MERCILESS

The face haunts me day in and day out. It’s that face with heedless eyes and a conceited nose that would suddenly send me into a daze every now and then. It is dead, that face. Why would it stalk me into my wandering psyche all the time then? Those eyes would merge with the evening and stray to become the beautiful strangling night. Why is the night so beautiful? And yet, it doesn’t soothe my eyes. It torments my soul, breaks my heart, tears me apart and breaks me down- part by part. Night, you’re the fairest of all, but you’re a monster with no mercy! You are the orphic mess that will forever hide my insides from the cruel world, but your fire will neither comfort me nor burn. That face and the night would stare at me endlessly while I shiver and curl into myself to fight the cold in vain! Indifferent eyes, indifferent touches, indifferent words, all indifferent. It is the face that deceived me into the night, into the cold, and left me bewildered out in the blue. At times, I would laugh at myself. And then I would scream out into the night, “I told you, you would destroy me someday!

The Demons

It was a cold night full of demons... Was it a nightmare?  But then I was awake. A waking nightmare then?  The demons didn't strangle me.  They smiled at me. A scornful smile which pierced through the pores of my skin and poisoned the veins.  That is the living memory of a waking nightmare.
The demons haven't gone away.  They live with me now.  The people don't seem to believe me.  The truth is, they hide behind the curtains and under the sheets when it's daylight.  At night, they sleep with me under the very sheets of my bed.  No, they never touch me... I admit that I've tried to tempt them into it, not once, but severally. But they too, like everyone else, deny my presence... Sometimes though, I can feel their deep breath on my skin, but never their touch.
I.S.

WORDS AND MAGIC

                                                                

“I am my own master, paint now as I please----”

                                                                -Robert Browning (Fra Lippo Lippi)

What inspires you to write? I’ve written about it once before. I’ve written on how words turn into strangers as you go on scribbling them. People turn into strangers too. They have a grip of your hand at this instant, and the next moment, they shy away. They’re bound. We’re bound. We’re all similar- we’re slaves of society. We need to break free, we need magic! Not the magic that happens after you say abracadabra; it’s the magic that gets your pulse racing. Listen! Listen to how the sounds of the night connect- how they embrace and caress each other and turn into an everlasting harmony. The music ceases to be when night ceases to be. But there is this one good thing about the night- it comes back. It comes back when you need it the most. You can’t touch it, but you can love it, play with it- oh, you can hurt it and you can scream into its ears- but the night will never betray you.

The night is magical. This is not just a romantic assertion- the night truly is magical. Many a times I would stand on the terrace and question the dark nothingness. I would have a broken piece or a snapped cord inside me every time and I would be sure that this is the last time I can endure it.  It doesn’t answer your questions; it fixes you- heals you entirely. So break free into the night, move to the rhythm of its voices; these voices will not mislead you. They will not take you to foreign lands; they will only drive you to your soul. And the soul is a beautiful place to be in- there will be peace, there might me nightmares, but nightmares come to an end too. Everything goes away, magic as well. Magic happens, magic doesn’t stay. Only memories stay.

Let’s talk about fantasies! Fantasies are magical as well. You know they’re not true, but your insides feed on them. You live them already before you live them for real, if you do. What is so fantastic about fantasies? I’ll tell you! Reason and reality are the essential elements in a Homo sapien that kills eccentricity. Eccentricity is the essence of a wild, free and magical life. Now, coming back to our question, these elements are not hampered when fantasies are concerned, but at the same time, they do not interfere with them either. Fantasies are magical because we travel two parallel worlds while being mindful of both simultaneously.

When we write fiction, we travel. Here too, we travel two parallel worlds, something which is not possible without magic. One is not naïve enough to believe in fiction, but one has to be whippy enough to switch to and back continuously. We must not confuse it with having a grip on reality because once we talk of reality, we get this question of “What is reality?” which none has been able to define in absolute terms yet. So, we will try to understand reality in terms of only what is “apparently real”. The writer might have the grip of what is “apparently real”, but has to create a world where one can slide to and from these two ‘constructed’ and ‘apparently real’ worlds without much difficulty. In the constructed world, the reader will experience what is magically not true, and in the ‘apparently real’ world, they will realize with hindsight that there might, after all, be some truthfulness in the construction. This is where the real job of the writer lies. The job is to make the reader see that writing is free from society.

By saying that writing is free from society, I do not mean that while writing one has no social obligations. The words I write will need a society to read them and appreciate or detest them. What I mean is that what the writer writes is not bound to the dictates of a society. The writer, in my opinion, needs to openly condemn what hinders their art and hurl some magic towards its face. This magic is the kind of magic that will intimidate the obstacles by making the reader realize that what is happening in the text is a parallel world which should, if necessary, enhance, but never disturb the goings-on of the “apparently real” and “seemingly normal” everyday life. And we are all wise enough to determine the difference, at this point of time, between the changes that enhance our lives (even if they bring us face to face with some harsh facts), and which are the ones that disturb our lives (the ones we can do without). And just like the night that keeps on coming back, creativity will keep flowing into your veins, with no hindrances whatsoever. There will be magic in the words that you scribble.

Dead-ends

I haven’t thought of it lately. I’ve let the butt ends of my cigarettes burn a hole into my heart, but I haven’t let it bother me lately. This slakeless gloom could not get a hold of me. I’ve been keeping strong. I’m doing what I should. I’ve been learning to make a hearth out of the foe-fire. The fire had almost destroyed me. But I’ve learnt to play with fire. I’ve learnt to roll it into smoking papers and turn it into smoke- smoke that goes unnoticed into the fog. What happens to the smell? Don’t ask me! The senses are dilapidated. What you see is not always what it is. There is no real enlightenment. Enlightenment is blurred. Meanings are broken. Vision remains within a big question mark. The moment you think that you see into things, you wake up from the dream. And, reality is a nightmare. It is a nightmare in which you have a choice but your hands are tied. Here, you are allowed to think; execution is not put up with. Thoughts are highly volatile- the fire rushes through your veins, into your head. And bam! You feel an explosion. No! This explosion doesn’t kill you. It becomes a drug. It kills your senses. It kills your hopes. It kills your thoughts. So, I haven’t thought of it lately.