I Have a Lot of Pages

"You have a lot of pages."
"What?"
"I said you have a lot of pages. In you."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You like to read books, right?"
"That's right."
"Yeah. I've been noticing you. You, too, are like a book having so many pages."
"Okay. Is there something written on the pages? Or are they empty?"
"No, there is a lot written on these pages. And the new pages just keep on adding up."
I looked at my friend with a look that told her I needed a bit more of elaboration about it.
"Don't worry," she said. "It's a compliment. Believe me, it is."
"Is it? Okay." I smiled and she flashed her nonchalant smile back at me without knowing how this one sentence of hers made me look into a dark pit to search for my belonging that got lost in it.
I have got a task at my hand now. I have to read this book, too. But how can I read it when it's not completed yet? How can I read this book when she says that the pages keep getting added in it?
How could she read it that easily?
I want to know what does the cover page say. I, too, need to read this book with 'a lot' of pages and never ending chapters. I wonder what would it be like to read a book with words swimming in the ocean, even without knowing how to swim. My words don't know how to swim, still they dare to venture on this oceanic journey.

I strolled away from her, alone, wondering how deep would I have to go in this dark pit, to find that belonging that got lost in it.

Her Budding Thoughts

Evening is setting in and it's getting darker with each passing moment. Her room, brightened by the light coming from the window, is slowly wearing a shroud of dark. The sound of life is swinging to her room from the outside world. Inside, it's just her, the sound of keyboard, the lingering smell of her perfume, and her thoughts.

Her thoughts..

Lord knows whether her thoughts are the problem or the solution. Her thoughts that fly her over the years and decades. Most of the times, while on her thoughts-driven-journey, she just cannot come back. She stays there where her thoughts take her to and so she looks like a statue to the people of where her physical existence is situated. Who decides where does one choose to stay?

Years have passed, and she is still in the search of her inquisitions that revolve around one ultimate question. Why is she made a human being? She says she could have been anything. She couldn't even have existed, for that matter. But why is she here? A constant pain, a perpetual disturbance, an ultimate disappointment.. that's what she has always been.

It's got dark outside. From the common room, a beam of light peaks in through the door left ajar, making an illuminated triangle stretching along the carpeted floor. She looks at the light and suddenly starts thinking about the chemistry of light and the physics of its existence. Why is she thinking that, anyway? She writes, erases, rewrites, erases, writes once again and then backspaces it one more time. What is it that she's trying to write anyway? 

When the heart gets filled with a plethora of things that need to get out, that's when it starts to sink. Because, the heart then shows that it lacks the strength to hold it all. To keep the heart afloat, a few things need to be let out. But then again, not everyone can hold and preserve the words you let out. Not everyone understands the expression you wear. This is the reason she keeps it in. She'll depart one day, with oceans of words stacked safely in her.

There's one thing she's quite sure she won't understand. Not because she cannot understand. No, she certainly can! But her fellow human beings won't let her go with her theory of life. The truth of life is that it's filled with lies and distrust. Not everyone thinks alike. She used to like the versatility of humans. Ironically, she has confronted the versatility of humans in the context of everything against her. It's her, it has always been her, it will always be her!

The sound of life coming from the outside world has stopped abruptly. Someone has turned off the T.V. Her phone starts ringing that very instant. She looks at the screen. It's her friend, a very old and very sweet friend who never gets enough of talking. She picks it up for the sake of her friend and compels herself to talk. "Why do you sound so low, tell me!", screams her friend. But not everyone understands, so she decides to dump the blame on her routine and assignments. The sound of doorbell is heard. She shifts in her duvet. A sea of chirping voices and giggles reaches her again from the outside world. There are visitors outside. Everyone is laughing on the outside, everyone is hiding their real stories. They all are living it wrong. Oddly, her friend decides to make the conversation short, today. She's grateful for that.

Let's continue watching her, while she continues the mentally tedious task; thinking.

Of Silence and the Moon

I like the time after dawn. When the sun dips in the earth and the moon appears distinctly on the vast, extravagant sky.  When the birds are gone to their hide-outs and there is no interruption of their flapping wings that could disturb the stillness of the view. I like to see the moon afloat in the sky like a big glowing sphere with the occasional appearance of the gray clouds, like the smoke, wafting over the moon, making it appear murky. I like that time because everything gets so silent, so serene at that time that it gives me time to reflect, think, comprehend about everything. I like the time of night when everyone goes off to the valley of dreams and I choose to stay awake. I like the time of night when everyone slips away from reality by shutting their eyes and I choose to go to all the places far from reality by keeping my eyes wide open. I like to stare at the blackness of the sky. I like to listen to the stillness of the silence. I like the silence complemented by the sound of a far off cricket creaking at night. I like the silence complemented by an occasional sound of a stray animal wandering alone, trying to find a place to hide itself. I like the sound of silence complemented by the sound of my own breathing. I like the sound of silence complemented by stillness, the darkness, the calmness. I can never give that much time to myself during the time when everyone is up. I like the time after dawn, when everyone dozes off, because that is the time when they let me be with my own self. That is the time when I can smile, cry, and laugh without anyone getting curious or judgemental about my demeanour. I like the time of night because night brings along the moon with it. I like the time of night because I believe that the moon and I could become very good friends. Both of us like the time of night. Both of us like to keep ourselves away from the rest of the world. Both of us speak a lot without saying anything. Both of us are wrapped in silence. I like the time after dawn because things that necessitates life are not the same for me as they are for most of the people in the world. At daytime, people speak and I listen. At night, I speak and things that are metaphysical to you, come down and listen to what I have to say. Because my talk is too boring and dry for the citizens of planet Earth, I speak not to humans but to the extraterrestrial souls. I like to speak to them because it’s not hard to make them believe about my words, because they understand me and my incoherent talks. I like the time after dawn because of all those things. Because of my silent talk to the non-existent creatures under the vast black sky pronounced by the big silver moon. 

Seeking (In)sanity

Do you ever get that feeling? That feeling of wanting to become invisible? Not a super-power kind of feeling. But something more of an I-don’t-like-being-seen-by-anyone kind. The feeling that doesn’t have the feeling of insecurity in it. It’s the feeling when you actually are with your own self. It’s the feeling when you are your own mentor, your own partner, your own SELF. I feel that. I want to get vanished. I don’t want to get vanished to get noticed. I’ve been noticed quite enough, already. Why does it matter anyway? Why would I matter to people? Where is this thing heading to? I’m becoming incoherent now. But I dare you stop me! Leave me here, banging these keys. I might end up saying something that would help me get my soul back. Wait, my soul? Where is it lost? Is it lost? If you have yourself, does it mean you have your soul, too? If you have your soul, does it mean you necessarily have yourself too? When you have nothing but the thoughts tangling up in your mind, does it mean you are sane? What is sane? Who is sane? You? Yeah, I want to meet you, then. I’m not sane, no. What is insane? I’m not even that. I’m hollow. Insane is for the sane. I’m none. What am I? Why don’t they understand? No, why don’t I understand? I don’t understand because I’m hollow. What a stupid reason! I don’t understand because.. Wait, WAIT! Is that because I want to become invisible? Because I don’t understand? Let’s just get this over with, then. Right here, right now. All I have to do is, understand! But wait, how do I understand? Give me something! Give me something, for the sake of every good thing you ever encountered. Give me something, I say. Make me understand, please.
I’m here, what now?
Does it matter, anyhow?
The sane triumphs
The crazy, still crazy
The world around him
Is still the same round
Lose it all.
Get it all.
Does it matter
Big or small?
Oh human, you human
You’ll see after all
Who disappears
And who stands tall

 What does it feel like, not being seen by anyone?

Take me away!

Must You Speak?

Let's just not speak, today. Let's just sit here, quietly. Let's just not say a word, not a thing. Let's just not disturb the beauty of silence, today. Let's just stare at each other and converse through our eyes. The silence has so much to say. Why do you not let it speak? It has so much to share. Why do you make it hard on yourself to hear? I want to make it easy for the silence to speak, before it explodes. I want the silence to speak through our eyes. The eyes have so much to tell. I want them to let it all out, today. So sit across me. I swear, I won't say a thing. I'll just stare into your eyes. I'll make a bridge between the two pairs of eyes and would start a journey that would take me to your soul, through your eyes. I would step into the vista of your sight. I would see colors, and patterns, and shapes. I'll see mysteries, and stories, and feelings. I'll see everything that dwells in your eyes. Don't say a word, it will destroy the stillness. Don't speak, it would break the bridge. Let me see the vastness, the void, the abyss that lies in your eyes. Let me silently talk to the emotions. Let me swim in the tears. Let me see how they determine to come out as the tears of happiness or sadness. Let me figure out what goes on inside. Let me make your eyes my soul's acquaintance, today. Let's just swallow our tongues. Let's just not speak, for goodness sake! Voices seem like a deafening sound to me. Whispers sound like a scream to me. So just let the calmness of silence engulf me. Let me swim in the ocean of your eyes. Let me be the vision of your sight, today. Let me explore them through the silence of our souls. Let me travel the universe you hold in your eyes. Let me see in your eyes, the constellations, that one beautiful brightest star that stands out, the planets, the galaxies. Let me in, just once. Let me in, so I can look through your eyes. I could stare at them unless I get to complete my journey. This journey would be divine, it would be sensational. This journey, I wouldn't want to miss for the world. Let me venture on this journey, today. I don't want you to speak. Just let today be the eyes, only. Let today be silent.
Let today be silent.
Hush!

But Fixed Are Those Who Are Broken

She lay down on her back, staring at ceiling, trying to find something up there that could make her feel less miserable. She always did that, as if, the ceiling knew just the right words that could make her feel better. The ceiling, although, didn't help much in her quest of finding the answers. She searched every corner of the whiteness staring back down at her, so expressionless, so emotionless that it made her envious of the ceiling. Why couldn't it feel like her? Ceilings don't feel miserable, do they? Did anyone ever get mad at the ceiling? When was the last time a ceiling got called 'mean'? She yearned for it to speak. But speak, it could not. So she turned to her side, staring at the curtain. So still it was, it appeared the curtain was afraid to move. Just like she was afraid of.. wait, what was she afraid of? Expectations? Yes! In this life where people come and become a part of your life, they start getting to have expectations from you. And that was what she was afraid of. Expectations. Expectations that people had from her. She was still, just like the curtain. Maybe the curtain was still because it didn't want to feel miserable for not coming up to the expectations of people to stop the light from coming in. Maybe it thought that if it'd move, the light will manage to escape inside the room somehow. And if the light would manage to peek inside, it'd kill the point of having the curtains drawn. It'd kill the expectation of the person sitting inside the room. How perfectly is this curtain managing to keep up to what's expected of it, by keeping itself still. How hard can it be, she thought? She didn't want to move now. Even her breaths were coming out so perilously, as if they were afraid of disturbing the curtain's stillness. She yearned for the curtain to speak. But the curtain had to remain still. So she turned to her other side. A door. Been there, never trying to run away. Doing its duty as perfectly as a door can. She could have been a door. But she had to be a human. She could have been anything. But she ended up being a human. She could have been an emotionless ceiling. Or a perfect curtain. Or a door.
Maybe because they don't have to fix things if something goes wrong. Instead, they get fixed.

Wait, she didn't want to get fixed, either.

A Conversation

"Heyyy!"
"Hi!"
"What's wrong?"
"What?"
"I said, what's wrong?"
"Why would you ask that?"
"Because it seems like something's not right."
"Well, yeah."
"So..?"
"So what?"
"What's not right?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because you don't look fine. I don't like seeing you this way."
"I don't look fine because something's not right?"
"Yeah. That's just what you said! That there's something wrong."
"You said that, not me!"
"Okay, it doesn't matter who said it. Just tell me what's wrong, already!"
"How can my telling you about it can make the wrong right?"
"It won't make it right. But I could help, you know."
"You can't!"
"You never know."
"I know. You can't."
"Try me?"
"Can you fix things?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Did you break anything?"
"How do you fix things?"
"It takes time, and intricacies. But the end result is worth it."
"How long does it take?"
"It depends on what fixing material are you using and what is it that's getting fixed."
"What's the best fixing material. The best you've ever used?"
"I have this fixing material that makes everything look as good as new. Not a trace of fault does it show!"
"Does it hide the marks or scratches?"
"Almost, yeah."
"Did you ever try to fix a mirror with it?"
"You broke a mirror?"
"You didn't answer my question!"
"Well, you can't fix a mirror. But don't worry, I'll get you a new one."
"You can't."
"Why? How expensive can it be?"
"It's priceless."
"Where did you get it from?"
"From life."
"Well, that's weird! Why didn't I ever get a mirror from life?"
"You have it. We all have it."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I broke mine. You don't realize you have it, until you see its shards picking on you!"
"I'm not getting you."
"That's sad to hear. Just an honest advice, take care of your mirror! It's very fragile. Not everyone is worth having it. And next time if someone asks you if you can fix things, think again before you answer that question. Now if you excuse me, I have some shards that need to be pulled out."

That Strange Little Lady

She picked the pen again today
Yes, I saw her
That strange little thing
Immersed in her desk
Lost in her thoughts
Fingers moving
Alphabet scrawling on the paper
Like a storm
Right on the paper
Right from her young heart
That strange little heart 
With pain, unseen
But not unfelt 
Just another day
What makes her stay
What makes her fray
The reason for her dismay
I saw her again
Drowned in her sorrow
Has she foreseen an empty tomorrow?
Immersed in the cup of her hands
No tears, no fears
What then makes her eyes look so hollow?
She's strange
That little lady
I wonder why
But if she weren't strange
She would never have
Caught my eye
And the sky
It sees her plight
Her very own might
Whatever caused her blight
If I could, I would've snatched that
But it's like her jewel
A precious gem
Never does she let anyone 
See its hem
A mystery in her own
A kingdom she runs on the throne 
Of her soul
That strange big soul
And that precious little lady
I saw her again
Strolling alone
In the fields, no merry
What a gloomy January
Is she waiting for the night to fall
So she could see the fireworks
Dance in her eyeball
Throw their spell
On her soul
Like she once told me
How much she adored them
Once.. 
When she was not a lost soul
Who screamed out through scribbling the words
That strange little lady
Yes, I saw her again.