Stay Still

When in pain, some people are told
To run away and seek refuge
In foreign places, with foreign people
In a supposed search for their soul
As if pain strips us of our humanity
That you’d have to avoid it at all costs
As if pain detaches the soul from its earthly vessel
That you’d have to find it elsewhere
But what if while you’re sent away
Bathing in pain while skipping stones
Or climbing mountains, or skydiving
What if he comes knocking back
On your door step
With hand-picked flowers
And the familiar smell of cigarette smoke
Cloathing his bruised knuckles you used to lovingly hold
But no one is inside to answer
Because you were out there
Thinking that happiness is attached to places
Not to the people who make them happen
Thinking that loneliness is found in between pauses
Of breathing, and of conversations
Of those nasty distractions
You call moving on
What if you owned the pain and stayed still instead?

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Swing, Swing

Playing tennis and moving on are one and the same
Tighten your grip
And you lose control
Swing blindly
And you miss your chance
At returning the shot
So you stand up
Own your position
Take a swing backwards
And launch the ricocheting orb
Back to where it came from
Crossing your fingers, albeit hoping
That it doesn’t return
You won’t be mistaken
You’ll know if you’ve done it right
The stance feels right
The contact feels right
Hell, even the popping sound feels right
Still, if you don’t
You’re in luck
Tennis is a repetition
All those mishaps
All those missed shots
All those sore muscles
Prepare you for your next big hit
Just don’t stop playing

Tipping Point

She said didn’t love him
But when he spoke with her
It felt as if someone were reaching out
Asking her to hang on a little longer
To close her eyes and trust the universe
That her scattered bits and pieces
Are right where they are
At this point in time
She said didn’t love him
But when he opened up
It felt as if she were navigating
Through an uncharted territory
In pitch darkness, sans all fears
Cloaked in juvenile wisdom
Dauntless and yielding to the unknown
She said she didn’t love him
But she did

Inner Monologue

Maybe it’s my fault
For not saying anything
For not showing any depth
By only allowing happiness
To reverberate on the surface
But would you still
Blame me
If I told you that it’s difficult
To trust anyone, everybody
With the burden of
My damned introspection
Just this once
Please let my silence
Speak for me

Life on the Cusp

I sometimes find myself taking a hit for others and for my family, but none for myself. I find that really heart wrenching, albeit pretentious at some point. I reckon that if I keep sweeping the messes of my world under the rug, there will come a time that the rug itself will become so massive that it ought to overlap with my reality.

It’s silly but it’s a bit comforting to find out that your friends’ heads are wired up similarly to yours. It’s as if the choice were subconscious; to be with people who could understand you because a parcel of you is well ingrained within them long before you’ve even met. The number alone provides a feeling of safety, a certain guarantee that we’d make it out of our damned tragedies alive.

But there are times when the act of self preservation alone feels dragging and selfish. And there are instances when it is hard to distinguish the life line from the road to damnation. So I trod lightly in the gray area, shying away from the absolutes. However, even the broad daylight, the spectrum of gray hues are vast enough to get lost into.

On the darker days when my myopic vision clouds my judgment, I reread the essays in Life on the Cusp. It’s like a food for the soul, tailored for people who’ve made it past their mid-life crisis.

Life on the CuspIt’s a gem, really. It’s a confidant who tells you that some things are not mutually exclusive, an old friend who reminds you of the good times so you could make it through the bad ones, and a cup of coffee whose warmth hugs the heart.