My own disposition..

After working on the blog for a lot more than a year, it’s hard not to romanticize it as a comrade backing me through existence. Its uncomplaining demeanor while listening to my pseudo idealism is hardly appreciated while I rant out one sad joke after another. When writing out any of my opinion of the world around, it made me realize how little I know about what I write about. It argues with me over my views yet never has a smug smile when it wins. Sometimes it teams up with readers, thrashing out at me for any mistake or lack of standard. In this stage of being stuck in the work place for around twelve hours the blog is the only think keeping me in touch of my creative self and humbly lets me boast about it.

Yet the true example of its individual nature shows up when I stop writing for a while. Upon my return the initial awkwardness is always there. It’s like wondering “Should I ask him about his gal, wasn’t he the one who got dumped last time? Damn!!” There’s the whole process of getting to know it all over again and filling in the lost gaps. It requires spending time talking about the old days and what they were like. There always this irritating nag in the back of the head that’s keeps on saying “Am I saying the right thing?”, “am I confirming to the benchmark?”, “Is this the ‘me’ I want to project to the world?”. But some how it certainly does help in figuring out a new style and fetch better ideas on writing. There is always some new facet that we didn’t even realize existed last time. It always takes a few posts to get back the old flair and get reminded embarrassingly that last time there wasn’t any break up. Turns out his gold fish had died!!

Imperfections...

A major victim of “time passing by” is the appreciation of one’s own work. A few days back I was going through the poems I had written during my college days. It was mostly about the usual stuffs like the frustrations, failure, crushes and things I somewhat find too clichéd to write about now a days. Its funny how we and the things around us change and we are the last one to notice it. We don’t even notice the significant contribution we ourselves put to change these things. Coming back to the poems, I would be lying if I said that I didn’t want to make any changes (and improve) any of those poems. I wanted to make them more cheerful. I wanted to change the metaphors I used to describe things. I wanted to frame the verses in a better way. But then poems just do not pop out of nothing. They are the testimony of how one feels for different encounters which transpires in his life. They are the best way to tell who you actually were on that specific day. So even if you try to change the poem you wrote, all you will get is a new one which will show who you are today. You just can’t change something you had written in the past.

Maybe it’s better (and easier) to acknowledge them just as they are and accept that it’s because of what we felt and wrote earlier, we feel and write much better today.

Anyways, just for old times sake here’s the first poem I wrote:


Starry Nights…

Glint of the city fades away,
I flee from glaring heights,
From jeering dark lanes
From the betraying paths.

I head for the woods,
Befriended by the sultry night,
Stars wink excited..
As if meeting an old’ friend.

Sneaking through the clouds,
The moonlight hugs me.
Breeze swims across like angels,
Disappearing the last traces of sadness.

Deaf to the calling city.
Know I have to go back...
Face the glaring sun...
Trying to bring me to my knees.

But for the night I am trapped
I wrap myself by the shadows...
Under the aegis of sleepy trees...
Lying on the grass I just drift away.

When A Day Dreamer Writes...

Staring back with its pale,
white face, the paper mocks
my thoughts to disgrace.
Thoughts, they fade away,
leaving behind an empty room
filled with a dying flames haze.
Feelings of appeasement try
invading my soul. Somewhere it wins,
Somewhere it loses all hope.

But when all lights go dim,
I see a world in no one's sight
pouring tales in my mind
like a old tavern's aging rye.
With a new hope of a
fiery sky, I write for
glory. I write for the
day dreamer's rising cry.