In our rages, we our insides churn
Come close to redeeming our selves
But never once forgive, the hell in us.
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October 30, 2010
October 29, 2010
October 15, 2010
Upagupta: A Retelling
She was one of those people. The ones you see walking along beaches, waiting for messages in bottles, and seashells that aren't flawed. You had to admire her patience, for she would wait and wait, and never let the smile fade. Her bubble was rose tinted and hers alone. Until she invited you in, that is. She could convince you with her tales. She almost did that, convinced me! She was to me, one of those people who would never grow up. With her, it was a choice. Not that it made her less of a person. I admired her tenacity, her strong will. She believed in fairy tales the way I believed in blunt talk. She'd argue, tell me how she was right and I was wrong. If I had half her conviction, I'd be a stronger person.
And then the inevitable happened. She grew up. I thought she'd put up a fight. She just let it seep in, fill her being. The cynic in me should've rejoiced at this victory, but it didn't. I was scared; for her, for me. Then I met her again. I told her how growing up shouldn't have happened to her. It wasn't meant to happen to someone like her. She smiled at me. She hadn't fought it, obviously. Because it had been her choice. What makes you think growing up is bad, she asked? I believed in happiness once. Now that I'm wiser, I know it's true. Truer than you or me. So true that it's mine, waiting for me to fight, waiting for me to call it to me. Isn't that what growing up is all about?
That's when I realized I'd been fooling myself. I had a lot of growing up to do, the sheep in cynic's clothing that I was!
P.S. This isn't really supposed to make sense. I have an idea for a story, wanted to check how it'd look in abstract before I actually fleshed it out.
The story? Partly inspired from Upagupta. Sorry Tagore, I really really love the poem, I've wanted to recreate it for the last nine years. :D
And then the inevitable happened. She grew up. I thought she'd put up a fight. She just let it seep in, fill her being. The cynic in me should've rejoiced at this victory, but it didn't. I was scared; for her, for me. Then I met her again. I told her how growing up shouldn't have happened to her. It wasn't meant to happen to someone like her. She smiled at me. She hadn't fought it, obviously. Because it had been her choice. What makes you think growing up is bad, she asked? I believed in happiness once. Now that I'm wiser, I know it's true. Truer than you or me. So true that it's mine, waiting for me to fight, waiting for me to call it to me. Isn't that what growing up is all about?
That's when I realized I'd been fooling myself. I had a lot of growing up to do, the sheep in cynic's clothing that I was!
P.S. This isn't really supposed to make sense. I have an idea for a story, wanted to check how it'd look in abstract before I actually fleshed it out.
The story? Partly inspired from Upagupta. Sorry Tagore, I really really love the poem, I've wanted to recreate it for the last nine years. :D
All i need
a lone cloud
grey
and a pillowful
of dreams
light streaming in
through stained
windows,
in purple and red
the blue
of butterflies;
the wind billowing,
flirting with curtains;
coffee, bitter brown
and a book
by my side,
as i fall in love
with the nightrain
beating on my
windowpane
a song on my lips
and a smile
on the face
of my soul.
grey
and a pillowful
of dreams
light streaming in
through stained
windows,
in purple and red
the blue
of butterflies;
the wind billowing,
flirting with curtains;
coffee, bitter brown
and a book
by my side,
as i fall in love
with the nightrain
beating on my
windowpane
a song on my lips
and a smile
on the face
of my soul.
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