in spaces that the world chokes with its
bubble, hustle, and needless cheer,
in the crowds that passes us by,
in the crowds that make the world vast
desolate,
in the darkest hours that the sun
is never willing to be a conspirator,
we ride the rhythms of our favourite songs
because, in the end, music is all we got
buried deep,
buried in untouchable place,
buried in places where no amount of pain can
reach,
buried in sacred places inside us.
there are songs that we tend to personalize
as if the artistes sung them just for us,
they are some sort of cherished possessions,
and when the come through the speakers,
they awaken a memory,
that ferries us to a distant island,
we rise, we soar, we glide
through the rhythm,
and when we get to the island,
we sit back and soak in the memory,
right there, at that moment of impeccable solitude,
nothing matters - not money, not riches
just the pure bliss of knowing that no one else
will ever know the purity of a simple song.
We stood by the precarious edge of adulthood,
Stole a glance at its ever inviting abyss,
We counted days, months, years at that day,
The day we would take a plunge into
the ever secretive world - the world
barricaded by adults
don't you wish, on some occasions,
that you would numb to all the voices
that silently scream in your head?
don't you wish you would numb
the hopelessness that often grip you
on occasions you need extra strength?
don't you wish you would numb
the overwhelming guilt
that trips you when you make that step,
the most important step?
don't you wish you could numb
the paralysing fears and worries
that exist in your head?
the chariots that you would ride,
only need one word: numb
being numb to all the insignificant things
that bog you down.
regrets
grate the dreamless nights,
the cool breeze turn into a
spellbinding tornado,
of a thousand 'should-have-dones'
millions should-have-nots, should-have-beens
should-have-knowns,
and when the tornado eases,
you are just an empty shell,
seeking solace among mortals
puzzled that they are still alive,
almost against their will.
Small wins,
as inconsequential as they seem,
feels like fuel to an empty car,
a few drops will get the car a few inches ahead
and a few inches closer to the destination
celebrate them
in the dark crevices of his mind
lies grandiose dreams,
dreams as big as the universe
dreams as vast as space
as lays awake, the dreamer in him
convulses with delight
at the mere thought of glittering success
that would drive many mad with envy
the dreams are like opium to him
he seeks them everyday,
yet does very little to bring them to fruition
