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.