chaiNboli

It was tiring to always play as a mayfly with an elder god here-  Here, where soil flies under our heels, the worldof living where dead ones move. Here, the windows were open to the ocean who couldn't  bear the monitoring eyes of a lizard moving with caution, a bio version of peephole trying to make sense of all the lies worshipped. Here, the fragility of  a porcelain bowl was the free verse the floor is afraid and excited of, enchanting to make its heart flutter of the fall. Here our throats used to sneeze  thrice when we gulped down sugary milk tea, it's sea skin soft and hot and we forgot to say "blèss you". Here, we comprehended that white has many hues, just like the Stream of consciousness narrative of a failed writer in the middle of night,his sorrow caricatured in sloppy alphabets. Here, flavored cigarettes were marked by screams, ones that slip into your mouth without your consent and knowledge, terrifying yourself in all possible ways. Here, history cups it...

After they are gone, we are translations of soft violence, like nails on a cement floor, rustic and cold. We understand grief, everywhere and every time, like a child knowing the shape of mother's lap. We use our words as commodities to buy cigarettes only to put them out on our open wounds. The nausea of Camus's essays  leans towards us, waiting for the act of osmosis in a quite haze. We fold ourselves neatly, the creases caused by the weight of dreams, nearly tucked under the hands, and find that they take a lot of space, before burning them down. Loneliness has so many hues and iterations, we find, trying to build a corner for ourselves in our house. The naive carvings of the names in unanswered letters change themselves into Monets waterlilies in a cup of tea we used to have with them.  After they are gone, we pay homage to love, trying to break free but still keeping a loose thread, so even when the kisses on the lips are ready to get evaporated, we try to saturate our me...

Phosphorous blue hearts are  pollinators and pollutants, so it will be better to tuck it to yourself with bobby pins, not really waiting to be a part of thirsty whirlpools in the middle of night. The water in your shoes is a synonym of your faith, returning to you in segments on episodes of seasons when,after realizing being a God is in an act of cruelty, without mask, testify against herself. Assume your dreams are sugar cubes sitting in the edge of your tongue in a car ride to fever wails, before selecting outfit of the day- victim or predator. If you are going to cut yourself then do it tenderly, not waiting for others to tell you how you should behave when you are with yourself.

You have to force feed me hope if you are thinking about loving me. Don't love me like a mother. Mothers are leaches. Always feeding on the blood thinking that they are keeping us warm, that they are feeding us , nourishing us. Delusional and cruel at the same time. A parasite. A symbiotic creature in search of sympathy. Don't love me like a father. Fathers don't know what kindness is when it comes to their children, which is rich while offering to a stranger. The water and the boat at the same time. A hardened membrane. Gravity in autumn, doing it's job anyway. You have to nurse the nights I own and lay beds for it in your pocket,  if you are going to love me. Do not try to put out the fairy lights grief takes out once in a while, if you are going to love me - instead let it have a dance in the support group of its own. If you are going to love me, you should take vows in the morgue of letters, that a shaky home is not at all a home. You have to talk in stutters, not i...

It takes immense courage to fall in love  with a woman who speaks of world  like a sober singing ghazals. In her case,  love songs are temporary like a child's whim over a new toy, only to be forgotten after five long minutes of seeing a favorite cartoon.  They are like the words inside a book a writer keeps close to his chest inside a roadside cafe, never to be opened on a full moon day. They are hooks and baits,  a weapon  Darwin forgot to mention in his "survival of the fittest" theory, a checkmate irrespective of time, a superimposed meteor afraid to fall. So, loving her is like kissing the blue green flame of a lighter, all the adjectives in your mother tongue fusing into a single mouth. It is not easy like buying a box of grapes on discount from a farmer who has black nails and brown teeth. Loving her is like sharing a piece of your favourite cake to the neighbourhood bully, the sweetness pounding like a sorry you don't have to offer rationally. It is...

Violence feels fit in my hands,  its pale blue eyes not a threat to others: Only to myself. But there is failure next to it,  the polite inability strangle myself  with my own hands other than in metaphors. I have stopped talking about pain_ I fear than it will break into thousands pearls while passing thick earlobes. /My pain is a mute child with closed eyes./ I have let God to give answers, his divinity  a scribe to me, foolishly believing his existence, only to be disappointed. / God is a hydrogen balloon lost in the clouds/ I have waved enough farewells to know that the space between the fingers are glued in such occasions inorder to stop memories to leak out. / Memories have outstayed their stay/ So, as the last option to stay alive, I look around and finds you,  looking at me like a bubbling tea cup. You become the open mouth on the black throat of a wall, cradling hopes, waiting to be seen, waiting to be noticed. The world trembles in the knot of my belly...

The knife swimming in water,  gleaming eyes on the bath tub. The bee's kiss stinks, in other words the love hurts- this is out of context, like the spring rain in a monsoon night. But if you look closely, you can see what I mean, and then you will know why I call the knife a random bee. Red blushes, call it love for the convenience, but you and me know the truth, which doesn't matter anyway. Or call it a new van gogh in making, and bubble wrap it in water, a new genre, a new creator (destroyer). Or be excited to see the stories leaking out of the parallel windows, after gargling enough salt water to erase the cough symptoms. Or may be just  call it art. The knife in the water, a proud parent after doing what it was assigned to. Numbness marinate memories in a such a way that  micoscopes fail to identify its atoms correctly. So, spin it like a telephone wire in the hands of a newly wed, asking sour words to get out of their house only after putting so much makeup. Or flirt...