A Cadaver's Dream

In a circus of glitter, I am a wisp of wonder. I float,beneath fairy lights, over clouds of passion. I see the world,human souls dancing,burning brightest at dusk. I see twinkling lights sheltering kisses of first love. I hear pure whites of stars dissolved in the fluid melodies of violins. I am the city,I am the mime of street three,painted faces of black and white mimicking shadows of living dreams. I am the city,the red red wine swirling in glasses of gold,footsteps stepping closer and closer to bliss. I am the city, the poetry beyond words. I am the city,the colours Michaelangelo couldn't impress upon canvas. I am the city,of life and living. I am the city, a celebration of big and bright human eyes. I am the city, an archetype of perfection. I am the city,the glowing embers of artistic glory. I am the city, the goosebumps on your skin for beauty almost divine. I am...Paris.

10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3..2..1.

I am the graveyard of unburied bodies,piling on top of each other,souls combusting midflight. I am greasy torn clothes of a previous night. I am death, I see shattered glass lined with blood,blood of the season's best sights. I feel the hysteria as it floats upon the air like oxygen. I'm breathing in fumes of terror and I'm still a city,a city struggling to mourn the red splattered. A city of darkness,plagued with a disease of humankind. I'm a city, a city of light conquered by dungeons of despair. A city,screaming at the silence of the streets once alive. I'm a city, a stench of sadness and breathless tears. I'm a city,paper boats of wreckage gliding on rivers of horror. I'm a city, I'm Paris. Still Paris.

I drift out,lanterns in the blue sky,happy faces shine. Back with bloodshot eyes, a ghost town weeping as the world stands shocked. Dreaming,living,dreaming,living.

Dreaming.
Of Paris untouched,a shrine of celebration.

Living. 
Destruction with pride tingling in the veins running through bodies made of hate.

I was asked to write of dreams, but the nightmares never let me sleep.

Merry-go-rounds don't spell home.

                 And death never fails to escape your attention,even when you have ADHD. Your eyes flicker,darting like tongues of chameleons on sunny branches,but never faster than your words. But death; it surpasses your diseased shields and grips your wrists till its nails pinch you to its inevitability. There,in the reddening of the leaves creeps up a brown,shrouded by faked innocence. There,in the harmless moment you sneeze. You don't even suspect when it bites the flesh off you,and only when you're a masqueraded city of calcium,calcium and collagen,bleak chemistry,that you realize death took you from you. All your endless rides of bicycles on cloudless nights,wondering what you'd call out as your last name when death chalks out your dance,wither because you glorified death with credentials it did not earn. Pride on being the dusk of humanness as you lay smothered in a blanket of life,the casket brimming with agents to make you nutrients for plant life. Science won't tell you how it comes or what it brings,and rely not on spirituality to cushion the pain of death. For nothing,not even counting sheep at nights where your brain:meat essentially,marathons over possibilities of heaven after life. For not I believe in the maybes that might,nor in the dread of the unexpected guest we all know will present itself as the charming choice. I trust,in my muscles to carry me to cold carved stones in woods,in my lips to remember your white smiles,in my now,in being nothing but a vessel of thought and life,that'll not overtake my being if I wane,for I will wax again,but that is a story for another time,and all I am today is a procession of naivety of death and will continue to be so till it decides to relieve me of my longing. For death is the master disguise,camouflaged in plain sight,it thrives here,but so does life.

Tongue-tied,Wide-eyed

                                  We. We feast upon fantasies and daydreams. We shut our armours to collect wisps of thoughts and let them swirl in incessant circles within. We like to jump from one square of fantasy to another as they swim in white skies,ultimately falling through silences of space,and desiring to keep falling,death at an inch. Never closer,never further.We want to catch it in our cold fingers when it is so fluttery,so impossibly desirable yet seemingly unattainable. We are those 3 minutes of life when your heart stops but your body works,waiting for the end. We are folded upon ourselves,so scared of the magic dissipating in a single movement. We are resistant to reality. Or is it Me?
                                 Let me tell you this,I've always wanted to be different. I manipulate my words into elaborate sips of wine than plain old gulps of water. I shadow every place the sunshine falls,just to tell myself I tried. It is the struggle of a teenager reversed. Shimmering red when the colour is a blinding white. But the fear? The insane demonity does not scare me as much as the blandness of a parched land. I am me,but in the discovering of the bigger picture,I forget the parameters of me and drown in clouds of unknowning of the rights and wrongs,the silence and the storms,the emotions and the turbulence. Sometimes it is a spiral of a wall closing down on me,the necessity to breathe and not finding enough breath. Do I have so much of what I want to be that I'm just trying to condense it into reality instead of living my reality?

The Way to my Heart goes through Platform No.4

                So,I take for granted you know about trains. The ones that still go "chuk chuk". The ones where you can hear aunties swearing like a badass if you step on their toes. The ones that zoom past if you're running with a bag full of papers and documents to try to climb onto the flooding footboard,and waddle along like a duck on a warm day if you are late for office. The ones you can look out of for twinkling lights; of the stars and sky-scrapers both. The ones where the guy can 'protect' his girl from the crowd with a shy hand around her shoulder.:P
              Perhaps the only place where one interacts with absolute strangers in a level of comfort saved for a close few. I,personally,have been told-1.That I have a manly nose.(Don't ask me how that is possible,or how that came to be said.)2.That my smile is sweet.(Faith restored in my obvious beauty:P) 3.Irresponsible teenagers like me will be the death of the nation. 4.Arre,if you want to get down at Bhandup,why are you standing in the middle? (followed by some hardcore martial art.)You get the gist. What my point is, do you think you'd talk so coolly with people you know absolutely nothing about? (except that they'd kill you in no time if you let your bag touch them) Conclusion: Trains are magical.
             You'd be lying if you say you didn't think that someday a late train would take you places undreamt of,places of mystery and adventure. If you didn't try to imagine a ride swooshing past humanity into the dark exciting world beyond. A train,an unusual recluse for your thoughts,for letting down your hair and saying,"Damn the world,Imma go to sleep." Trains,where you play cards with the upper berth kid. Where you eye the cute stranger. Where you may meet people you thought were past.(Fortunately,unfortunately?) Where you can pretend you look cool with the wind weaving through your hair. Where you get pamphlets about how to lose weight. Where you can sing all you want secretly under the constant chugging noise. Where you and your gang can chill with silly loud talk and selfies and it is okay. Where your hopes resurface and you smile as you buy the cheapest jewellery ever. 
              It is a sure-shot thing: to fall in love with this lemonade to the lemons life gives us. 
          P.S. I know you read NO.4 of the title in Hindi:P If you did not,board a train,NOW!!

Close your Eyes,and See.

                               I see it in your eyes,the deliciousness of not knowing what will happen next. I feel it as I breathe,a jump off a cliff,a scream tingling every nerve. A jolt from a slumber of restless living. A wordless challenge to surpass beliefs. Run. Run away from all you know. The words,the concepts,the lies,the ties. Run away to yourself. Blind speed. Look down and see the last of them on you,as you fly to you. 
                       The night is a personal belonging. Not when you are locked up in a curtained room with CFLs invading. But when every light is given death by the very flesh of your fingers and the churning energy stumbles to sultry cold darkness. When every footstep is thunder and capable of sending slight tremors to your spine. It is when you can embrace yourself without the manmade island staring,knowing. Without the incompleteness man lends to the night,when night escapes its prison of unnaturalness,does the soul breathe. Every element is exaggerated wonder,lended the essence of night. A echoing laughter across as songs cease over food on a late night with friends and family. The deadpan stare of frustrated thinker,in the dark of a starlit night. The muted tears of a pining lover,to finally let down the walls. The essentially warm fire of the chatting watchmen on a particularly frosty night. The lonely tune of a writer's content as ink forms words with casual abandon. The night does its duty. To shelter dreams,in absolute secrecy. The next time you look at the deep blue of the star decked sky,see yourself reflected.

Sewing Together the Shades

                    What perhaps is the most frightening of all is how easy it is to get lost,to lose oneself. The world immeasurably full of surprises,is a spinwheel of colours;bright and wonderful. It is like brushes and strokes of colors painted over one another,furiously passionate,so fast I can barely process them. Each stealing attention,bestowed with enchantment. But before I truly grasp its texture,it is gone,and the next color,just as entrancing takes its place. That is life as I know it,endlessly fascinating. Each color standing for a memory,a thought,a feeling. Making its place in me. Connected,but gone. In this whirlwind however,sometimes as you reach out to touch,you spin. Let the tornado of incidents carry you to places you never wanted to be. That,my friend, is our confettied weakness.
                        I like to think like they do in fictional stories. Exaggerated edges to each persona,each word. I like to believe in the magic of co-incidences,and intuition. I like to tell myself I know the solutions to mysteries of life,but have forgotten,and need to rediscover. My story is complete wherever it ends. But would you rather have a story already written:maktub,or a make-your-own-destiny kit? 

Step 1:The Unsure Hie

 Today,behind a keyboard,I see myself reflected on the screen.A little tense,a little excited.Celebrating writing through buttons rather than a pen.The flickering social media jungle providing a warm smile to this stranger:Me.An aftertaste for the expectations.
                             I say,I'll be the carried souvenier of the past,a handwritten thank you note,slipped inside a borrowed book.I'll be the subtle smile following a well illustrated comic strip.I'll be the fingertips brushing against barks of trees.And we will be the humanness to the technology infested world.We,who desire to be more than not dead.I will dare to be me,even when my heart throbs for refuge.