Writemonkey gave me 6 crappy and depressive quotes in a row. I give up. It’s been not a very productive nor the best of days. Not that it was that big a disaster. Just oddly extremely tired physically here in Delhi. Somehow. Everything is just t i r i n g. Far. Difficult. Angsty. odd. Tiring.
There were books, notebooks, papers
and perhaps some scraps of postcards
there were; like long forgotten memories
these scraps were; where once we would write,
perhaps when young, gentile, and graceful
when we lived happier lives, in contentment,
without the wavering uncertainty, bitterness
of grief, tingle of regret, and tartness of tears;
where it was all Possibilities, not Disappointments
and nothing given up on, nothing give up on.
She cried a few dry tears, pretending not to,
buring herself into pillows and dreams, hiding
away in apparent warmth, perceived security
and hopeful denial; I stood, as always,
on the shore facing the little sea, never
daring to dive into the ocean – what if
I never return, what if there isn’t any land
on the other side of the darkness.
And if we could, so mercilessly, or even
foolishly cut our ties here in our homeland,
what, oh what actually remains that should hold us
here, rooted here, to nothingness, to
ephemeral youth and desire. Could it be simply
a pretty smile or a pretty face? Could it be
a pretty heart or prettier words?
why should any memory fade, nor time erase?
sigh i can’t bear to write anymore.
lion’s heart, wolf’s bane, snow tiara, never sane.
black dresses, white dresses, silver linings, five dames.
one dead, one living, one flying, one thinking
and sometimes, one isn’t even sure if the water is drinkable
and sometimes, one can’t even trust the cab driver
and sometimes, one loses oneself in the rain.
Thanks F, who couldn’t possibly understand, but still tried anyway.
Sundays are the best. in a twisted sortof way.