Pens and Pages

Write like no one’s reading . The thought came to me on a train journey I hadn’t expected much from. It was always about taking a nap and snoring the distance away for me, avoiding eating anything from the mobile vendors selling dubious tea and untrustworthy coffee. I’d forcefully close my eyes, plug in my earphones, till the point a part of my brain would give up and turn itself off. It’s different this time- I find myself on a comfortable seat, near the window, with enough leg room to keep both my bags and still not feel suffocated. I couldn’t sleep so I read; I couldn’t read any more so I drifted away in my thoughts- a practice I had left years ago. Like encountering an old friend on a strange road that somehow feels familiar when you see the friend smile, my thoughts embrace me back. I allow myself the freedom to let them fly away as far as they wish to. I allow myself to steal my waking time to do nothing, instead of occupying myself with thoughtless texting or data anal...

He says 'tis not poetry what you write. Where are the stories, where are the rhymes? Though we look into each other's eyes for hours From one sunset to another sunrise. He says 'tis not love if we await another day. Where are the words you and I didn't say? He says 'tis not about my daydreams. He says we don't hold hands very often. For the world is filled with contemporary poets, He says mine don't fit this world of substance. Where does the heart of your poem lie?, he asks. A poem's not a breeze, long, that doesn't last. A minute longer that doesn't stay, 'Tis not a poem, 'tis what your feelings say. A floating second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

It's been thirteen long days since I wished my family a happy new year while forgetting to wish my blog the same. Nor did I celebrate its fourth birthday on 26th December 2015. Often a times, I feel like one of those ruthless mothers who do not know how to take care of one's child or those fair weather friends who refuse to acknowledge their friends in need. So when I am all busy and preoccupied, my poor blog is out of my mind. The reason might not entirely be the way I presented it to be for I did wait for something great to happen so that I could feel the pages of my dear blog with some food for thought. But sometimes great things happen every day or they do not at all, so that you do not get a chance to fathom it.  Studying in a B school implies very less time for old friends and old habits. Blogging does take a back seat. But when every term I get to read so much about human behaviour, blogging seldom leaves my mind. I come across so many people every day ...

I hope you still write her letters, I hope tears still fall from her eyes, Reading those letters she never found. And when you look at the letters you never sent, I hope it's her eyes that see the love wrapped, For they no longer need to know the words. But even when words fail to work magic, I hope you still believe in your letters... I hope you still write her letters But I hope you send the letters you wrote..

She rewrites history, Everyday, She says. I see lies. And when he smiles, And claims he is fine. I see lies. More lies. And when I look at you, And you make me feel good I see you through, I read your book. I see lies. More lies. All lies. Yesterday, When you said Things will be alright. I knew at an instant, That feeling, That vibe. You're going To lie, again. Shackles of lies, In everything I say. And when I write Our story today, I see lies, I see them, everywhere.

I'm far from being a romantic person. Loving? Not at all. I giggle at the wrong time. My laugh is too loud. I dance weirdly. I often find myself away from people or I find a way to push them away. But I giggle, laugh and dance anyway. And whenever I find myself alone, I sing, I think and I write. That's the closest to love that I can ever be. And when I hug the trees and kiss the sunset, when I admire the birds fly and I dance on the beach, that's the closest to romance that I can ever be. I make poems in my head. I make them all the time. I have always been in love. I'm still in love. I pour all my love to the notepad I write on. I romance the pen. The poems that are still lingering in my head, they say I'm incurably romantic. I still keep my poems. I live more in my imaginations than in reality. And if that's not love, I don't know what else is. I don't need a him or a her. I'm in love with love itself. I'm a story in another story. I'...