Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

Alive There is life in everything, around us. But mostly it's not alive. Life exists in sleep, and the waking up, The moments where blurred vision shows things hazy, yellow, orange stripes merged on a curtain, patches undefined on a wall, Sounds muffled coming from the other room, as if they were talking in the head. The past, the present, resisting and emerging in thought. Life exists in childhood, not knowing what's right or wrong, Life exists in confusion, in afternoons, slow, drenched in nausea. Life exists not, in moving. That's only the idea of Life. Life is standing still. Life is, a limping dancer at the first rehearsal trying to do what it can't, Life is a vision of Death, and Death is a reflection of life. Life is naught. Life is...

The Remains (Iti Kupa Kupa) It's true, that I don't love you anymore. It's a fact that the past has left me and I've killed myself to live this life without you. It's a pity, that I can't forget the way you held my finger in you hand. Regretful, that I expect the same words, the same moments, the same adventures, from love again. Your night has flown into my day, and as I wake up, the new morning holds new dreams for me. But the darkness of your stars Lingers as reminders, in the shadows created by today's brightness.

Head in the Clouds The windows pushed open, that's how the day starts, Then a cup of tea, a look at the sky azure, white, shaded, sometimes not, stretched long, to the toes, like a warm blanket. These days, I see a girl, floating, dancing, acrobatically somersaulting, with screams of delight, then, zooming past with joined hands, cutting across the clouds. Never used to see her before, but now, almost everyday, I smile at her, and start my day with a trip up dreamy lane. And she warns me, not to waste my time too much, pay heed to the morning clock, I promise to watch her stride the next day. And she never fails to be there, never clouded by reality or drenched by droplets of change.

The Situation Symbol Today, my friend M asked me to tell her a story. Just like that. Sitting under the afternoon sun, lazy and contemplative, we were just killing time. I know it seems difficult to be both lazy and contemplative at the same time. But when the body relaxes, the mind awakens. The words poured out of my mouth. I didn't know what I was going to say, but I started impromptu. This is what I said: "There was once a little girl, who had a pretty normal height for her age. As she started growing up, she realised that everyone else was growing taller than her, while her height had stopped somewhere. Now she started looking up to see everyone very far away from her eyes. If she looked down, she saw the floor very easily. She started feeling as if she was becoming invisible. Everyone looked down upon her, as if she lacked something that they had. After a while, the girl couldn't take this anymore. She had cried enough, because what she saw when she looked up was more

Returning When I was 12, I decided to write a novel, along with my best friend V. We were fascinated by the paranormal and discussed UFOs to no end. So we decided to write about the planet of Zedara. That was the beginning. Then came the poems. Attempts that grew better with time. I peaked when I was 21, maybe I was luckier than Rimbaud. The dream was always there - the book, my name, my efforts. I vowed not to die before I was published. Then the realities. Suffering brought out better words. Maybe I have matured over the years, but the strength of words is dying out. My closest friends and family know what I'm capable of. Sitting till 4 in the morning to write was possible once, but not now. I'm quitting, I'm not trying anymore. Maybe someday I will decide to put my heart and soul in it. Writing comes naturally to me, but the motivation is dying out. I've been feeling guilty about not writing enough. Not every one is born with the skill of writing. There are a few luc

Bildungsroman I was born, a child in December, on a cold night, of the full moon. They expected someone else, but I came, fighting my way out into the world. I thought I was a boy, or I wanted to be someone who could not be trampled upon So I cut my hair and hid my breasts. I wanted to be a woman, so I opened my arms to everyone who came walking towards my confusions, a dark mask that hid an invincible purity. I tried to continue my act, but the mask broke And they saw a lop sided smile with tears on one cheek. I threw away my identity and tried a new one. The child of December Strong, cold and free. I began to love who I became, The leaves fell on my open hair and I shook them with a dreamy toss. The wind comes in but this time, I refuse to stop it from pushing me towards the fields. The wind doesn't wait, So it moves away And I fail to smell the flowers it carries. The leaves fall, and I continue walking on the road I chose for fear of losing my way in the deep, cold night. where