pen strokes

After a long lay in bed, I somewhat feel fresh. I never knew readjusting could take so much time. The feeling needs to sink. This place belongs to me, even if temporary. I know these streets, those curtains, that tumbler or this vase. I had bought them in the first place. The sense of belonging that was gone, is slowly making its way back.  Such mornings Are more than welcome. In the way, The light shows  through the new curtains. I know a fresh cup of tea Will ripen it more. That Sun will climb A little higher In the sky,  Once I am sipping  The last bit of it From my favorite cup. Such mornings When taking a stroll Down the avenue Earns you quite a handful Of known and unknown smiles. When some whispers pleasantries And nod their head In mute greetings.  Such mornings I feel more than alive When the dull ache Of loneliness Is less felt and more looked at. Such mornings, I am Comfortable My skin no longer Feels like a cage,  Rather a sheen layer Of mist, a...

 It happens to be one of those slow days. Yet here I am sticking to one of my simpler commitments. To write. Allow my fingers to dance across the keyboard and type what all my brain is capable of cooking. It has been running like madmen, in endless circles for a long while. How often have I wanted someone else to come and tell it to just stop mumbling under its breath. Just stop and take note of the surroundings perhaps. Most of the days, it will just do its own bidding. Jump hoops, summersaults over topics, I could bearing keep my mind act. At this juncture of life, how does starting to think a fresh look like? You are looking at me.  If you ever start This journey, It might become  My turn To finish it. In the streets freshly washed by rain I point out to you How things small  Smell after a shower. Nothing I imagine Could ever be real, Even your planting Calm love In my Garden of Chaos. Do you know How my voice Falters thick with emotion When such days Come and blo...

 Will it be tough for me? I always have this tendency to start anything with a question. There is always the first time. first time to wake up early. First time for rediscovering yourself. First time for every single thing you know knew you were meant to do.  And then there are habits you know you cannot quit. So, there are lay ins. like today. I was meant to wake up around 5 in the morning. instead, my eyes popped open around 7. Two hours just vanished. Thank goodness, the habit of writing a poem or believing myself to write one, pretending to make a good work at it- still lingered on.  The story  Was inked By the night  Over the Dawn Sky In wispy thin clouds. Until the Sun came And melted them all Leaving on memory Of blotted Night. Does Life speak Of similar stories Written and Erased By our hands? What I am today Might get over Replaced by, A 'newer' me? The question hangs Heavy, this morning One of the many to  come this way.

 I took up the pen again. thoughts were jumbled, mind fogged but I pushed forward, how long has it been? Months, years, ages? yes, it feels like it has been ages. the pen strokes are rough. the edges of my thoughts are rough. the puzzles do not fit together, like it once used to. but I survived.  or have I? it is a question for late contemplation. this blog has come into being, because I am inclined to write once again.