The Leech

My mind has always been up and running. Always occupied with the essentials. But of late, it has reached a more complex and dangerous form. I mean its like there is so much on my mind that sometimes it feels like the pressure exerted on the walls of a dam by the superfluous waters of a river after a flood. It feels like there will be a sharp spark in my head and there it would be; my brain lying on the floor besides me with its circuitry emitting dry smoke, like the one from a burned wiring. Thoughts which could not stop, and the highways in my brain, that could not accomodate their pressure.  I admit that I have started to think a lot, but it somehow feels unavoidable. I just cannot stop it. It has become like a disease. And mind you, I obviously hate that.

If I were to attempt to list out everything, I would be lost in translation from one issue to the other. Ironically, however, this is what I am from the past one and a half years which envelopes approximately  two academic years. I dont know when I was dragged into this. I never realised when this "leech" began sucking the peace out of me . Now, it is so bad, it feels like that even if I pull it out, the tiny fangs of the "leech" would not dislodge, and consequently it would pull my character with it, like the skin, tearing it apart to pieces, the soberness would spurt out like the blood and proceed towards becoming empty, and the the complete "I" would be destroyed, like the muscles ripping apart, and my peace would be lost, forever.

I met a friend yesterday over a coffee. We chatted a lot. She, as usual, never spoke much about herself. And I as usual, kept ranting. Discussing with her the past, made me feel relieved. I blurted out whatever was curbed deep inside me. I had a chance of reclaiming my sanity and I said it, I said it all. It felt like a major portion of the leech taken off without pain. I felt light.  As the talks proceeded, I found myself talking about writing. She mentioned of the past times when I used to write a lot, compared me to a lot of people whom I advised to write, and in the end, thus, slammed a hard hitting point bang on my dead conscience. For the first time in so many years, I felt it. I felt like writing. It was like someone in comatose moved a withered finger. Moreso like the first ripple of still waters.

I was told to write whatever comes to my rusted brains. The suggestion lingered on for a long time, and thankfully, and luckily, did not fade out. And so here I am, ranting to you all. I would not have written this much too, if it would not have been for her. The issue has not begun yet in this text, but this is just for those who feel stuck. I would really try my best to put the issues in my mind in my further posts (pray that they happen). But my advise for the stuck ones-Go rant it out to a good person, to a good friend. And if you write, just be frantic. Take a paper and a pen, or open a blank page on Word, or any shit of that sort, and just be frantic. And if you dont write, then start writing. Its a very effective vent. Take out your frustration on the keyboard or the pen, but begin. Begin, and you will surely see the light.

Love,
Nik.

The Bubble

It doesnt even budge my inner self now. Is this how life is? Is this how the cycle works? Right from no one, to an acquaintance, a friend, the most important one, your life, your sadness, your disappointment, your disgrace, your anger, your past, and once again-no one. I wonder if anything stays. If anyone stays. And here they go once again, Mr. Coldplay blasts in my ears, "We've been living life inside a bubble...". I just landed on the profile of my "no-one to no-one (NTN)" accidently on a famous social networking site. Her friend sent me a friend request. Its unusual for me to have my thoughts and feelings in coherence with each other. This time they were. And somehow I got a prompt NO. In perfect coherence. And I suddenly found myself feeling the bubble...

Nasamjhi

In badalon ki parchaayi,
Kuch yun hai gehrayi,
Jaise na samajh sake hum zindagi ko kabhi
Jo samjhe to lagi wo nasamjhi hi sahi...

Har chehra ek sawaal ban jaaye,
Har sawal ek khayal le aaye,
Aaina dekh kar yun sawaal utha abhi,
Na jane ye kaun hun, shayad aaine ki bekhudi...

Waqt ki daud thame na thame,
Wajood ki talash me yun jite rahe,
Par koi is dil se ye kahe to sahi,
Ki saansen abhi thami nahi!


Jaane kahaan raah chhod aaya kabhi,
Main hokar bhi main na ho paya kabhi,
Dabe zehen ki saanson ka shagird jo bana
Baarish me ye aansun chhupa aaya kahin!




In palkon ki parcchayi,
Ab fir hai gehrayi,
Kash samajh sakte hum khud ko kabhi,
To shayad is kaagaz pe aaj yun na hoti nami.........

"I"?

I have just woken up. And I just have minutes to write this. The clocks gonna strike 5.30pm and it would be tea time here in this strange home of mine; a home that's called hostel. Speaking of home, the next thought that conceives in my fertile gray world is that tomorrow is my last exam. And I would be going home. Real home. But then the exams is also of Applied Numerical Methods, an enhanced and more gory (:P) form of mathematics, which has been my top rival since, I guess, I met it. But then its just the last stupidity that I have to do for three hours and then...vroom..back to the real home. But then I would come back on 27th for some work, back to this pseudo home. Then again to the real one. And on 1st I would leave home (real) and would reside under a makeshift roof somewhere in Western India for 2 exilic months just for a certificate of "Yes-he-is-interested-in-his-profession" of my internship. As soon as my brothers birthday month .i.e. August would arrive I would be back from that 2 month exile, to my real home. That is, just for a week. Later, I would again return to this pseudolife and start my final year.......




And I stop. And I think.


Where am I? "I"?

After I woke up..

It is so common for me now a days to just wrap my arm around my tired eyes, and try to fall deep within myself. It seems I am feverishly looking for a bug, some strange clutter that is stuck up somewhere between my brains and my nerves. I am severely smouldered these days, battling my own self. I do not know where I have lost myself; my proud self that I used to flaunt to my 21 years old well known and looked up to self confidence, whenever it used to go low because of something unpleasant. But these days, huh, I feel like a small kid, who loved his mother to beyond the universe, but who lost her in the crowd, and now is wandering on the busy freeways amongst speedy traffic, crying his agony out, ignoring his burning throat, avoiding to feel his lung muscles getting tired, sidelining his hunger pangs, trying to ignore his blistered feet, and just looking to get back to home, to his mother. To relief. To peace.  But all that life can offer him at the moment are painful ears due to the honking world around him, and hopeful, yet lost eyes. The world rushing past him, making him feel he has been left behind. Far behind, of where he thinks he should have been now. Love, affection, care....everything seems to be another world. A different universe altogether. Now what he sees is nothing except strangers. Both in persons and in feelings.  The thing that pains more is now he is becoming accustomed to this life. He seems to have forgotten the mother. The home. It feels to him that he has come a long way, a long way from where he was the king of someones world. Where, actually, he was someones world. Now, all that is left is disarray. Confusion. Would he ever find himself? Would he ever step on the doorway of his home? Would he find peace, solace in anything except his own hopeless hope of living again? He doesn’t know the answer to any of this. He also doesn’t know if he will get it ever. He just sits beside a wrought bench on the street, living with his glances to the world swooshing past him, living with the feeling of being left behind, left alone, searching for answers of what he is, was or will ever be.

Twisted

Suddenly an urge flared up on my fingertips. The next thought that crafted was that I dont want this to be a poem as it would require thinking. And this, I dont want to think and type.


Its been four long, arduous months since this facade has made itself an integral part of my life. Its almost in coherence with my tanned skin and severely tampered soul. Most of the readers of my blog (well, I guess there are just few of them) know that I write mostly when, as they say very disappointingly, "something happens" to me, or for that matter, with me. I say, its not that always something different happens to or with me. That something is just LIFE in either its angelic conformation or, very often the bitchy one.


This time, its neither of them. Its kind of twisted. Its a question, actually a horde of them, that has contorted the image of my own personality in me to great extents. There are so many questions, that very often it feels like my brain is no different from a sack being filled with rushing water, way beyond its capacity. And the part that is troublesome is, that the "sack" is still trying to hold on. Now it feels that the "sack" has a turgid conscience, one which has inflated beyond the capacity of self respect.

These days, when I hold the pen in my hands, all I manage to write is a tiny, as my confidence, a dot. It feels such a colossal task to even start! So much is happening, yet I feel like an empty vessel. A barrage of emotions fills my veins, but by the time they reach between my ears, it seems they get diluted with time, and contaminated by other thoughts residing there,  so much so, that the only change that happens is the dot gets darkened. Deep. And what happens next has become as frequent as the daily breath. My pen lays besides the dot, waiting to be picked up again in the so familiar tainted hope. And I, like the tiny dot, like the dark speck of beginning on my conscience, stay still where I was. Where I am right now. To some people who are really close, the monotony of this mess up would have begun to look like the monotony of seasons. Even the seasons differ in pattern and timing. But mine, both are unswayed everytime I hear a stressfull hello, if I hear one at all.

Why do I feel so caved out? Like I have been scraped from deep insides of my already damaged confidence? Scraped out each and everything that I possessed and was proud about? Sometimes it feels I am wasting this life that I have been gifted by the Big Man above. And sometimes, it feels as empty as an abandoned house for the past several years, a house which was a mammoth palace of exuberance and  glee. I have no answers to any of my questions out here. When I began writing (read: typing) this I did not know where would it finally lead to. I still dont know. I thought I will just write my heart out. But even when I am typing this I feel stuck somewhere! I just know that I have so much to do in life, so much on my mind every single day of the year, every single hour of the day that I feel I am lost. Both by location and by virtue.

Which path should I take? How would I know its right, even if I muster enough courage to choose one? What is this emptiness that is filled in me? College, phone(x 4), education, industry updates, assignments, projects, social networking, blogging, latest technology, newspaper reading, maintaining relationships, keeping in touch with friends (old/new/those who think they are and I simply abhore them but cannot cease contact due to some "social obligations"! :x), keeping in touch with important contacts, watching 24(its the latest addiction that haunts me even when I am under the shower), watching movies, gaining general knowledge, family........................damn. What not!

I just want my erratic thoughts to get straightened up and let me ease out. Let me know a way out of this shitty puzzle I am trapped in for the past 4 months. How to manage the above mentioned carcass of my brain in a day, so that I just feel that this life, is not withering away to disappear in thin air. I just want the whats and the hows and the whens and the whys to just get answered. I just want to feel substantial. I just want to accommodate the essentials in my life, become what I imagine myself as.

The problem is: I suddenly do not know how to.


And here again, my fingers withdraw themselves from this disjointed world of my confused ramblings....and I go back and play an episode of 24, silencing my quest towards myself until it rages again. Or till when, and if, a big if, I find my answers. 

The Wish Game

The words are lost, as they seem,

I feel nothing but jeopardy,

Meandering paths through my scattered thoughts,

I try and try,

To pick my wish that is lost.

Confusion construes abatement of sanity,

This world seems to have just zombies and profanity!

So I yell.

“Listen! All the worlds just listen to me!

I do not seek success, my desire is peace!

I want to be born again, just wish it’s on Saturn!

Humans don’t fancy me anymore,

Humanity has become their private slattern!”

And I keep running on the Wish Path,

To step on what is mine, but alas!

With every step the ground beneath dissolves,

“Not this one, not even this...” they say

And I keep running to save my fall.....

My wish is lost once more,

And so am I in the confusion,

The confusion of what I want,

And what I should have chosen.

Sitting besides this window,

The fear fills my heart,

Time doesn’t wait,

Even for itself to depart!

Still I keep thinking,

How to keep winning,

In profession, love, friendship and family,

How to keep myself spinning.

Time wades across life,

It would reach the other end with pain,

I wish to find my wish by then,

And I really wish not to wish again.

PS: No REAL TIME scenario! :P