About me. My life has been a pulsating spectrum of “everything”. Agree not exactly everything, but almost everything. More than what 20 years of life usually sees. Before I elaborate, here’s a shot at a self-portrait: I’m short, I’m dark, I’m skinny, and I’m good. That’s one word I describe myself with – good. Maybe not “very” good, but “really” good. A minimalist, not at all into the latest fashion trends, kind of old-school but not exactly conventional, I’m naïve and if my friends have not been teasing, I have large dark beautiful eyes, the so-called “expressive” ones! Don’t know why that always makes me laugh! I don’t really think myself pretty, I hate pretending to be something I’m not. So no face-paint. I am terribly strong at heart; you might even say I am the “strong one” in my family. True that I cry I lot, but even with all that abundant crying, I am the one who holds together, stands strong in the middle of a crisis. I love doing things my way, and I can be really really dominating at times. If you believe in the sun-signs, picture me as a true Aries except the extrovert part. I’m not really that. You can call me shy, I don’t care. On the contrary, I like it! And yes, I’m honest…sometimes to the point of stupidity. So, I guess now you can at least decide if you can like me…think over it. Once. Twice. Alright, I get it! J
There are a lot of strange ideas I believe in – some that I came across in some odd piece of writing and some blossoming from the depths of my mind. Of these, most are rejected, the few that are not find place in my poetry, and rarely in my obsolete journal. Like I believe that all that “is” is transient & all that “was” is permanent. For example, memories. I remember a diary entry I had written that began with, “I would rather be a memory than a dream…” Dreams fade, memories do not. They stay. Forever. I love living in the past – its unhealthy, depressing but I love it. It has everything, everyone I love, or have ever loved. It’s like bottling up moments…memories – they do not die. Again, death is a subjective state. If you can hold something in the twists and turns of your numerous nerves, it becomes immortal. Like loneliness.
Sometimes, it’s just hard to describe what loneliness really feels like. I will copy you another of my poem titled the same.
weeps beneath her veil,
swollen to a pulsating red.
Tears whisper, a syllable at a time
Soft, slow, like
music recreating death;
creating patterns as heartbeats crack, and
spill silvery Love –
Piano keys play ‘neath ghost-fingers,
stained with despair…
She weeps into the volatile twilight,
vapors sparkling upon the lashes of a Sun-
Through thick glasses, the
poet watches his Muse,
Tears spill upon his lyrical calligraphy,