Poetry

This is a brilliant poem that i came across on the internet. It was written by a fellow scribber on "Sunday Scribblings" on the title "poetry". This was written by Gautami Tripathy.
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I've been waiting for you,
days trample on each other like magazines
filled with deep buzzing where words merge into images
perceptions recide in the jumble of blue memory
yet nothing comes to assert your arrival
I have not learned to notice your presence

stressed of a long day I seek you-
you who I must give back some day
to someone I don't know who

The grey divide between days and ends

Weekend blues, have you ever heard of them? Thought they only existed on Mondays? Think again.

Saturday and Sundays are supposed to be passed with a deliberate dreaminess. Lower the intensity of weekdays by a notch or two. Slow things down and take time to smell the roses.
Monday to friday flashes by in a blur, things are done hurriedly; little time to breathe. to pause. even for a second of day's dream.

Come weekend. Coffees are supposed to be sipped, biscuits nibbled in slow mouthfuls whilst reading the saturday papers. Mornings should be spent lazily; idly. Afternoon are for seistas and teas or watching recorded television programmes on HBO. Evening comes, and it's time for a family dinner around the table.

But no.

Saturdays and Sundays are just as hectic as Thursdays. They're just as long as Wednesdays. The week's end almost feels like the week's days. Trudging and pulling heavy commitments and endless workload; desperately searching for a point to finally rest the tired limbs and soul.

Where did the weekends I used to know disappear to.

SO... the plan is to study. It's as simple as this, nothing more, or less.
GOODBYE! i'm going on a hiatus for i have more important things to do.
till then, take care invisible readers and remember to look out for the sun.

p.s, i might hit back with some posts every now and then.

Flight and its relation with numbers

I always imagine the day when i tear open the perforated slip of paper. What will the numerals be? Will it be a string of "One"s or some other humongously horrifying large numeral. The next eight years or so of my life is determined by the numbers on that flimsy piece of paper. How funny can that get? But that's the way it is.

Home is great, but it is too small. I need to explore bigger and vaster expanse of lands. I'm not an ingrate neither do i despise my home. It's just that, when you're thrown into unfamiliar places, you'll learn to treasure what you have more. My idea of going away, is to learn something and bring it back home someday.

So i need to get the lowest numeral as possible, it's my best bet of getting that coverted pass to go away.
But before that, i need to stop dreaming, and start charting the hours in my work from today.

Friday's rambles.

Goodnight world, and i'll sleep now and wake up 6 hours later, and begin my day again.
monotony is something that i have yet to become accustomed to.
but i'm trying hard.

sometimes monotony might be reassuring. Its predictability doesn't catch you by surprise and this might even be something alluring about routines!

Should you feel stifled like me, then, good night. Maybe in dreams we'll have a different story to tell--of adventures, fantasy and knights.
But good morning again, for tomorrow will almost take on the same pattern as today. probably.

An untypical wednesday.

I promise i'll start work tomorrow, and i'll work doubly hard. I promise!
Just give me another day to fight the monsters swimming in my intestines, laze in bed for a whole morning, then choosing to ignore the huge pile of work on my desk, pretending i didn't see the calendar (choked to the brim with "to-dos") stuck to the wall. Just sleeping the day away...lazy and idly as if nothing in the world mattered more than rest itself.

one more day of procrastination. I'll start tomorrow, i promise.

Lucky I still feel a semblance of guilt. it means that i still care about my work. 11 more weeks, including this, to go!

New

I've decided to take part in this weekly writing thing called the Sunday Scribblings. (link's up there) Each week they post up a one word topic and lovers of words would write a story, a poem, or anything about it. I took part in it because it sounded interesting and hopefully i'll meet people who also love to write. So this week's topic is "New". I wrote a poem about it. An amateur, I might not be the best but i'll learn :)


3.30.
The sun sleeps in his little house in the West,
purring gently in slow rhythmic breaths.
And so does everything around him,
under the watchful gaze of the moon.

5.00.
The sun prepares to go to work.
He crawls out of bed, goes to the toilet and makes himself a warm cup of coffee.
In between sips, he thinks,
"Which route shall I use today"
"East, like always,"
Routines breeds familarity and he found assurance in it.
And so the sun puts on his coat,
and sets off on his journey.

Meanwhile.
Over the hills, nature shivers with anticipation
as they wait for his arrival.
The cool morning dew begins to form,
On blades of grass, furs of animals and windows of houses.
A condensation of the night's hustle and bustle.
The moon yawns, his eyelids droop down heavily.
"A few more minutes", he told himself.


0559
The sun walked four streets,
past six corners and two junctions
before he finally arrived at the east gate.


The gate.
With reddish brown metallic elements falling off its surface,
still stand erect, tall and magnificient.
It has watched the many suns walk past its doorway,
every dawn, at five, for as long as the planet's birth.

0600.
The sun pushes the gates open.
He takes his first step through,
Walks up the stairways to the sky,
takes the place of the moon,
and shines.

A faint orange glow,
then brighter, brighter
and finally a warm yellow hue.

Spreading across plains,
Through windows of houses,
past canopies of leaves.
Beckoning its occupants awake from their dreams of the night.

The sun shines.
A new day has arrived.

Where is the relief?

Relief;
it is not overwhelming. It doesn't hit you like a wave, sweeping you away with its currents.

Instead what it does, is to sneak up behind you and gently pat your shoulder.
So light, it's easy to overlook its presence.
Sometimes, it hides behind a pillar,
observing, scanning, watching
and finally when you least expects,
it spring out like a jack-in-the-box
and says, "hello"

Tonight, it just doesn't appear,
though it is supposed to.

House (s)

Living in the same white-washed walls,
eating from the same plates during dinner,
and breathing the same heavy-fogged air,
we're shouldn't differ too much.

But it's a pity.
The similarity only ends there,
for after it, we open the doors to the little worlds of our own,
enter. close. and begin,
leading seperate lives.
opening it again only for meals, weekends
and post-school days.

My house houses five houses.
These houses operate on different frequencies.
They have their own language, wavelengths and ideals.
Diversity is great in a country,
not a house.

Sometimes, in fact very often,
misunderstandings do arise,
and when it does,
so begins the silent firing of missiles between houses,
curses, expelatives hurled like comets,
raining down at ferocious speed.

crushing. destroying. down.
it offers satisfaction, but only momentary.
then guilt sinks in, and it stays.

But ultimately,
these houses still belong to one house.