And then...

Miles of Silence

Why would a movie end with the reappearance of evil especially when the protagonist goes through the intricacies of investigation and reaching a logical conclusion? Why would the nature undo the entire process of reaching happiness? Why should we realize that happiness is not an eternal asset? Why is that, when answers are found, more questions are posed? He was suddenly a lost man. Until the last frame of the movie, he had his nail totally bitten off; the gut of his fingers exposing a freaking pink. He hated old style English movies. He hated its Indian copies. He missed three of her calls all this while.

She, separated from him by a ridiculous thousand miles, was seated in her couch battling confusion. Pink or yellow or should it be both? She had questions, rational, striking her head but poked her enough to reason irrationally. Which color would fit this kind of an occasion? Who would like to see her dressed in pink? What kind of people are most likely to attend her friend’s wedding? For every question she asked herself, she called him only to see it end as a missed call, literally.

Both were bathing in a huge bubble of questions, of rant and racket.

Looking at the volume of calls missed, he felt a strong sense of guilt. How could I miss her calls watching a movie that ended with questions rather than credits?  But, he put off the worry for a brief while and thought of a way of making it up to her. He thought of flowers and bouquets. He thought of poems and chocolates. His phone rang again. Just once. And it denied him of a call. Missed.

She was dressed in beautiful pink and dazzled in light gold jewelry. She was having the gayest of times but was occasionally troubled by what she did last night. Why did I? she thought. She danced, she ate, and she clicked pictures and cracked her heel. She shed a tear while she slowly limped back to her room.

He had his mug of coffee in his hand. He did not call her back. Something stopped him. Fear, perhaps. She’s having her time. That was all that he thought. He barely recalled what he watched last night. He just rued what he had done. He oakie blew his nose. He wiped that odd tear.

Can I have a good ending now? He wished. He held his phone in his hand, tighter than ever.

I missed the best dance, she thought. She put her phone aside and put herself to sleep resting her head on the tear-dabbled white pillow. 


[an episode cont'd from the previous post]

Gameplay|Playgame

ThePloy

A happy talk ended. There was his pulse beating high and happiness writing a new musical note both disguised by a faint smile on his face. Just when he had the quiet moment for himself, she broke his heart’s opera. I quickly need to attend to some priority work. For him, it was the start of that hour, rare and seemingly gifted, when he picked up his book and resumed reading its 99th page. He could barely recall the plot that unfurled in those 98 pages. He couldn't recall the name of the Doctor who poisoned his patient. The doctor isn't guilty. There is nothing so interesting in this book. It is just a revenge plot that every ordinary author could write. Read it anyway, she said. He looked at his watch. It had been only a few minutes since She left him, to finish drafting a work-email.

He and She began talking again. There is a nagging worry, a condition disquieted by the accumulation of thought. And before they rust my composure, I need to dust it off. I need to feel good. I’m done with the confusion et al, she began. “WTH! She just ruined my reading. And now she wants to discuss something that sounds like sorrow?” was his instant response in the head. It had to come. He hated ephemeral sensations of delight. “Yeah sure. What’s bothering you?” he asked.

…that’s exactly the reason why I am scared – of these frets. If I am happy now, I fear losing it forever. You are a part of this mire too. It is good but sticky… With those words she ended her narration.

For the first time, he said nothing.

He could not ask for more Equilibrium, darned and part of a dysfunctional fact phase of life.


He didn't have to make it to page#100! He just lingered over their agony.

Instinct!

That chat of Instinct

Plan and prepare, when the mind is set,

I go about today with no ado.

But when the seconds unrest,

I call for a plan redo.

Annoyed and upset I sit,

Hitting a needless mindblock.

Think not, nothing is going to take a hit,

I keep hearing the inner voice mock.

Do none, talk to the one.

Sounds right let me make the call.

Hello beautiful! I’ve thought of a mission,

But restlessness sucked it all.

I, instead, thought of having a chat marathon

With you for a righteous spent of time.

Hours went by, all ears she gave.

What do I do? Suggest in dear, will you please?

Sure dear, small chaos doesn’t decide what you ought to have.

Plan and plot your thought, seconds will be a positive ease.

Honest you are, correct you do.

Instinct it is, let it be your guiding marquee.

Much she said in the shortest of dict,

Made such sense that put her in new salience.

Instinct it is I should see,

Plan and prepare would find the right track.

Content I felt, upright I sat.

Thank goodness, she was there.

For this Life and Love, I’d go to the mat.

Gladness galore was the heart’s fore.

Dr.Gordon

Mull Over

"Delusion. I see. Sanity?", I asked Gordon.

A condition, I felt, under suspicion.

Flashes of irregular future me riding on,

mind harping on the tenacious gone-by second.

Soliloquy set in, unending conversations.

At a Bar was I, drinks to buy high.

Spoke and Saw twice over, bore a fevered condition.

Ho Santa! Gift me clear sense from that sleigh.

Hanging on weightless body, mind cracked.

Pieces of delusion again; Gordon help me!

Memory on me jig-sawed,

this Christmas bringing on me brain's enemy.

His chair rocked, flat I lay.

Happy memory, fake sense stay away,

his word's piercing the numbed mind.

Gordon's efforts, for my wish, so kind.

Nothing son. Nothing out there.

You master your mind, not your recall's tear.

Silent he kept, glanced and gone.

Stiff I sat, with body and thought.

Christmas ended. Gordon was he? 

Pondered I after he fulfilled my plea.

So I thought. Gordon was he?

Gordon. Dr. Gordon. He still is for my psyche.

Filth & Froth

Facing Filth

He thought he was part of an agenda, an agenda that goes against the simplicity of everyday routine. The moment he embraced the unfaithfulness of the World, he loved himself more; his living in disbelief made so much sense as he ignored the pricking deceit he faced. He enjoyed being numb. For once, he could see his always-moist-eyes dry.

He barely slept during the night and lived the day, lethargic and listless, much to the agony of the Sun. He fell asleep on his plate of fried vegetable, something that expected the dampness of the drool. He thought the buzz of the day calmed his haunting thoughts that usually visited him during the night. I am so made for the other side of the planet, he often thought. My body is dead in my sleep. And so am I. My eyes go on for a roll at a time when they are supposed to see colored dreams. This pill I take, for whatever reason, is a mere catalyst for peace, he said when I asked him about his metastable dullness at night.


And the reason played hide-and-seek. While I put this thought here battling my sleep at the dead of the night, he's busy counting tears with a useless piece of cloth in his hand. I could easily boast of my content in my everynight diary but I it robs me off my smile looking at his state of a 24-hour cycle. And I fear his fear infecting me but the reason still hasn't surfaced thanks to the mystery and selfishness.

Much to my surprise, it only took a tight slap on his face, red enough to explain the mystery. Filth & Froth, he began. Little did I know that if I hugged a toy, it would fart on my face. If I kissed a rose, it would taste of wither. If I looked at a lovely painting, it would spit paint all over me. If I touched silk, it would send a bolt of shock through my fingertips. He paused. I ignored the on-going silence that instilled the highest sense of thought in my mind. And then, I cursed. I tried to fish out smiles from the beautiful river that surrounded me but I just found the froth of the dross. I saw smirk for a smile. I saw a finger for a gesture. I saw deceit for trust. He paused again. I wondered if I was anywhere visible while he narrated his story of agony, in broken, meaningful, striking style.


Yet, I kept my hand rock-steady. I had one reason left to forget the froth. But, like they say even 1% is a possible probability.  I noticed the boil even in the love that now seems feigned. If this isn't Filth, then what is?

That was it. I needed nothing more than those few bleeding words. I left him to his world, curled up in the  corner of the room. I switched on the light, for him to be the morose one; hoping the darkness to stay away forever.


And I... switched off the light and switched on my alter-ego.

No Man's Quest

 Dodged Quest

The rain came, but the flame thrived.

The step forward, for the love to survive.

The enigma lingered; emotion revived.

I took the flight; hoped no fight when I would first see her.

The cloud burst and the bolt of light was gone, what remained was the thunder

Of my heart; the turbulence aiding my muster.

Miles away on no man's land I stepped. I could hear

The whirring of the train engine and the call in its coo grew louder.

Alone in a long train, I was so detached

but this is the way to her, the thought keeping me relaxed.

Wind and Gaze, the worst hurricane

But it wouldn't collapse my strength; no way would the quest be in vain.

Off came a flying leaf, hybrid in dry and sodden,

Silence befell as it withered in my hand.

I stood by the tree, ramified through its age.

Greater than the miles I came, it stood tall

Seeking the reason for the blindness in love so small.

The Lady has a secret, and only that binds us all.

Shining through the light, smirk on her face;

towards me she walked, with an indifferent gaze.

A quiver of sorrows rooted from my legs,

Darning the secret, my sweat-wrapped-quest rot in pegs.

Who's to explain, the turn of events?

Undoing the sight, yet, my heart pumped spirit.

I began to question the uncalled nuance.

The stubborn stack of thoughts buried in mind,

There's still hope the secret would be kind.