Conversations

Conversations
Quiet, muddled, befuddled
Never reaching a conclusion
Endless, meandering, circumambulating
Tiresome in their childish repetitions.
Conversations
Are never clear
They never come to me
Like they do in my dreams
Lucid, transparent
With you before me
Gathering my words in your arms
Slowly, letter by letter
A game of scrabble only we can play
A puzzle formed block by block
Till I finally find the right words to say
They never come to me
Like they do in my dreams.
Clear, precise and charming
Completely disarming
With you on the other side.
It never happens that way.
It never will.

REM Sleep

The quietness of dawn is creeping upon me. There is no sound, but I can feel it. In the coldness that covers the floor. The creaks and snores of bodies in the other room. The sound of the dripping tap, one that was to be fixed last week, causes a mild irritation. I still have to get used to it. As the words form on this blank page, coded by words themselves, I wonder if I am awake or asleep.

Life seems to be on autopilot. I find myself in an open cubicle during daytime. Typing out documents, filled with copy that is interesting and uninteresting alternatively. I talk, mumble, and sometimes reply to others. All the time, my mind wandering to a place I don't recognise. I see that place occasionally, in my dreams. Quiet, dark and cold like this moment.

Fear is the immediate emotion. Next comes wonder. Slowly, the mind wakes up to the fact that the only danger is itself. No being can kill the mind, except the lack of escape from such a dark place. A place so dark that the mind loses its ability to imagine light. You slowly give in to the darkness and the mind...goes blank.

Peace comes at a heavy cost. You sleep. Your body - paralysed. But your eyes move. Rapid eye movement, they call it. Your brain is functioning. It discovers new worlds. Light, Soft, sweet, warm light. It floats through it. The prisms of brightness radiating through the mind.

Strange words to type in the night. I can feel the cold creep back to me. I can hear the snores back again, through the darkness. I look up and find it impossible to make out the features of the room. It is pitch black again.

Am I awake, or am I asleep? 

Dreams: A World Untraveled Unseen

The silence of rippling curtains at an open window
Laughter on hidden faces, dreams upon closed eyelids
Dreams flitting in and out
Of quiet noisy minds that drift to and fro
from the vacant blankness of pitter patter nights
Dreams nestled within warm rugs of cotton,softly rustling in the colder dark
Dreams poor, rich, colored, worded, manufactured within crowded psyches
Now asleep, now awake;
Twinkling dreams, loud dreams, quiet and cold and warm and round
Shaped by the unconscious subconscious
Dreams kind and unkind, played in the theater of the mind
Carpeted by fabrics unfelt by touch, glided upon, sight unseen
A world hidden within a dream
Confined spaces, shrinking still,then expanding to hold universes within
The travel of ages defined in a dream.
Faces forgotten, or forgetting, voices unknown, now failing,
Flitting in and out intangentially, without chronology
Through timeless sleep
The terrors now hidden brought to life,
Breathing, moving, knife through the windless domains of a sleeping life;
Time lost in space, memories without a trace,
Vanish at the sight of morning's first rays;
And suddenly a universe is lost, never to find,
Exiled to the deepest recesses of my mind;
I find them, I lose them.
They find me, they shape me.
Dreams. 

Writing a Poem

The words drop onto the book,
Embers from burnt out cigarettes,
Coal marks on white pages,
And smoke out thoughts from the mind.
Tired fans whir above
Circling out the heat in slow, creaking whispers
The thoughts keep petering out
And I blow and blow again
They spark a little,
Burn a little,
Each burn hurts a little
I fill my pen and let it drip onto the page
Another letter, another word
and slowly the poem takes shape.

My Rant Against 'Whatever'

You, apathetic ancient pronoun

Undefined, Unrefined,

Emerging from the confused vagaries of the mind,

Product of the diminished vocabularies

Produced by the creators of bowdeleries,

The dimwit’s fashion statement,

The negation of every argument,

Born of the bowels of grammatical extract,

Haven of assumed, unissued facts

I have fought and fought and fought you

With every breath,

And yet you live on,

Spiting me to death;

Abomination of language,

The key word of the teenage,

Anyhow, somehow surviving cockroach

Of the literary bile,

The word I shall forever revile,

My vicious rant shall last forever

Till you are used…

‘Whatever’…