Right or wrong?

Right or wrong.
Weak or strong.
It’s all perception.
Like a dubious song.
Melodious. Yet odious.
Saddening. Yet uplifting.
Happening. Yet outmoded.
Like sides of a coin.
Equal bias. Fickle. Or pious.
No black or white.
The world’s a shade of grey.
The vantage point of a hunter.
The motivation of its prey.
A woman’s endurance.
A man’s sacrifice.
A mountain’s permanence.                          An uncertain, slippery precipice.                A river’s frivolity.                                          An ocean’s perpetuity.                             God’s command.                                               A despot’s law.                                                  A gardener’s sapling.                                      A carpenter’s saw.

Between the two extremes.
Wonders work. Dangers lurk.
People shirk. Some work.

But what’s right? What’s wrong?
It’s all perception. A dubious song.

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I’m a terrible, terrible person.

Truth is a shining light. Truth is also a torrential rain.

It is soothing like warm sunlight, a mild drizzle, comforting, gratifying.

It is excruciating like scorching summer sun, a downpour, drenching, dejecting.

The truth is, I am an all right person. Or so I believe at times.                                         But the truth is also that I am a bad, bad person. And that, I know.

We always have this thing in the back of our minds, that we should adhere to our moral code. Our heart is our best friend. Our mind, our keenest critic.

Our moral codes are different. Because it is very hard to find a common ground of absolute good and and evil. No black or white, we all are shades of grey.

That is why we find our non adherence to our respective moral code more bothering than non adherence to a perceived absolute.

The sad thing is, when we deviate from our perceived notion of right and wrong, we don’t realise where we are heading to. We mould our years old notions and beliefs like plasticine, so easily, thinking that we are looking at the very same thing from a different angle.

We unknowingly counter our critic(s) with an unneeded ferocity. And sometimes even begin weighing in against the very foundation of our moral centre in a cushioned or a veiled manner.

Another sad thing, we realise our mistake, our fault  (our vehement protest against our very own set of beliefs) in retrospection. Always. And it’s hard, again. Because you can never be the same, things, can never be the same. Your moral code, your value system has to change, or adapt to strengthen, or completely implode. And that is scary.

Plus there’s a difference between realisation and acceptance. That transition, that leap is a daunting one.

I often find myself stuck in this miasma. I am aware. Yet indignant. It feels as if I am angry at something, or someone. Looking for any reason or any chance to vent all my brewing negativity at once.  There have been a lot of situations in which my reprimanding conscience, and intuition drive me mad.

And there have been a lot of such mistakes I have made in the past.

Lack of belief. Undirected hatred. Tempesting over a teapot. Bypassing the moral road. Realisation. Denial. Retrospection. Acceptance. Lack of courage, to own my mistake, to apologise.

Whatever we might seem from the outside. All right to some. Assholes to some. Let’s just be that from the inside too.

What makes us terrible, (what made me, or still makes me terrible.) is the duality of belief, lack of respect, ignorance towards conscience, and an an unchanneled negativity.

I’m a terrible, terrible person. But at least I know that. Do you?

Poet

Who is a poet? WHAT is a poet?

There are a lot of definitions. There must be.

The obvious one, obviously, is “A poet is someone who writes poems.”
I look at it differently. I think a poet is a lazy, lazy writer.

An impeccable, amazing writer, but so damn lazy.

 Poets doesn’t just adjust words into a line.

And a  poem is not a jigsaw puzzle.
Its a meandering river coursing through its own unique path to reach the common, ultimate destination.

Heart.

A poet could describe, discern volumes about something in just a couple of lines, and that too, in a rhyme.
What other writers usually describe in their ponderous tomes, he has LIVED in that description, in that moment.

And he has oozed out all the essence of that experience in a very limited and profound manner, with a beautiful garnish of rhythm, and raw emotion.
And this speaks volumes about his creativity, and his observational finesse, and of course, a very natural command of the language.
And its not that I’m denigrating writers. Writers are amazing imaginators (that’s not a word). And excellent with words.  But a poet is that good, and that unique, and that rare.
Though, there’s a poet in all of us. Or so we like to say. Or so we like to believe.

But we do know. Don’t we?
Another thing I think is unique about a poet is that he doesn’t have to (neither he has the patience) describe every nuance of his imagination. What angers him, or rather agitates him, is redundancy, and needless detail.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing here. Huh!

So. Poet? No I’m not. No.
Writer? Hahaha!!

Yeah. Good luck buddy!

A false reverie, a true nightmare…

“So.. You come here often?” She asked. Swirling the straw in the empty glass.
“No not often. But yeah. I have come here a couple of times. Nice place. Peaceful.” He said. Fixated on the beautiful face in front of him.
She smiled and blinked. And curled her jet black hair behind her ear. Her lips, smeared with red lipstick curved into a simple smile.
“So…” She said at last. Her large eyes, a tint of brown, blinked and then shied away.  He smiled, lost into her dreamy dusky face.
Words had dried. They had nothing to talk about, but a myriad to say.
“Want to eat something ??” He asked.

“No. I am full.”

“Want to go some place else?” She asked.

“Do you?”

“No. I kind of like it here.” She leaned  back, inhaling the ambience.

“Me too.” He smiled.
This was their first date. But it felt like they had known each other a lifetime ago.
“Thank you for meeting me. It means a lot.” He said.

“To be honest. You rescued me.” She said. “It’s been so long I went out like this.”
His face suddenly grew solemn, with a spasm of an inexplicable regret. She noticed that subtle moment. But remained silent. For a while they both remained still, lost in their own little world.
Finally she spoke. “You never came. You… You just left.” She choked.

Silence.

“I wanted to. But I couldn’t. You know that.” He intoned, containing himself.

Silence.

Tears welled up in her eyes. His eyes stared the wall hopelessly.
“She would have been eight today.” She said.

“I know.” He nodded. Still staring at the wall. Unable to look at the woman he once held in his arms.
“She would have pestered me to listen to her poems.” She said.

He smiled faintly.

“And she would have grown up to be so pretty. My baby.” She whimpered.

“The most beautiful thing in the world.” He said, tethering his surge of pain.
A silent tear trickled from the corner of her eye. He was crying like a child inside.
“I am sorry.” He said. “I left. I just couldn’t take it. I’m sorry. It hurt so much.”

Silence.

“Is it better now?” She said. Nearly a whisper.

“No. It hurts just as bad.”

“It’s been two years.”

“It’s been a lifetime.”

Silence.
“What do you want?” She said, with a sudden finality.

“Forgiveness. And us.” He said. As if ready  for this question.

“Us?” She said. Mildly sardonic. But unintended.

Silence.
” I love you.” He said earnestly and simply.

The phrase seemed so strange. To both of them.

Silence….

 

“I will always love you.” She said. Wiping her tears away.

Silence…

“What do YOU want?” He was restless. His emotions were overpowering him.

“To go back in time and live in our memories, those beautiful memories, again and again and again.”

 

Silence…
A man trying to rekindle the fire from the ashes.

A woman living in the past, crying whenever she woke up.
United in their pain.

Divided in their ways of dealing with it.

United in their hopelessness, and love.

 

An absolutely relative world..

We all have different ideas, notions, beliefs, perspectives.

We grow up differently. All of us have our unique value systems. Because of the many variables that affect them. Some genetic traits, some acquired values, many many more ways.

Similarly we have our own notions of right and wrong, good and bad, etcetera etcetera.

We live in a society governed by rules. Okay, let’s  assume such rules and laws are the most agreeable and unbiased opinions that we wish to follow. In many cases they are heavily opinionated and biased.

And that is the tragedy. Because in a world where everything is relative, every situation and the reaction to it, every belief, is relative. We expect some things to be absolutes. Laws. Right and wrong. Black and white.

But is it so??

We all have our targets. To accomplish something. To be something. To reach somewhere.

Though being competent in something, achieving something is always relative. Everything is ranked. Hierarchies. Vantage points.

But what’s absolute?

The taste of your favorite food. Absolutely good? Killing someone. Pure evil?

A kid’s smile. Pure bliss? Close.

The thing is, nothing is pure or sheer. The world is riddled with imperfections and opinionated outlooks. (However hard you try.).                                                     The only thing absolute is our belief in absolute, which again varies, because we have different beliefs, and different absolutes too.

But yeah. We scramble for a common ground and often find it. And just about manage it. And life goes on.

Don’t worry. It took me a while to understand it too. The weird shit I write. I think that’s close. Yeah.Really close.

The shit I write is ‘absolutely’ weird.