Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

Aise bhi din aate hain.  Jisse rukna hota hai Woh toot kar bhi ruk jaata hai.  Jisse jaana hota hai,  Woh ruk kar bhi chala jata hai.  Jisse kuch pahna hota hai,  Woh leh kar bhi khali reh jata hai.  Jisse dena hota hai,  Woh de kar bhi bhar jata hai.  Jisse ishwar ne mazboot rakha ho,  Woh roh kar bhi hass deta hai. Jisse ishwar ne kagaz sa banaya ho,  Woh kalam ki kharoch si bhi galich ho jata hai.  Jisse pyaar khud se na ho,  Woh doosron ko kuch nahin dega kabhi.  Jisse pyaar doosron se bahut ho,  Woh khud ko bhi baich dega kabhi.  Aise bhi din aate hain.  Hum dekhte rehte hain,  Aur saamne hamare ek pankti Ki tarah sab ek ek shoonya hote hue Kohre ki taraf chale jaate hain. 

Towering shadows,  Stand by my bed.  I am so tired,  But I still talk to them,  Of faith and hope and love.  I am a chaperone for dreams,  Standing at the forbidden gateway.  'Come, enter, don't be afraid,  This way, every night,  Here's where you must stay.' They are hungry for days,  Eat my neck today, I say.  Here are my calves,  The ones you adore,  My eyes, my lips, my hands,  Rubbing your back pain away. I'm so tired, I know they are too,  We haven't slept for years now,  We haven't spoken the truth.  I kneel at their feet in surrender, raising hands,  I see them looking at my empty eyes, I beg,  'Take all of me, leave nothing behind,  Sacrifice me for yourself, I'm willing, I don't think I will ever mind.  But please, get me out of this dream,  Bring me into reality, break this spell Or kill me, because in between, I'm dying' They pull me up and embrace me,  Hold me tight and still deny it.  'You are going to be here forever, 

I consciously asked for a full body massage. I had been feeling extremely low, weepy and filled with self loathing. When you look in the mirror and can't recognize yourself anymore, it is an awful feeling. I needed to be touched to reassure myself that I was still alive.  Massages are one of my favourite things in the world. It's no wonder that even the erotica I watch has to do with massages, to be taken by surprise by a touch. I've never been massaged by a man, so the idea of it is unknown and exciting. But my monthly massages have less to do with that and more to do with tiredness and body pain.  When she massaged the painful knots in my shoulder, I felt myself resisting. Resisting to things comes easily to me, giving in is hard. If I give in to someone whether in an argument or in a task, I must care about you a lot. Because giving in requires weakness, displaying which is not easy for me. If I surrender to your ego, you are probably one of the few people I love.  When

Today is a jazz kind of day. Dark, broody, wet and slow. Like the kind of lovemaking that stretches on for hours, starting off softly, then picking up pace and reaching a peak, then slowly down again, till you forget where you are and what time it is, why is the room dark and how long will this piece go on?  I never really understood Jazz. I know it is complicated and contrary to popular belief, it does have a structure.  On listening to some Chet Baker music, the kind that makes you want to sit in a leather armchair and close your eyes with a glass of spiced brandy, I remembered my days in my old house.  Chet Baker was reserved for silent, lonely evenings with a bottle of wine, sitting and watching the sky from my balcony. I do get nostalgic about my house where I used to put on my LP player and listen to old scratchy Sinatra and Joni Mitchell records. I still have a rare collection lying in a cabinet that someone offered to buy, but I refused. Just like I have kept old cassettes with

It is not my time,  To stand at doors With open arms.  Patiently scouring  The box for the missing Piece of the jigsaw,  Well aware that it makes sense At this point to accept It still looks complete.  Running to eyes,  Saddened by past betrayals,  To ask, what can I do So that you feel deserving?  It is not my time,  To be helpful, loving or warm.  I have done all of that,  Not to receive compliments or truths,  Not to console my tired, aching bones.  I should not have to be An open book to be read Just to make others feel more intelligent.  All they need to do is reach out For me on the shelf, and sit still On the chair, while they figure out If I'm really worth all the hours,  They put in to understand the ending.  I should come with a warning,  'Read only if you want to change'.  But change doesn't always come From actions of the brave.  Change comes from thoughts,  From dreaming of better days.  A word by itself is powerful enough For even the sceptics to embrace A

Shiny, green pink glitter bomb,  Falling into purple star and violet moon.  Grateful means to be great, to be full,  I saw they lived long in Sardinia,  But what do I need to do?  I don't even want to live that long Or trek everyday to reach the peak.  I wanted to live by the sea,  But the warm sand drove me away.  So did mountains and pines.  But now I'm digressing,  I should have been in the glitter bomb.  That incorrigible madness is where I belong.  Neither here, nor there.  Nare? Nor? No, the right word Is Nowhere. Saved for the special ones Like me. Floating in a mountain Of glitter, over the warm sea. 

  After a long time, I felt at peace in a space. Of course, I love my own house. It is mine, so why not? Filled with the smell of my perfume and cooking, reverberating with the laughter of my children or their yelling. Mostly, my own yelling. My house is not a quiet zone. There are some houses, the occupants of which are calm and closed. I have seen such people and such houses, sometimes envied them, and at others pitied them. But houses are not meant to be quiet.  However, I challenge anyone who writes to do it in my house. It is an impossible task. The noise and the energy of the house is so vibrant it doesn't suit the writing process. I often sneak away to write under trees and on benches and sometimes even my balcony, the only place I can find solace in the house.  Afternoons are the only time the house is quiet and I have a schedule that allows me to utilise this time. But afternoons are sleepy and I'm the kind of person who has already peaked before midday or pick up late

A gentle longing,  For something divine.  Feather touch Asking for a sign.  The weary traveller,  Is looking for a bed.  He lays himself down,  And then he must confess.  Days and nights,  Days and nights,  This fire burns, It keeps me up,  I am ignited.  You turn over To see his eyes.  They are ablaze With desire and love,  To discover your plight.  You must rest here,  You suggest. But he can't.  Rest isn't what he needs,  He needs to undress.  To be naked without fear,  To be quivering in plain sight,  To be held and consumed,  To be taken in for the night.  You will not judge,  You are restless too.  From centuries of waiting,  From agonies of wanting To be under his weight,  To keep you from wandering again.  Together, you count  Tirelessly devoted,  To every part of the skin,  Each bruise, each hair,  Each mole, each stain.  There is ecstacy in giving in,  And finding similar faults.  Sighs, moans, smells, sounds,  Your hair coated with sweat,  Juices, colours, grays.  Wh