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!
Make a call, before you can’t make a call anymore,
Take a call, before you can’t take a call anymore.
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.”
-And I feel you Neil!
I don’t know what went wrong.
Something must have gone haywire, or what I like to situationally believe and have been repeatedly told ‘we grew up’. Did we?
I’m not very good at growing up perhaps, and alas I’ve made peace with it or so I’m left to basket. What I fail to understand is that since when did growing up become a boring process of knitting a life you don’t seem to like, but choose to live. Live because, well no reason, just live it you piece of flesh, it’ll make dying less of an episode. Darling, you weren’t living anyway.
I have all my life disliked raw tomatoes, mustard oil or other little things, not out of a trivial taste test, but out of a million tries to gulp it in, in every possible way and failing. I just do not like it, in fact I cringe at the slightest of smell. But that’s not the nature of luxury I may have if I was in a scenario of food scarcity, which I’m not, so ya I don’t choose to waste it either, but I won’t force it down my throat. I’ll choose the food without it, simply.
But growing up in India doesn’t teach you that, it teaches you to learn, adjust, develop a taste for anything and everything (protocol for females only, BTW). Sad!
So I developed a taste for mustard oil while I battle with certain taste buds, still. And while that’s the state of my food log, that’s also the story for a larger picture in my life. Doing things out of sheer feeling of getting it over with, not because you want to or like to, but because you have to.
So saying that something changed with the dragon would be unfair, something or a lot of things changed with me too. People who have known me for decades would agree and be flabbergasted, all at once.
I think change, as much as is the law of nature, it also is a choice we make, mostly to survive. The question is are we only looking to survive?
Or maybe also live, once in a while?
(Part-2)(End).
I can faintly recall,
You were never like the streets we keep going back to for frequent strolls,
You were more like the chocolate brown coffee house in the misty dark woods,
As much as I loved your vibe, I’m never walking those dark roads again,
My shoes still got the stains,
You felt as fresh as season’s first peach,
Lighter than the feathers I’ve now.
The season’s towards an end,
And so is my appetite for peaches.
Find a different city, a new beginning,
In a place where peaches are welcome,
Out of scarcity or treat, whatever,
Try,
Try to become a spot to go back to,
Live, breathe, dance, drink, try new colors,
Cook, fight, love, be absurd, maddening,
But above all, be audacious.
Don’t silently bloom and die,
Walk ahead, in light or dark,
Walk without a torch,
Let uncertainty be the way of your departure,
Then & Now
Be A Paradox 