as if you are back from the dead with new thoughts, aspirations and dreams. But one thing that always reminds you that it is the same old painful reminder called life is the memories of your past. How much ever you try to forget and move forward, it keeps cropping up into your thoughts like some uninvited guests barging into your peaceful home. The more you remember, the more worrying it is. You can try to keep your memories at bay, alas, they always win.

I’ve never liked photos. I have always felt that I’m not really photogenic, and I suck at posing. With extreme inferiority complex on my appearances, my smile and my presentation, I choose to shy away from any chance of being in a photo. But beyond all that, photos hurt me. Even if they are great memories, pleasant and happy. They might be a memory that reminds me that my past was a happy one and I’m living through some tough times now. Even if I am genuinely happy now, and if an old photo of me comes up to me, I might feel disturbed or even unhappy.

Maybe I am an extremely weird individual. I believe photos shouldn’t exist. That your eyes and your mind should be the only thing that should ever see something or remember something. Because your mind forgets, but photos are a constant reminder of something. And from my life, I’ve realized that I don’t want to be reminded of things. My actions, my thoughts, my perspectives, my emotions, and everything about me is ever changing. I will go back on my words, change my perspectives, regret my past or even choose to repeat things again. I don’t want to be pin down by my past and my deeds in it.

Of course, this doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences to my actions. However, it is not, nor should it be my worry to enforce these consequences on me. If I’ve done something to someone, said something or behaved in a particular way, they are always welcome to remind me, bring joy or happiness associated with it to me or torture me the way they chose. Having said all this, I do have photos of me taken in many situations. I however cannot recollect enough instances where I go back to them or relive those memories. I was once told by someone dear to me that I need to have enough photos with my parents to remember them once they die. Though this seems to be the obvious thing any child should do, I find it difficult to come to terms with this. I have lot of fond memories of my parents, but I think I should forget them and the level of details in them to move on forward in life. As long as they are alive, they are constant reminder for my time with them, the past, present and my potential future with them, just like photos. If I were to always linger in my memories of them, I think I will die of depression and sorrow, unable to think of the next moment, unable to move an inch forward in life. After all, photos are microcosms of your life.

Life in a bottle

Often I think my life is in a bottle. You know, like a ship inside a bottle. Just that, I am inside it. The whole of my life, my existence, myself. It is a sense of being trapped, unable to escape, breathe or even express. And I think that someone has put me inside it, and cast me away on the sea, floating mindless, moving with the waves. There is this constant loneliness which is extremely unjustified. Because I’m not alone. I’ve never been alone. Then again, I do feel alone. Not always, but at times when I do, it is extreme. Like somebody is smothering me, suffocating me and I feel like I’m dying. Drowning, or like being waterboarded.

Seems there is no real bottle. Ofcourse there isn’t. It’s all in my head. That knowledge isn’t helping. Because I’ve cast that bottle on myself. Maybe it’s my failure to realise that I did this on myself. And not knowing how to undo this is only exacerbating the pain. I’m used to feeling this pain. A lot of it. I’ve gone through such pain many many times before. Each time, I’ve got numb and then accustomed to it to not feel threatened by it. Nothing is different this time.

Maybe I’m just nuts. Maybe all I need is a place to express my ramblings. My blog was always that to me. Now the remnants of the age old pain is torturing me. Years worth pent up pain feels unleashed. And my mind isn’t able to cope with it. I want an exit. I want to break the bottle.