Longing is not how it used to be When fantasies are no longer how they used to be In their place are superfluous memories Of a life that was far from exemplary Looking back now only makes it gloomy Mourning a life that you wished for with the makeshift roomie The sleepless nights of wanting those keep you awake No, it’s not work, oh c’mon, for god sake The one that you remember, yes, the erstwhile Serve only as a reminder of when life was worthwhile Longing is not how it used to be So, little dove, try harder, maybe with a glee It was a paradox, that didn’t come with a slip of guarantee
It’s been years today to the first time we bro hugged, First time since we sat across tables freezing and bugged, First time since I noticed the color of your eyes, First time since I stole a sigh, First time since you switched places on the road, First time since we shared the dense smoke, First time since our jittery first nudge, First time since the Italian was a waste buck, First time since I decided on my cure, First time since all firsts pure, Here we are, today, in many of our firsts, Like the gold flames, at a pinnacle!
The closure I think comes to you in a million ways, Sometimes in ways of the world falling apart And sometimes with a chance to put it all back together, There will be baggage, of-course, But then you’ve aced the art of solo travel darling, Remind yourself of all the fiercer bulls you have leashed & shoo this little pup away, Remember,
You’re not the La La Land, You’re the Oscar for it!
There are lives I have lived, There are lives I haven’t. There are hopes I have abandoned, There are dreams I have forgotten, I’m no superhuman, Nor do I intend to be, Like a humming bird I fly back and forth, I relive hopes and dreams, They fear no death, For none shall have one, Like grandma’s abode, We meet each burning fall, With a promise!
When you are in a memoir territory, emotions become dominant at large. So much so, that once while reviewing a memoir, a New York Times Editor, (also a reviewer, a playwright, a critic, etc.) Neil Genzlinger, looked at the audience and started by saying, “A moment of silence, please, for the lost art of shutting up.”
The irony of the Catalan architect, Gaudi was such that his art was rammed and dreams crushed under a tram with a day full of perplexing geniuses who declared him an ordinary beggar that could not be nursed back from death till reality struck and alas, Barcelona lost the only man who managed to make this city worth visually reminiscent! But let’s suppose, he was an ordinary man and not one word more, was he not worth the same effort? Or maybe among the bohemian vibe and the cosmopolitan street affair, there isn’t enough time for Tomfoolery. Either you manage to imprint your name on the most extraordinary architecture of the city, the Roman Catholic Basilica of the Holy Family (Sagrada Familia) as the symbol of faith, love and hope or die an ordinary man, I mean it’s not like you architected historical marvels to deserve any of that, oh cmon!