Imagine you lift up your gaze And you witness a solar eclipse. With absolutely nothing between the cassocked sun and your naked eyes.
Now, try freezing that moment For eternity. The second before that diamond ring. That shot in the dark Before the blinding spark. Now multiply that into two. Both staring back at you. Into your soul. Take a step back now And draw two lines, A line above, a line below. Twin horizons, in kohl. Now that's what I'm talking about. Would you lift your gaze off Those eyes in the sky?
Would you let go off that sight if you were to lose your eyes. If that very next instant The diamond rings emerge. Well, I wouldn't.
Perhaps, the phrase picture perfect belonged to those days of yore. When you could see people caught unaware, giving away expressions, candid. Sometimes posing, saying cheese; Inching closer to squeeze into the frame; Trying their best not to blink and waiting to be blinded By that lightning streak escaping from the cyclopean wonder. And, if they ever blinked, What a shame, It was to see oneself framed Wearing a somnolent face or to look like a drunk; More so, if it was the day they tied the knot. With no option, in fact, to preview, erase And go for another shot; Regretfully, in that order. They could only imagine what would be the outcome of a portrait or landscape in a frame. Then, memories were made keeping the age-old recipe in mind. Moments were virgins, caught with their innocence intact. What was missed remained missed. Like a sunup or sunset That never repeated its act. And that which was caught, My friend, was a sure shot. The boarding pass for your time travel; Your window seat with that picture doubling as a view. Giving you a sneak peek into an epoch Where life really did pause. And froze or posed the way it was.
I blew those candles out,
I was struck by this random thought;
Questioning, what’s the mighty big deal
About this birthday coming your way every year.
Amidst all the greetings and gifts;
The chaos of surprises;
or the saccharine silence of being forgotten.
While choosing to be alone
or being lonely without a choice;
We fail to comprehend, what it actually means
Or what it’s trying to remind.
And if given a form, maybe, this occasion,
Or this so called day of celebration;
Would come across like someone.
Perhaps, like this little kid
sitting by your side.
While you’re on this non-stop journey
To an unknown and far off destination.
Perhaps, it could be someone like your daughter, son or neighbor,
nephew, niece, cousin or some unaccompanied co-passenger.
Or just push the rewind button if you may;
And scan back to see yourself in those yonder years.
You’ll see what curiosity really is.
And what looks like
impatience and restlessness, tangibly.
Bored, after a while
even if they get to have the window seat;
Upset, by their inability to switch channels
or browse this see-through window furthermore.
They gradually, let out those words;
Between snacking, slurping and catching up
with those forty winks;
Between counting the walking back trees
the crisscrossing tracks beneath and wires above.
Those words that become a chant thereafter;
Revisiting you, year after year.
As amusing as it may sound, sometimes;
And mostly, it turns out to be way too nagging.
By pulling your sleeve or nudging you lightly,
tugging your hand or patting you affably.
They ask you THE question,
“Are we there yet?”
Clutched up when outdoors
Or let down when in;
Her tresses seldom face the pressure
Of putting up with those million grooming options.
She prefers no lip gloss that makes her lips glossy.
Nor words to sugar coat her thoughts.
She seldom mutes her eyes with eyeliner
Because her eyes mostly speak for her.
Sometimes, a dab of twilight woods
And sometimes cherry blossom;
To make the breeze our messenger.
No fairness cream or blush
Only sunscreen to keep the uv rays away.
No ornaments too junky
Nor gold that’s too glittery.
Even her soles seldom feign
by posing in stilettos; But it's always comfy in a pair of
flats, heels or peep toes.
Never draped in bright colours,
Or wrapped in camouflage.
Nothing about her is too evident
neither is it too faint.
She’s subtlety with exquisiteness
She is exquisite in being subtle.
Perhaps, that's what makes her what she is.
Perhaps, that's what makes her my muse.