You, the fabric that covers my bones In all its tanned brown glory You, the canvas of my emotion And also its shelter. For you are the thin line, the boundary, the border Separating, protecting This convoluted rabbit hole of an inner world From the outer one. You are the curtain, the doorway, the membrane The universe must sear through Before it sears me. With all your intricate layers That you cast off and renew You are the shield All scars must get through. You are the vessel, the marionette, the coffin That encapsulates my soul in its worldly warmth, Packing supernovas and blackholes and a gooey conscious Into a five-five body for the cosmos to comprehend, The sluice gate which confines my cyclones in And lets my tsunamis slip through in solitude. You are the companion, the slave, the master Born with me, liquid milk, you are what the world touched first. You'll live through the hormonal hurricanes of my youth Till finally the liquid milk unfolds its wrinkled layer To be blown on and pulled off by the icy warm fingers of death And dissolved in the flames of earth's remembrance. You are the yielder, the rebel, the healer, Submitting your forests to razed And your land to cut or dug or burnt you Endure it all with nary a sob And yet, you are strong. You are strong, not malleable, For you never give in, my beautifully stubborn rebel you Come back, slowly, quietly Your silent rejuvenation your powerful protest. You are the transmitter, the receiver, the storer That feels the elements and etches them into itself Memories and secrets only you and I know; The raindrops that slip under the umbrella, The wind in my face on a bicycle ride, The yellow warmth of the winter sunshine, The soft dewed grass under a tree in my toes. You are what turns moment into memory. You many not be pretty, or uniform, or perfect But that is why you are human You are tangible And most importantly, You Are mine.
A new day dawning A new sunrise Is what 'hope' is to you But dawn is not what I look ahead to. For I am the Sky The ocean that's a different kind of deep Arching over this earth And day is not me. The Sun illuminates This earth. The Sun blinds out My stars. The Day blinds out my depths and my shallows, Clouds over my face and hides The inky depths of my heart And paints me a happy blue; What a nice cultured obedient sky we have here. As this blinding light dims out It takes its pretty blues and yellows with it And draws back the veil, And the secret light of the moon Lovingly caresses my whole being-- The corset was too tight here, my dear Let me breathe back the life into you. The secret light of the moon illuminates Me. Me, the blue-black darkness that is my soul, The happy pinpricks of memories that shine through this dense fabric, The tumultous sea of my thought That sometimes bursts through in the day itself Blotting out even the Sun As the clouds rush in to contain the damage. Me, the blank canvas, the stage backdrop Where all of life plays out " 'Twas a good show, Mr Shakespeare, Sir" Many thanks, thy kinds words delight my heart Let's dismantle the stage now.
HALLO FRANDOS I’M BACK.
(Shit Tanushka you’re growing on me.)
So my exams are over and I finally have the time to start a new venture. This new venture is a new series, called, as you see in the title, Prose-tinted Glasses.
Now, anyone who knows me knows that writing book reviews isn’t my thing, and this isn’t going to be about book reviews either. The episodes- let’s call them that- will be written while I’m reading a particular book, and will be posted when I’ve finished reading. They’ll basically be my nightly mental ramblings about the things explored in the book (because why should I lose sleep alone) and how I feel they connect to things outside the book. You can think of them as those post-book English class essays, but you’ll soon see they’re not really that. If you want book reviews, this series is not for you.
The featured image is a quick colour pencil drawing which I made at 11 in the night while my mom was yelling at me to go to sleep. And yes, this will be the featured image for all the episodes. It’s a series, after all.
Hopefully I’ll post an episode once a month, but it’s not a rigid schedule- nothing is ever rigid over here- and there might, or more appropriately, will be episode-less months. The theme for the first season (yes, there might be more seasons. It’s a whole thing.) is Books we all Pretend we’ve Read.
Now, I have already read some of these- not a complete ignoramus, thankfully- and they won’t be included in this series (they’re The Hobbit and The Alchemist, if you’re wondering). Nor are the books in this image the only ones which will be included.
With the intro out of the way, let’s get into the episode.
(About 1000 words)
“You sure you’ll be okay, honey?”
Danny looked up from his copy of The Secret Garden. Again. He smiled and nodded. Again.
“Come on, Winnie! The market closes in an hour and a half!” His dad called from the other room.
“Coming!” She looked at her son. They’d be back in an hour or so, sure, but this was the first time they were leaving him alone. She had every right to be worried.
“There’s some leftover meatloaf in the microwave if you get hungry,” she said for the twentieth time, “and remember—”
“Don’t let in strangers, don’t go out into the backyard, and if Doormat barks, only check from the balcony. I remember, mom.”
Winnie smiled. Her little boy was growing up fast. It seemed like yesterday that she was teaching him to say his name.
Meanwhile, John came in. “Winnie, let’s go.”
“I was coming, just—”
“Danny’s a big boy now.” He went in and ruffled his son’s hair. “Almost eight, am I right?”
“Yes, daddy.” He smiled.
“You be good, Dan.”
Danny saw them off and bolted the door. Their deep blue Chevy screeched away and finally, for the first time ever, he was alone.
I am the moon’s reflection
In a murky night puddle
Do I not want to flit among the fireflies?
But I am not the moon
(Though I could be)
Only its flattened image;
Here comes a shoe
Sending ripples through my body.
(About 1000 words)
“Uber for Mark?” the handsome middle-aged passenger peeked through the front window. The driver took one look at him and almost fainted.
“You’re… you’re Mark Romero, right? Agent Mark Romero?”
Romero sighed. It had been fun at first, but now it was starting to get seriously annoying. Damn that Tina for convincing him to get on TV.
“That’s the one.”
If the driver could’ve jumped, he would have.
“Omigod, sir, big fan, sir, big fan—”
“Thanks, now, I need to—”
“The way you busted that coke ring, sir, saw it on TV sir, heroic, absolutely fantastic.”
“Yes, thank you, flattered; now listen to me—what’s your name?”
“Kevin, sir, at your service.” The man actually saluted.
“Look, Kevin, I have my nephew’s wedding to get to, now, and Juárez’s nearly three hours away. I’m running an hour late already, so I’ll make you a deal– you step on it, and I’ll tell you about that cocaine ring on the way. How does that sound?”
Kevin took a second to take the panicked man’s information in. “Very good, sir, very good. Hop in.”
Yep, you read it right –the Factory is now the proud owner of 200 followers!
(Owner? That sounds wrong. Maybe you should say… caterer, or something?)
(Shut up Wrinkles this is not your post.)
(I said Shut. Up.)
Contrary to movie funerals, it was not raining. In fact, it was a bright sunny day with sparse clouds.
But can a churchyard ever be sunny? With mourners decked out in black and the only smiles around sad ones, a stormcloud seemed to hang over the churchyard itself.
Cycling in the rain today
Instead of a thought experiment, I tried a Physics one.
For a change, it worked-
If I went a certain speed, the rain didn’t drench me.
They talk about the beauty of Physics
But you see, the rain is not beautiful
Because of physics-
Vector additions and relative velocities
Could never capture it,
A single arrow and a Greek letter
Just aren’t enough;
Because even though they’re three-dimensional,
The rain isn’t.
(600 words, approx)
Yuto peered at the sign hung inside the window. “It is written ‘looked’.”
Cynthia shook her head. “It says ‘locked’, not ‘looked’. Besides, we don’t need a sign to know that, do we?” She went back to picking the lock. He was a foreign exchange student, here till next September, but still getting used to the English language.
Yuto frowned. “I think this, what we do, is wrong.”