Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

 I was watching The Crown (quite late to it, I know), in one of its most boring seasons (3), that has the pace of a toddler eating his meal.   Till this particular episode came up. Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh is obsessed with Apollo 11 landing on the moon in 1969. He is incidentally going through a mid life crisis and this event makes him question bigger things about his purpose, action versus thought and even God. He remarks at one point to the priest that the only thing that matters is a man of action, people who do things like Neil Armstrong and not a bunch of priests who just sit and philosphize. Of course, by the end of the episode, he realises Armstrong and his crew were merely following protocol and procedures and were so busy doing that, that they forgot to think what the great moment actually meant in a bigger perspective. So the point of all of this is that sometimes thoughts are as good as action, or rather action without thought is as good as performing a stunt, if

Are always alone; Laughed and jeered at, They don't want to be known. They prefer the dark hues That keep the judgemental away. They want you to know, They are the strange ones, They aren't ashamed. There will be others like them, Who still won't be like them. That's what they are all about. Birds of a feather That don't really flock together.

  Is a lonely bird, Limping away to a nest of safety, The loud whirring of an air conditioner, Quietly shutting after it breaks down. The rebellious child, jumping On a trampoline, in spite of being warned, That time is up and we must go home. An open wound you bandage up, But peak into time and again, To see how far you have healed. It's the noise of cement machines, The drilling, the banging of walls, By your callous upstair neighbours. You want to tell them to stop being So selfish and careless, but instead you nod And keep in your thoughts, deep inside, Till they hurt even more. Hurt needs to find a new place to hide, Or rather, pull open its torn disguise, And reveal itself to the world. 'Here I am, here I am. I don't need your salvation or pity. Just acknowledge me and let me go. Just for once, look me in the eye. And tell me that you tried.'

  Silence like a cancer grows, sang Paul Simon. Does it, really? It is after all a very flexible word. If a sage is silent for many years, he attains wisdom. If a child is silent for too long, you know they are up to some devious mischief. If a man goes silent on you, it's probably his ego coming into play, and he wants to change the power equation back in his favour. Now, if a woman goes silent, you can be deadly sure you've messed up big time. She is only just holding in her wrath, which sooner or later will be firing your way. Silence is beautiful, when you are alone. Unless you are the eccentric types who talk to themselves. There is nothing more gratifying than not having anything to force yourself to talk about. But silence isn't just the absence of words. It is also the absence of the clutter and noise of your thoughts, the ones that gnaw at your brain, day and night. Insecure thoughts, angry thoughts, miserable thoughts, thoughts that make you feel you are worthless

  There's a party in my head tonight. My skeletons and I have decided to dance. There's a girl I dug out  From an underground cave, Bruised and battered,  She was once left inside to starve, Then there's the Queen, haughty and loud, Screaming orders at everyone, Telling everyone to get out. There's a little kid, running around, Hiding from men, trying to understand If what they did to her was right or wrong. There's the middle aged lady, Bringing food for everyone, Trying to help whoever's down. There's a good witch and a healer, Making potions, conjuring clouds. There's a lovesick teenager, Too scared to talk to her crush. There's a scribe and a manager, Driven by ambition, working nights To make her name, to make ends meet. A wife, a mother, a promiscuous  Experimenter, always ready  For adventure; a hopeless romantic, A breathless runner, an angry venter, I'm so tired, of this dancing around. I'm sorry you weren't invited. I'm sorr

( Painting by: NM) Not everything needs a name. Not everyone needs an ending. Life is a simple equation, Of ones and zeroes, Yes and Nos. Every answer creates a new answer. The equation is ever changing. Nothing is real, except reality. There are other worlds, With other stories. Other you's and other me's, Living differently. Loving other Ones and zeroes. Does it make you sad That the other stories never happened? But they did, yes, they did. And we see them when we dream. And we feel them when we breathe. That's how we know The weight of reality, Will always be heavy. You can count on it. It will never let you down. It will hold you in the ground.

  So off to the mountain I went again, The village was getting to me, And I had to escape its shallowness, Go to a height from where things Looked clear, and cleaned by the clouds. What really happened, you ask? Well, to start off, the milkman Was too lazy to make his deliveries. Every time I'd ask, where's the milk? He would shrug and say, I forgot, Or the cows refuse to cooperate. I gave up and said, fine, I will just  Drink my bloody tea without milk. The two sisters, the cook and the cleaner, Just a pair of melodramatic morons, One keeps asking me, what do I cook? The other, refuses to see the dust On the table, even when my finger Leaves a very visible mark, she says, No, that's not dust, I don't agree. And oh the gardener, this exasperating, Confused man. When I tell him to grow  Roses, he says, but roses have thorns. What about pumpkins? Too big. Carrots? Too much effort to  Keep them away from rabbits. Sometimes I want to tell him straight On his face, not only

  Never liked the Indian summer, Van Morrison wrote a song about it, But what does he know About the relentless sun, That kills every thing in sight, Whether it's the calmness of cold, Or the passions of wet days? Lana sings of summertime sadness And I agree with her. What do you do when your body  Is on fire, but your mind draws a blank? When you want to write sonnets about Warm kisses, but end up putting  On the shades so no one can read your eyes, When all you want to do is lay low, because After all, where can you run from this Scorching skin that turns browner each day, Like a char grilled fish in melted butter sauce? You feel over exposed like a photograph, That was meant to be captured in Perfect light, but now the brightness Has ruined your perfect face. These days I want to be lost and found. I will hide in cool, underground burrows, Where my thoughts can't be read. I will climb green trees and sit Right in the middle where the light Doesn't reach my blinded eyes.