The Conjured Poet .......Contd.

This day which he intentionally created for himself was busy being written on a cool morning on a deserted beach rock. All he could see was vast expanse of bluish-green or greenish-blue water, unsure where it was meeting the sky first, he thought 'far east or far west? No! neither, it should be down south, where it has got slight curve.' He saw morning fishermen starting off and getting lost from the what he could see last and watched the night fishermen slowly emerging from the skyline on the prosodic deluge. He saw kids in their birthday suit playing in and out of water and finely dressed lot dressing up the beach now and then.

He fell asleep on the rock and his paper moved from beneath as the pen he kept on it rolled down the rock and the breeze floated it far, untill somebody started chasing it. Finally the paper was in her hand and she was wondering over the content as she went through it. It started like.....................

Come Off The Groove

It is some place I have reached while trying to improve upon my lacunae. The way was quite tough to correctly explore, through creeks and flukes, doors which seem like walls and avoiding luring walls which seem like doors.

The rain drops which we usually see are some lucky ones. They are big enough to retain their forms even after evaporating through the surface a good deal while falling. It felt like one of those drops which do start from a high, but before reaching the ground mischievous transforming act of evaporation occurs. One really needs a broader insight in oneself, so that even after losing some of superficial moisture oe retains the wet core and preserve it.

We do converse to ourselves; consult to our own gray cells more than with anybody else. We do not talk to anybody more than ourselves. Still most of us manage to keep our own instincts and voices from within at bay. We particularly mend ourselves so not to follow them.

For instance, every time I pick a cigarette or stop in front of a shop for one, this voice comes to me and says incessantly, 'Hey you! Wasn’t it you, around the losing camp last time and here you are, once again?’ This kills me. But as we are used to override the introspection results and I am no different, I too go on.

It is not the talk of smoking, it never was. But as it pesters the youth very commonly, I tried to illustrate taking its help. Now see, I owe to stop, I know. But who will do it for me. Either it will be me or it will be me and most certainly no one else. What stops me from stopping? Addiction! No it does not. It so happens that if you make some groove and slip in something compatible, it glides in it well and change of path is not likeable. These small small detrimental attractions fit it into our liking (the groove) very easily and take some effort to move out.

It is a walkway which starts very narrow and slimy on either side, altogether difficult to start, slipping is easy and lucrative. But the only way to avail the comforts of wide aisle is to keep on walking, and as abstinence grows the paths widen.

I’m trying, come along..

The Conjured Poet..........Contd.

With little strength that he got upon fighting the sun he tried to stand against his odds with his still trembling knees and shaky hands. All he could learn from his last lesson was to have endurance to wear his enemy out. Like a boxer who trains himself to stand through all 15 rounds against excruciating pain, puffed eyes, bleeding nose and gums and facial cuts, has very little chances of losing the game. But our soldier poet was unaware that the 'come on! hit me more' boxer has even sparser chances of winning the bout, when his opponent won’t say goodbye easily.


In spite of trying to change his milieu he tried to change himself. He keeps on taking the pain without caring much about it, blindly hoping that one fine morning he will rise to experience none anymore. The changed ambitions showed in his work, whatever little he kept to manage. The followers too had to change their ways, they who cheered him for his passion and love for life, which used to reflect well into his works, now started to drift away from his lack luster creations.

............

I don't know how it happens to me. I feel subdued by myself. This occurs when I feel like doing more than what I actually do. My mind these days is screaming like freaks, dragging me here and there. That is why the theme of the blog has been changed innumerable times in the past two days. My days do turn grayish and nights turn brighter, evading sleep and leave me topsy turvy.

I make huge plans over my dreams, micro schedule them ( this is one of few the terms I have learnt after leaving the college), and these plans are such that while I make them there is nothing significant except them, all the irrationalities seem to be dissolving into ether making me feel powerful and revolutionary.

Usually I experience this when ever I'm half awake or better half asleep. The areas where I lack, find my self incompetent when awake or where till now I have not put my most sincere efforts into are usually the prime ingredients of this cocktail. Sometimes it is perspective art or playing a violine, it becomes at far fetched as singing ' Mere Mehboob Tujhe meri Mohabbat Ki Qasam' on stage or exploring the 'Amazon Basin' all by myself

But the moment I reach myself, it feels weak, timid and dull. This is one of my faces which many of my near ones are ignorant of so far, which is chirpy and gay for every one but feels incomplete deep within himself. It is not the generic virtue, 'confidence' which I feel I'm slipping on. It is some weird kind of feeling which has always been in me but has gained of late making me slowly lose myself.

Shikwa

Shikwa na ho is na-maloom surakh ka dil mein
Ehsaan mano ki kashti doobi to majdhar mein
Umangon se jo mila dil shad hai usse
Ke maut aati nahi sabko lahron se takrar mein

The Conjured Poet .......Contd.

For some time he kept on behaving as if he was more subconscious than he actually was, as if the flower budded with wilt to wilt more. The sun seemed like settling both in east and west. He dragged himself to a corner which was so dark, hot and swampy that even the most blood thirstiest buffalo mosquitoes relented him.The outside could never know of what he was going through. Such was this poet of ours that he never let anybody know about his discontented psychedelics. Making others laugh and laugh your self as well, as heartily is as difficult as is too make others weep and weep yourself that heartily. Still he did manage to look 'alright' and 'OK' to people who seemed to care rather pamper him.

There is bound to come some change to every thing on this earth, be it human or be it a dead stone. Some thing can never continue to be the same till time lasts.The change needs an excuse to sprout up, and then the change takes over as if there nothing was anything even near to being in the earlier shape.You start observing a bud of rose to bloom, watching it every day in the morning to find it the same until the petals spill to show as there never was any bud.

He was walking his usual aisle this afternoon unaware of the position of the sun and he found it too scorching, looked up towards the sizzling firmament. His vibes told that he hated the sun like if there would have been enough capability in him he would have cut it into two and dip them both in the sea of tranquility for ever.In retaliation he never moved his eyes from the scorcher He then saw it, a small patch of cloud sailing through the vast expanse. It was sailing so slowly that the process took over eternity to make the shadow reach the face. Then the eyes blinked,took long to open as if gone to a long long sleep. The opening eyes were again greeted by the sun but this time did not get the curse. The thought flashed across his mind that it is the individual himself who elongates the cursed time and shortens the blissful moments. He went on with his walk and was feeling little reconciliated.

The Conjured Poet

The proverbial poet may soon be dead. He used to shape the time he got, but these days he is being shaped up by the time. He is in a kind of business he hated to be in. These days time has nothing to relent to him so that he figurates the clouds and paint the skies. There is a very loud cacophony surrounding him bewildering him day in day out. Another aspect turning dominant off late is the way he felt every passing second as a life time, has changed to months going whipping past his mind. He has started to fathom deep into ocean, gasping hard for breath with his nostrils full with black water. He is in some peculiar kind of unconsciousness, waked up with bloodshot eyes wide open, dreaming of savannah freedom and shattered chains. Each passing moment is making him even gloomier. His consciousness is off to a slow death, and he does not even know if he is feeling the death or not. At times it is like a spinning top and a moment later a life less egg shell after the life has left it. He could have long been dead by now but for this one feeling the tug of war is still alive. The phoenix is there under its ashes breathing and weaving the ashes into a new pair of wings, which will make it fly farther this time higher in to the sky.

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How?
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Watch out