One A.M. Magic

Inside-out the world turns its being
Blank-eyed moon seeing

Fragrant shampoo wine weaving air-mesh
Melting night flesh

Quiet, darkness makes creation
reach salvation

Listening walls, drumbeat pulsation
from Secret portals locked in shadows
Opened in slanting streetlight from windows
that watch Blank-eyed moon seeing melting night flesh reach salvation.

30th April/ (11/30)/ Ovillejo

 

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Prose-tinted Glasses S1, E3

E1- 1984 | E2- The Handmaid’s Tale

Hello and welcome back to the series which is updated once in six months, where I look at the world through the ideas in a popular book that most of us only pretend to have read. And I subject you to the essays I would’ve written had I been an English Literature major. (Not to brag but y’all gave me an A+ the last two times so I guess I could replace ‘subject’ with ‘treat’ *wink*).

Guess which book we’re doing today. It can’t really be called a modern classic, but it’s not Paradise Lost-old either. You’ll be able to guess; I’ll give you two words: psychology and quiet.

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Paper listens

What is so special about paper
So inviting, that you spill your mind
Without a second thought you let yourself scream
As its alluring blankness drinks up all tears
Neither complaining nor probing, ever patient
Moulding chaos untamed into concrete.

It isn't easy to make vague abstract ideas concrete
Especially when you know it might crush you like paper
When your brain's a psychiatric ward, you the patient
Your own body playing cruel games of the mind 
And all you are is these rips and tears
These are all you see, and you can't even scream.

Hush, my dear, they'll come for you, don't scream
Just whisper till your throat fills with concrete
The aftermath of this hurricane is the silent rain of your tears
So you turn to pour them on your single-lined paper
It's the only one that listens, anyway, no one else pays any mind
Like Anne Frank said in her diary, paper is patient. 

That's dumb, it's just inanimate, not patient
Maybe, but at least it hears you scream
Stretches its blank canvas before your yearning mind
Makes your brain throw up, turning vomit into concrete
At the end of the day, all you have is paper
Massaging, inky feelings flowing, until you stop breathing tears.

Your eyes are now empty from filling up with tears
You're lost now— but be patient, you're both doctor and patient
You'll find yourself one day in these rustling sheets of paper
As your pen leaks on them your every single scream
Which materialise into jungles of concrete
For the therapist, another case study, another dissected mind. 

You know this space is which can be flooded by your mind
In peace, no judgment, even though it's so thin it tears
Like you, but don't you see, it's tough as concrete
For it shoulders the weight of your voice, so patient
Displaying the black ink soup crystallised in each scream
So bleed on it, darling, and admire the bloodstains on this paper.

Shape in concrete the products of your mind
All the paper you have will wrap warmly your tears
No longer will you be a patient of an eternal scream. 

11th April/ (9/30) / Sestina


Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m two days late, but I’ve caught the illness-that-must-not-be-named, and no, this is not the ‘new normal’. Say that phrase one more time and I’ll hunt you down, gouge out your eyeballs and shove ’em up your nostrils. Also, who’re you to complain? I wrote my first frickin’ sestina. A sestina. The internet tells me it’s a form poets dread, and I now know why, and I’ve written it while being three different kinds of not okay. And that too not a forced poem just for the sake of keeping my promise of a new poetic form every third day, but an up-close kind of poem. I dunno if it’s a good sestina or not, I’m no *googles who invented this obsessive form* Arnaut Daniel, but I’ve written it, it’s taken me an hour or so, excluding med breaks and food breaks and pee breaks and whatnot breaks, and you have the honour of laying your eyes on it. Just, allow me a drop of narcissism while I’m fresh off a cup of coffee, okay? Let me enjoy this for a moment before I descend back into self-deprecating ‘humour’.   

Prose-tinted Glasses S1, E2

Neither am I dead, nor is this series. 

Hello and welcome to the second episode of Prose-tinted glasses. If you have no idea what the hell is going on here or need a refresher, head on over to the pilot episode where I introduce you to this new venture of mine and talk about Orwell’s 1984. Seriously, do it. It’ll save you from my wrath by preventing you from calling it a book-review series. 

I’m assuming you’re now familiar with the previous episode. So, in keeping with our theme of Books we all Pretend we’ve Read, the book for today is The Handmaid’s Tale. 

*cue theme music* 

I know, I know. It has over seventy thousand reviews on Goodreads, who knows how many more articles, entire research papers, and a whole TV show. But will any of that deter me from writing about it? Did any of that compel me to read at least one article about it? Did I watch the show?

Nah. 

I call it being authentic. Continue reading

Celestial Reflection

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. 

Prose-tinted Glasses S1, E1

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. 

It’d be funny if it wasn’t true.

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. 

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Bored in tuition class- A Conversation with my brain

Scene: 7 p.m., my room, time for my Physics tuition and my Physics/Chemistry tutor is making notes of Magnetic Effects of Electric Current in my register. A little context here- he makes notes of a particular topic and then explains it to me. He’s also a Reiki healer, an astrologer, a numerologist and a tarot reader. Science+Pseudoscience= What the hell. 

My Brain: Why doesn’t he hurry up? It’s been a minute already. I’m bored.

Me: I know. Me too. *Drums fingers on table*

My Brain: You should stop doing that. It’s rude and obnoxious, not to mention monotonous.

Me: Maybe I should drum the Doctor Who theme, then. Much more entertaining.

My Brain: You know what else would be entertaining? Telling him what a load of bullcrap his astrology is.

Me: Because that’s not rude and obnoxious.

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OTT Liberalism and why I hate it

If you read the title of this post and went “Oh, just another dumb far-rightist spreading their idiotic propaganda”, then let me stop you right there. If you don’t wanna read this post, fine. But let me clarify just one thing- I am not a conservative. I am the very opposite of conservative. I’m a liberal.  Continue reading

Optimism? Pessimism? Realism.

‘Optimism is a scam. It’s realism that gets you through life,’ I typed out my WhatsApp status, finally wording one of my unconventional beliefs.

Today, I’m gonna talk about that WhatsApp status. Numerous speakers talk about optimism, the power of positive thinking, et cetera, et cetera. Many of them pose that classic (which is to say, cliched) ‘Is the glass of water half empty or half full?’ question to their audience, holding up said glass for the whole room to ponder about.

First of all, let me add as a disclaimer, I’m not saying optimism is a bad thing. How can thinking positively be bad? All I’m saying is that it’s impractical.

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