Follow @meanwhileiwrite.wordress.com. You won’t regret it.
Follow @meanwhileiwrite.wordress.com. You won’t regret it.
It was as if I was the guy who sings in a bar on every weekend, the only day when I ever get to see you. And you walk in like sunshine but just a little deep in your own mess, enough to make me smile, though purely out of love. I wait for you to find a table and settle down and after some time you do. You order your first glass of beer and then your second, enough to make you a little tipsy yet somehow remain composed as if you know you are going home all alone and as you drink your first sip I strum my guitar and play the song I had been writing from the day I saw you walking in through that door, dragging behind all the magic in the world so effortlessly.
Then you turn around just to see the face behind the voice and you see me looking at you and our eyes meet but without a hint of any recollections or recognition of any time, you turn back to your table looking languidly at the empty glass, deciding if you want to get a little more drunk.
The man behind the counter looks at you. His eyes are filled with pity, disgust, and mostly resentment for his job and with a fake smile he asks you the same old question, “Do you need a refill?”
Excerpt from ‘Ten minutes in a bar’
Image courtesy – Google
I’m overwhelmed with so many emotions that I can’t stop my hand to write down every single word on my mind. I want to write down everything I’m feeling right now, afraid that in time it’ll just lose its way and never return home. I’m afraid that it’ll be days, months or may be years before I can feel the same way I’m feeling right now and this is a validation to my future self that I did feel this.
There’s so much in this universe that it’d take me million rebirths and another couple million solo interventions to write about them. But to write about something that I might miss in those every million rebirths gives me a reason to pen out these otherwise worthless words.
We live, we die, we feel ,we cry, we touch, we laugh, we do everything we can possibly do in a lifetime and then it’s death and life all over again. It only misses one thing. It’s like existing there but without a trace. It’s the perfect camouflage in this entire universe. It gives all the possibilities a pain in the ass. Let this be about collateral beauty.
Now, I’m pretty sure everyone knows these two separate words quite clearly but when they come together and form a whole new meaning, it’s nearly vague. I mean what’s even beauty in collateral? The only thing I feel when I hear this word is a tiny spark, about the size of an atom inside my guts telling me that yes, it exists! It tells me the things we often differentiate upon are the same things. Pain is not possible without love, for to feel pain one must first feel love and love is the only thing making you feel pain.
Death is eminent; it is unstoppable. But the collateral beauty in it is so diminutive that it’d take me years to come up with something that could explain even a fragment of it. The fact that there’s something worth goggling my mind over it gives me enough reason to validate it’s existence to myself if no one else. It’s like a silhouette wrapping death, not ominous but too derivational that explains why endings are always painful and the moments lived before are worth remembering. If I never had a sense of feel or a sense of touch I would never have been able to experience the most beautiful things in this world, like stroking a newborn puppy or the feeling of butterflies in your belly when see someone you love and that’s somewhat how collateral beauty feels like.
You know, the reason why I started this with me being all ecstatic is that I doubt if someone will even get this in their head because us humans are programmed and to go out of that zone is rebelling. That’s one of the reasons why we always take time to realise things. That’s the reason we have always been missing out on the secondary happiness. Things we ignore, things we don’t give time to, things we don’t believe in and things that are waiting out there to be acknowledged by us are very much present. They are very much omnipotent yet invisible to not only eyes but hearts too.
Can there ever be black without white or white without black? Can it exist? No. The very thread joining realities with pseudo images we force ourselves to see, is the same thread of collateral beauty. It’s not in the present or in the past or even in the future. If I have to make a bold statement about it, I would say it’s the only thing that time cannot control and what time cannot control is close to a mythical phenomena. People miss out on this little pill of beauty and never realise that there’s always a truth behind a truth, a root under a tree, a life under the sky and a world in the blackness of the cosmos with infinite possibilities and infinite things of collateral beauty.
Image courtesy – Google
Illustration by Rhoda Manz
I’ve no idea what my childhood was like. I’m sure it was filled with kids around my age who I was friends with and the little moments of joy I had during the festivals. But most of my childhood was spent with me being confused between love and sustenance. I would like to say I had the best time growing up with my parents but the truth is different than what I’ve always liked to believe and what I’ve always liked to believe was that I had a happy childhood with my father bringing me gifts, coming home from office and my mother playing some fun indoor game with me.
Truth is my family started from the most humblest of origins. I was born in a small dingy room at someone else’s home in the very city where we returned to after spending 12 and a half years in a small town, one which you can’t even find on a map and when I was born I didn’t cry a single tear. Well, there you have it, the origins of me being a emotionally deprived person for most of my life. My mother told me this and for the most part I know it’s true except for the part where I grabbed the stethoscope of the nurse as soon as she lifted me close to her chest. I think it was the anaesthesia working on my mother.
I was the second and the last child in my family after my sister. She has known our parents for a year and half more than I’ve and I’ve never tried to imagine what their life was when I wasn’t born. But now that I can, I imagine it wasn’t all butterflies and sunshine. After I was born my family moved to that small town and I can still remember growing up there and I can still feel the warmth of that place that’s still lingering somewhere inside my heart. The sky is still as blue as I can remember and the cemented ground below our feet reminds me of how many times I scraped my knuckles and knees playing with my friends but what I can’t remember is my father running up to me to check if I was okay. I can’t remember him carrying me on his shoulders because I had scraped my knees and I certainly can’t remember him not scolding me for little things that didn’t even matter.
My father had a family with a beautiful mother and a father who worked really hard but drank half his life away and realized what was truly important to him only when it was gone. My grandma was the sweetest of person, specially to me. I was her favourite but my sister wasn’t while my grandpa loved my sister more. So it was a balanced grandfamily. My father never received the love of his father when he was growing up, the kind of love that’s more explicit rather than implicit and somehow he grew out to be a little same. I never blamed him for being too strict when I was growing up. I still don’t. Somewhere along this journey I blame myself for everything. You see, that’s what common in our family. We blame ourselves for everything but take it out on our family.
I have the nicest memories of growing up in a small town, going to a small missionary school with carols on the megaphone every time during assembly hours, and a bunch of friends who I don’t talk to now. Despite all of this I didn’t have a friend who I could call my best friend or didn’t meet a girl with whom I could grow up and eventually fall in love with. Rather I just grew up all alone and then fell in love with the most beautiful girl in the world whose skin is softer than chocolate milk and who smiles as if someone has put a million lighters in the sky. Still in between growing up alone and falling in love my life wasn’t much of an achievement.
As aforementioned, most of my childhood was spent with me being confused between love and sustenance. I liked to believe love was a joke that most people made just to cover up the fact that there is something that two or more than two people can feel for each other unconditionally. I picked up mostly the bad habits from my father like being dense to certain emotions such as affection but what I didn’t pick up from my father and learned myself was that love is more than I can ever imagine. It was literally feeling butterflies in my stomach and a smile on my face that wouldn’t come off for days. I learned that it’s a million times more powerful than any morphine in this world and just a chunk of it is enough to induce the never ending crave, the crave for that human’s touch, their soul, the sound of their laughter, the feel of their skin against yours, the look in their eyes for you, the smile on their face that’s worth more than this whole damn world, and the words that come out of that mouth with the most luscious lips that you had ever seen and wished to be felt by yours. It’s more than what’s in the books. I don’t think anyone has ever been able to write a book with all of the emotions that truly depicts what love is and thank God for that. I would always prefer it to be that way.
That’s what I felt about love when I first met her one night on the same road we had walked upon, together, for days. I don’t remember what kind of night it was but I was looking at her and not the moon or the sky. I told you it’s not like what’s in the books.
Life sure gave me the love I didn’t know I had been craving for and then took it away as if it didn’t like how love was so attached to me and not to it and like an annoyed little brother it took love away and again I was left with the confusion that somehow crawled it’s way back into my heart where the warmth was, this time only way more bitter than ever and like a vacuum it just sucked all the love and filled it with the dust and scraps of confusion and I guess some part of emptiness too. One thing I learned from my father that I’m not afraid to share is that keeping the hurt and pain inside makes it easier for the people around you to think you’re one of them. I became very good at it. So good that when my heart couldn’t bear all the silence and pain I gave to myself it turned to writing. No, actually I still remember my first ever poem for the girl I fell in love with and I still remember the last line of that poem as clear as the day. It was, ‘I love you the most for being you’. And I still love her the most for being her.
Now, I’ve done too many mistakes in my life but the one thing I did right was fell in love and that I did like nobody else has ever done, at least that’s what I like to believe.
My childhood is a distant memory now but I’m still confused not about love but about myself, about what I give myself into and what do I take back. Despite the fact that my upbringing involved lot of strict parenting and a very humble background with very little time for our parents to pay attention to us, I grew up alright. My father has been trying hard for the family for a long time now and my mother finally knows what a family is even though we still find ourselves quite distant at times but we have our moments. What my father never inherited from his father is drinking and ignoring his family and there are things I’m glad I didn’t inherit from him but then I’m more glad he taught me that family always comes first and no amount of money or time can change that. I’m thankful to love for teaching me that through him.
Image courtesy – Google
Illustration by Maori Sakai
And her eyes, oh her eyes. I have never seen dark brown eyes ever look so enchanting before. She keeps some words folded up her sleeves and the rest on the tip of her tongue, the ones which can make you think about your own damned existence or the ones which make you wish she could sing a song for you.
The way she gets groovy to the sound of music with no heads or tails to her frisky steps, I don’t think someone could ever look so palatial. The sway of her hips and the flinging of her slaty hair from side to side, with her head, leaves me standing there as I surrender myself to fate, watching her go away until she disappears out of sight.
She is once in ten thousand lifetimes and for ten thousand lifetimes on my mind. She’s the purest in her form, she’s the baddest of them all. To sum it up, she’s a badass.
Excerpt from ‘She’s a badass’.
I fell so fucking hard that I could finally count the fathoms I was falling, by the creases of the memories on the faded walls from some forgotten time and the sky was no more seen.
So I slept myself away into trance until I finally touched the solid ground but the pain that I felt was bone shattering and somehow in this process it broke my soul.
Image courtesy – Google
Illustration by Alicia Brown
It was three in the morning and guilt kicked in
Reached to the tips of my fingers and made their way to the blank sheets
Painted them with the black sound of my words that never came out of my mouth
and there was no euphony it, just like it always has been, the sound of the groveling hounds.
She is the type of woman to set sail to the end of the world on just a plank and with her pillow beside her. She is the one to have those careless mini naps even when the world is breaking down around her because she is too calm to give a fuck.
If she ever were an alphabet I bet she would be an A. It doesn’t stand for anything but just so. She’s beautiful this way.
She doesn’t go left or right. She just floats in air and only touches the ground when she feels like. She is the type of woman they name stars after.
And when she wakes up in morning with her hair all messy and shaggy and her tee shirt dragged below her shoulder edge I bet she still looks so damn amazing.
Image courtesy – Google
Illustration by Emma Leonard
The woman of my dreams sits all alone on a bench on the side of a boulevard. She goes there very less than often. She has a smile of a thousand stars stretched across another thousand light years. Her face reminds me of feathers of the archangels dipped in all the beauty in this world. No, she’s not graceful at all. She’s the raging sun of the Antarctic, the rusty metal shards on clay statues, the red in every chess board, and the clement raindrops before every thunderstorm .The spot where the sunlight falls entering through the spaces between the canopies is her favorite place to be at. The early morning hours when the leaves are as fresh as new and the air is still not filled with city breath while the dried leaves are still spread over the cobblestones, makes her feel like home more than any other thing in this world. She doesn’t wear specks often but she wears them when she reads novels. They make her look adorably charming. She smiles at something from her book. Maybe it’s a good book. Maybe I’ll read it too, some day.
Every now and then in between, she looks up to the branches spreading from her side to the other. She looks for the light entering in between through them. She puts her hair behind her ears and goes back to reading again. I’ll never know why she does that, but I can’t complain.
The city is about to wake up and soon the asphalt will be run upon by wheels adamant to never stop before they reach their destination. And there she is still searching for hers. But I believe she has already found it. Her legs are crossed and her dark amberly eyes are fixed on one page in particular. Maybe the story has reached it’s climax now. She doesn’t seem to turn that page over. She keeps reading it again and again trying to find a loophole. Then she gently closes the book, unfolds her legs, takes a deep breath, stands up and walks away. There goes another book down the drain. It turns out the same in the end for every story in every novel. They all are the same. I wonder if she’ll ever read my book. I hope she likes it.
I don’t think existence means merely breathing air into your lungs or smiling at a random stranger while you try to avoid any eye contact with them or walking down the same road again and again to home. I don’t think existence means waiting for your cell phone to ring to save you from this endless loop of boredom or looking at people from a distance when you are somewhere all by yourself. I don’t think existence can be explained by a guy with two thumbs to type these soulless words on the screen of some stupid device which makes him look even more stupid as he clearly states the irony.
Existence is so much more than just carrying on to see another day. It means breathing air into your lungs from a tiny hole on the roof of your wits when the walls around you comes crumbling down and life hits you hard from all directions while the ghost of past is chasing you like cat chasing a mouse. Existence is watching the sun rise not from the East but from the very space where lights never bother to touch. Existence is running downhill so fast that your heart’s about to fall out from your mouth and your legs are about to give up and break like dried twigs and the salt from your tears is at the tip of your parched tongue.
Existence is walking barefoot on a tipsy iceberg with nothing but rags on your body that stinks of adventure and sweat and with the widest grin on your face that shows how stiff-necked you are. Existence is holding someone’s hand from thousands feet above the ground to save them from falling into same old abyss you once lived in. Existence is so much more than sipping your coffee on your bed while you crave to be alive if even for once. Existence is all about being a wilding with no regrets