Take me home.

I want to go home.
I must have mumbled it aloud. For I see heads turning towards me. Some sneer, some taunt and there's one or two showing pure concern.
Not unexpected, that is pretty much the reactions I always get, when I talk of my home. I don't really blame them, for home for them is those four walls, with those spaces left open,to let those claustrophobic-brain-numbing emotions out, but then, for whatever stupid idea, shut down with doors and windows, bolted tight!
Naah! That's not my home! it never was.
My home, I have in people. My people. Who let me in, with all my edges & curves, my filth & warmth, my gaping holes & spilling needs, my corroding minuses & cryptic pluses. Who let me in and let me stay. That is the home I crave for. That is the home I plead to be allowed to run to. On those dusty, stormy or eyes-burning-red-dry days, that is the home I want to hide in.
Not easy. The rents run high. The prices leave me stranded on the streets. Making me want to carve out Hiraeth, you know, like a classified ad. 
That is when my mind plays in a loop...I want to go home.
Home. To peace, warmth and nightmare-less deep sleep.
Take me home.

Survival games

"Forgive and forget"
Why? Not how but, why?
Over the years, over the countless times I have heard this,from all quarters and halves,
my focus has shifted...
from how to why.
For I know it is not possible to forget.
Oh yes, it ain't. 
Pushing something to the back of the closet,
piling stuff above it, doesn't make it disappear.
It stays.
When it is a conscious effort to not pull it out, it can't be termed as "forgotten".
Let it be there.
I Pull it out every now and then.
Let the guilt/shame/fear/ugly coat me once again.
It is what made me who I am.
The only strength I need to worry about is to pull it out or put it back at will.
So, stop harping about forgiving and forgetting.
I don't intend to forget.
Neither forgive.
For forgiving is but just a fancy term for brushing things under the carpet.
And I like walking on even grounds.
Period.

Funeral

The service, if at all you plan one, should be scheduled at night.
For I am still not a morning person.
No fancy ceremonies. No dress code.
Come as you wish.
The latest belief I am toying with is vibrations,
(and not me) affect life.
The only belief that stuck through all fads is I am a soul primarily; and that soul is a synonym for a phoenix...it will rise out of its ashes.
So, no fancy ceremonies or dress code.
Just some positive vibrations. To guide the soul up and away.
Let it soar some before it gravitates down and gets caged in frivolous entanglements.
When, do you ask?
Well, no particular date too.
For death of a soul is a continuous process.
Parts of it are stiffled, bit by bit, by words, lack of them, volleyed with emotions or their absence, a look or turning away...
snuffed out by such frivolity.
So no ceremonies, no dress code and no date.
Create your own invite.
RSVP to your own soul.
Thank you...in advance, forever.

Music

There are voices talking in my head. I don't mind them really. Never felt lonely courtesy them. When they do get tired, from all the conflicting interests clashing and I am forced to switch them off, I can hear music. Calming music.

It never ceases to overwhelm me. The way the notes can gather the pieces, blown up and strewn away, back to where they belong. The strains balm the cracks. As my mind loses itself in the waves emanating from the different instruments, the sound pours in and fills the holes. And I am whole again.

Never have I felt alone for there is this shield around me. Whether it flows from any device via earphones or more commonly via the opera house in my brain, there is nothing that my music cannot heal.

My soul is music.

Price

I can't feel the way you do.
Something inside me is stone-like.
I see you gasp, your face contort in pain...for somebody else's pain. 

Your eyes well up and you weep.

 
My insides are ugly dry.
It was another reality,

where my emotions would resonate within me, 

shake me up and drown me.
Only rage does that to me now.
I have adapted myself well to the changes around.
Remember the old adage?
"...cry and you cry alone"? It is true.

See. I can't cry with you.
I can share every other emotion. 

But till it is throbbing pulsating raw, 

blazing a caustic trail that dries everything en route...  

Grief is mine.

The price I pay, is you.

 

Straight line.

Are you straight?
No. I am crooked.

A messed up ball of very high strung emotions which rule my life. 

Maybe there are more like me? Crazy and stubborn idiots from a bygone era.

An obsolete age where love happened between people, irrespective of age or sex, to grow roots and drop anchors. Where attachment transcended the furor created on the couch, in the chamber of doctors of the mind. I still live in that space where love is a four letter word synonymous to soul.

I am not straight. For there is an armor, slightly askew, around me. An armor created by the good in people around me. You can't see it. Unless you come down to my level of mad.

I find my strength in the comfort of a calming smell. Oh yes! I can damage those roots once a while...and lose the sense of smell. Specific anosmia. Much less heard of than the shape of your orientation. 

Your straight and my straight are different. You walk the straight line. You find your kick in touch. You wear a blank face, which allows you to push your insinuations of me under the carpet of harmless fun and forget about it all.

Well, to each his own. I let you be...you leave me alone.

Faithless

Faith.
An anchor that keeps one from being sucked into nothingness.
A glue that pulls together all the broken pieces, fills the cracks with hope and makes one appear whole.
An illusion really, which fools one into believing that all the pain and tears have some absolutely unquestionable yet valid reason behind.
A panacea for the blind-by-choice.

Shrouded in mystery. Dripping with myths.
Faith lives in stones and expansive incomprehensible texts.
Then there are some fools who build theirs in live, pulsating, fickle stones.
Wherever one chooses to surrender their reason, at one point or the other, faith fails.

The correct amount of pressure and the correct timing is all it takes to crack the cocoon, to restore and repair the eyesight  and see faith waver, crumble or break.
Anchors rust. Glues expire. Illusions break.
Reason dawns. Faith walks away.

I am left alone.
Bare. Mangled.
Faithless.