The Other Blog » Literature

Coming Back to Life

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 17:43:21 +0000

It’s ironic how emptiness can fill you up, a crazy oxymoron that nevertheless manages to sap your existence, your life, leaving you broken down and lost. Here I am now, broken and lost. Here I am now, alone and friendless. Here I am now, in a room full of nothing, white walls with peeling paint, straight backed chair with the smell of freshly-painted plywood, a laptop with a new document, waiting for my words. Life here never stands still, never allows you a moment to bleed away your pains and sorrows. And yet, despite all the millions of things on my mind, you permeate through it all, occupying every available inch of space in my consciousness.

The chords of a fitting song start in a lilting tune, and the words that emanate softly resonate powerfully with my own thoughts.

How I wish…
How I wish you were here…

I know heaven. It was there in every moment we spent together. Now I know hell…I ache for your voice, your words, your mere presence. The green fields are now in disarray, covered up by the hot ashes; my smile has been hidden behind a veil. The world was our fish bowl, it was all I needed as long as we had each other. And now it’s too small and suffocating. Now, I want out. I want it all to end, just like the song has ended, fading out with the whisper of winds…

* * *

But just as one song ends, another begins. A quivering string sets the air around me vibrating, sending the gentle hum of a tune to my welcoming ears. The guitar strings are plucked and bent, rising in a tune that flutters a change in me. The complexity of the notes increases gradually, stopping to give words to my thoughts.

Where were you, when I was burned and broken,
While the days slipped by from my window watching?
Where were you when I was hurt and helpless…?

The things you said, and the things you did surround me. Every memory of mine is stained by your presence, like silk dropped in dye quickly absorbs the colour. How am I to think of everything that has been my past without thinking of you? How am I to move on when thoughts of you keep me here, frozen and hanging on to you?

All of a sudden, with the rising beat and the rising tempo, an epiphany comes to me, as it sometimes does in moments of utmost despair.

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

Something begins to stir within me. I unveil my smile, begin to sweep away the ashes that cover the green fields of my emancipation. I will never forget you, but I will try to forgive you, to push you into a corner of my past and leave you there. All the space I create will be filled with other things, things that make me happy—music, friends and love. I am no longer empty, for I have given wings to my soul and set it free. This room is no longer empty, for these white walls call out for posters, for a tinge of colour and life.

Life.

Lyrics from Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” and “Coming Back to Life”

Standing in the Rain

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 15:11:16 +0000

I spent hours in the rain, feeling the water slide off my skin, like the thoughts of you that I wished would do the same. Memories of you cling to me like the sweat on my summer skin. So I stood in the rain, eyes closed, face turned up to the sky. Streams of crystal water slid down my face, mingling with tears, dropping from the tips of my beard. Somewhere in the distance, life went on. Toads were rejoicing, and frogs were mating. None of my emptiness mattered to the world. Everything was alright. Somewhere beyond my limit of vision, a rainbow peeked blushingly out from behind the clouds, taking its first look at a wet world, watched loving by his father, the sun. I think I heard it’s mirthful squeal of excitement. I wonder if I might ever find this world as wonderful as the rainbow did. Birds chirrup loudly, and I’m sure I hear their songs. For once, the cars were quiet and human life came to a stop. No one was shouting, no one was yelling. No one was fighting or glaring in dislike. No one cared about anything but keeping themselves dry.

When I opened my eyes, I saw blurry hues of green and blue, speckled with the dull brown of the mud. It took a while to wipe the water and the tears from my eyes, and a little longer to wipe my glasses. But in that one moment when I put them on, I felt my breath being taken away. Here I was, in solitude, with no sounds to hear, but the melodies of nature and the voices in my own head and heart. For a few minutes, the voices were silent. I was absorbed, I was but a mere thread in the fabric of life, and while I stood surrounded by the truth itself, it reached out to me. I am but a mere thread in the fabric of life, and life is eternal. I am eternal. Everything I do, everything I touch, everyone I meet is a part of me, and I am a part of them. We are all different, and yet we are one, and we are all eternal. There I stood, finally finding the peace that eluded me for days.

The rain abated finally, and the clouds parted lovingly for the sun to smile at me. I smiled back at it, my first smile in days…since you’ve been gone. I pick a fallen flower; so gently it lay on the soaked ground that it reminded me of you, lying gently and peacefully under the surface of the earth. But today, for the first time since you went away, I am at peace. I lay the flower gently back on the ground where it belongs, for in the end, everything must return to where it came from…even you.

21

Mon, 19 May 2008 20:06:20 +0000

I’ve been 21 for a little over an hour now. The twentieth day of May lies generally in the heart of Indian Summer, the kind of summer that is capable of taking life away.

I’ve been writing for years now, and I’ve had many sources of inspiration. My misfortune has been that most of the time, that source of inspiration comes not from within me or my world. It comes from the world’s perception of me. I must write better. I must impress others. I must be the best (or at least among the best). There was a point of time once, I think, when I would write because I wanted to write to please myself. Now I write to show others… when did things change?

I’ve been pondering about my writing, and my writing reflects on myself. Have I ever lived or done things to please myself rather than please others? When did I stop? Why? … who am I? Myself, or an amalgamation of the ideas others have of me?

Far away, I hear thunder. The nineteenth day of May, 2008 has been extremely hot. But the night rebels. The night rebels in tune with the rebellion rising in my heart. I have to find myself. The wind picks up speed, coming in cold and heavy from the open window diagonally across me. It brings the sound of thunder… in the heart of summer, it brings the smell of rain.

Dusk 3

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 18:15:31 +0000

The sky can’t seem to decide whether it’s night or day. It lingers in a blue-grey haze, being neither azure day, nor inky night… and yet, a bit of both. The tip of my pen dances joyously over the page, words springing forth mirthfully. My thoughts condense calmly, crystal clear in a mind at peace. Yet my eyes can barely see these little glyphs of love come together in the darkness…

Is this how we live life? In the shadows, we write our own lives. Yet we barely see what we’ve written until we’re done and have reached a place of light…

Garden

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 13:49:25 +0000

Friends. Strangers. People I don’t know, people I love. Through silence, I hear you speak, words arranged like flowers in a garden. My breath gets taken away by the beauty. Every thought you plant blossoms in my head, giving rise to emotions and feelings that come all that once, making me confused. All at once, I am honoured, delighted, happy beyond belief and then frustrated beyond anger. I want to be here in your garden, and yet I seek to run away. Behind a tiny flower plant of my own, I hide myself. There’s nothing to show, but there’s so much to say. Now, by myself, I speak so no one hears.

Frustrated / Wind.

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 18:49:02 +0000

It’s so confusing. I sit here in front of the PC, fingers on oily keys on a dirty black keyboard. I want to write, but I have nothing to write about. I want to think, but I don’t know what I’m thinking. I wish I could tell you how beautiful the night is, but I haven’t even looked out my window. A tempting cool breeze softly blows in through the open window diagonally across me, partially blocked by the heavy brown curtains. This is annoying. I’ve been thinking of a couple of lines… I can see them clearly written, beautiful and perfect, but the start and middle of the poem/prose is a blank white page.

I could write about how I’m still alone, and how sad it is that Love sometimes cannot be found even when you search for it. I could write about how I’ve grown even more self-reliant these last few days, and come to the realization that no matter how well someone knows me and how close they are to me, no one understands me as well as I do. The Lone Wolf once again.

I could paint yet another picture of me, alone under my beloved night sky. She reads my thoughts, and I lose myself in her countless, twinkling stars. Not a word needs to be spoken, and I’m free to think about everything… all the friends I’ve made, all the love I thought I’d found, all the sins I’ve committed, everything that shackles me, and everything that sets me free. Alone, as usual, under starry black sky, no one in my thoughts, and I in no one else’s. Come the first rays of dawn, I become the wind and blow away…

One Fine Morning.

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 15:53:29 +0000

I woke up this morning to the sound of the dainty raindrops on my window-pane. How lovely the sky looks, steel grey. All the buildings and all the trees seem to have been reborn, fresh from a heavenly bath. The wind sighs contently, as the breeze blows gently by my ear. No sounds of cars or other machines this morning. All I hear is the chirping of birds. A smile fades gracefully from my face, to be replaced immediately by another, just the way one happy thought fades and re-forms into another. It is because of mornings like this that I am happy to be alive. What a perfect time to stand close to you and whisper, “I love you”…

…but it’s such a pity that I don’t.

Soul on Hold

Thu, 09 Aug 2007 17:49:02 +0000

What would I give to be away from here – away from what life has become?
I don’t remember the last time I heard the chirping of a bird. How sad.
My body’s here in tranquility, every bit of it except my heart, which every now and then suddenly beats faster for a few seconds, reflecting perhaps the sudden occurrence of a frustrated thought – a silent scream of pain coming from a wild soul put on hold…

Dusk

Mon, 19 Mar 2007 17:40:15 +0000

6.50pm… I wish this moment would stand still for a while… enough for me to take it in until my desire to witness beauty is satisfied. Looking out of the window of my noisy train, I see a greying world with just a tinge of colour, like an artist delicately touching up a charcoal painting with a pastel-paint brush. The sky is lit with a strange grey light. The sun has already set, and the moon is yet to rise. Nevertheless, this grey glow lights up the world, gifting it an almost magical, mystical visibility, lovely to behold. I wish this moment would stand still for a while………

6.57pm… the sky has darkened… the moment is gone.

White / Black

Sun, 18 Feb 2007 05:31:52 +0000

Black as the night. Black as the thoughts in my head, flitting around like butterflies… chasing them away. I lie in bed, awake, head on my salty pillow, and think about you. It’s not appropriate… it’s not likely to happen… it’ll never happen. Black and white are imcompatible… some things never change.

Again tonight, I think I’ll cry myself to sleep… in the darkness, I think I’ll dream about your face, I think I’ll think about about your smile, and how it would be if you’d smile at me all the time, forever. What should I do… what can I do to make you like me?

Maybe I’ll cut myself and end up in a hospital,
Maybe you’ll see me then.
Maybe I’ll die or disappear completely,
Maybe you’ll think of me then.

Or maybe, no matter what I do, nothing will change… I’ll always be in the background, just another ordinary boy. You’re not like any of the other girls, but I’m just like every other boy. I don’t stand a chance… some things never change.