the grave digger

the gate was tightly sealed and
i waited outside the cemetery of memories
it seems like there are no more visitors than I
yes this is the graveyard of my mind

I am waiting to run into the new tomb
of your memories that they buried
I know there is still breath living in it
but the time is running and the gate is closed

So I broke open and flee towards it
dug the grave like a mad man
yea I am mad, blinded by love
but coursed by your dreams
yet cursed to be alone,
and breathing life to your memories

Our living Gods

I know this story about a boy who cried alone in his room, somewhere hiding in the corner crying and praying together for a pack of toffee. He thought he was alone in that room, but it wasn't so, because the next day he found a pack of chocolates waiting for him, He was so happy, not because he had chocolates but his prayer was answered. And then he had the key to every wish, "cry and pray"
  When he was a teen the worth of his tears raised a little bit, then he prayed for a cycle, and just like the magic he always saw his prayer was answered with a motorcycle. Then he became an adult, the worth of his prayers and tears raised day by day, and one day magic was lost, He couldn't find answers to his prayers. He went to the prayer room he looked at the portraits of his favorite god and rained heavily on the floor, bewildered and wondered what difference was there to his prayers that been answered when he was a kid and that been ignored when he was a man.
 I wonder if he had noted the portrait of his parents beautifully adorn with garland hanging aside his favorite god because that's the difference and that's the answers to his bewilderment.

The boy

Jim felt that he had a fever. His hands were trembling and the whole body was shivering of chills. The breeze felt colder than ever before. Jim slowly pushed the gate open and while he was entering into the home, he gave a glance back and made sure nobody was following him. The guilt inside his mind made him to do so. There were questions boiling inside his mind.

Why did uncle fin carried pictures of nude women and men? What where these people doing in the film he saw in his uncle’s laptop? That twelve year old mind was perplexed by these questions.

Jim entered the living room, Susan was concentrating on her knitting, He slipped past her like a burglar into his room. His toys and books were on the floor waiting for him to pick up like any other day. But how could they know that today is not any other day. If they knew jim would never look at them again, would they have loved him more in the previous day? He threw his school bag into the darkest corner of the room and immersed his head into his pillow wondering, if he was a bad person. He didn’t obey what Uncle told him to do, will he tell mother he was disregarding his instructions. Jim knew that his mother would be so angry at him. Jim made up his mind to return to Uncle Fin’s place. He don’t want to see his mother go crazy just like the previous day when he accidently put his dress on the floor.

Jim opened the door and sneaked out, the trees watched him strolling away and there were gloom inside their eyes, as if they read his tomorrows to follow, their heart throbbed to tell him that he is the nicest boy they ever knew, and they looked at their branches in vain , they knew they couldn’t stop him. In the midst of the spring they shed their leaves and there were autumn and winter together in their minds, for they knew he isn’t the boy who is going to return that night.

The girl with the bottle

Just like every day, the bell rang at 8 am. I opened the door with least excitement or was I trying to conceal it deep down somewhere, I should show my emotion, at least to her. Because she is the only person who visits me every day. I took the bottle from her hands, looked into her eyes. I saw her lips curving with a smile. I can smell her body odor, That intense smell of sweat telling itself a story, how she woke up at 4 in the morning, cleaned the barn, took the cattle out for grazing, ....and then at the right time squeezing their breast to barter their milk for her bread. I have never talked to her about her family, but I can imagine from her shabby dress and the blue and dark patches on her face that she was trying to cover up -a drunkard father, a bedridden mother, a younger sister whom she loves so dearly and a brother who left long before she could remember his face ..

I felt an urge to hug her, to kiss her on her forehead,  but what should she think, " I am a pervert " I returned her bottle, after emptying the milk. I made sure that I touched her fingertips just like every day, and like every day, she didn't move her fingers, I know why she didn't move or startled, this one bottle meant a lot to her, and she won't risk losing it. But that one touch on her fingers meant a lot to me than the inrush of blood to a guy's Organ, It was my way of hugging her to tell that I understand you , I feel your pain, and at least for these two minutes that we see, your brother hasn't gone anywhere else. I hope she too understands it one day.

Woman of the Street

I am waiting for my next client, there is still blood dripping from the bite marks the previous one left for me with the hundred rupees, but I don't want to leave this room, This is the only place i feel wanted, there isn't any place else i would rather be, but here. Some can hurt my body,  same may hope to make love. But nobody shall have my heart nor my pain Because I wonder if i have it. Did I sold it with my body? I doubt it, who is so kind to buy a women's pain alone, They won't hesitate to buy the heart, for they can eat it,  but pain? There isn't any emotion strong enough to do that. Lust may sometimes fake to buy pain along with my body, but usually, get deceived to find the pain left alone afterwards
I am not expecting kindness from anyone, but I hope they switch off the light, so that i don't want to see their faces, and imagine that its a nightmare, and scream at the top of my voice and it all ends as quickly as possible. So that I can fall asleep, breathing the pungent smell in my bed born from the dampness of the mixture of sweat and their seamen, but not my tears ...........

(photo courtesy http://www.bughouse.com/artwork/120/r-johnson-art/photography/personal-work/the-prostitute)

the diary of a solitary prisoner

The drape is half opened, the hot rays are sneaking into my room and telling me to wake up, But I can lie down here as long as I wish, I am alone here. the doors are all locked up, and the windows soundproofed, I had stopped crying for help long before that I could remember, there is this numbness of knowing that today is going to be exactly like yesterday and there are no tomorrows to follow. For every day is the same, All I can do to make a difference is to choose the time I wake up from here.
    People would say capital punishment is the worst of all the punishments, but I reckon it's not, but solitary confinement is . You can hope for a person to talk to, and when you look back all you can find is this voidness they left for you. I can spend my whole day here playing hide and seek in this voidness, but soon when I realize that there is not a single soul except me here, the game is over and the day is over, and I can go back and sleep or hope for sleep to take over, but I have to pay the prize at the gatekeepers of dreams, the bribe may cost me hour-long pearly teardrops that need to be shed. Once I was rich and I could pay them without any hesitation, but now I reckon my eyes are getting dry and I am getting poor,
when its all darkness i can crouch in this bed and hold myself tight as if i have something between my heart and hands, but there isn't anything but the breath, I am holding it tight so that I want to live, for the breath is my only hope, I don't want the hope to get away, if it isn't for hope I may choose not to get up tomorrow. But you see the irony ,right?..............

Fly, or Run or Walk or Crawl ,move Forward

Sometimes its hard to be ordinary, we hope for miracles in our life, We hope for an angel showing up on our doorstep and handing us something important, something meaningful. But Define ordinary. What is actually ordinary? Are you an ordinary guy/girl or are you a miracle?

You don't have to answer that, this not an attempt to prove that you are important, that doesn't require a written proof because there is a living proof already, and that's you. The way you walk, the way you see and the way you already are, is a culmination of hundreds and thousands of permutation and combinations happened and is happening inside your brain, but in this century we are too naive to think about it in brain powers, so imagine a supercomputer that does the same amount of calculations as your brain does, imagine the memory size of its harddisk and you think you are ordinary, fancy that.
When you fly above the 75 percentage of rest of us, it's imperative that you look at least once, down to understand how far above have you already flown, rather than looking up all the time. Life is a gift a miracle, the humility to understand it defines how peaceful your life will be, its not necessary that we will be insulated from the vicissitudes of this life, the challenges that we see every day may be beyond our imaginations, and the understanding to solve it may be far out of our reach, and failures in life are inevitable even if we are extraordinary, but the ability to enjoy the smallest of success will keep us going when life is hard, never lose that ability never let it go.
The miracles of this life is not what makes you better than everybody else, But the miracle is to have a full functional body a loving family and  that which gives you a level playing field, so that you can take off from here smoothly. And if you find its hard to fly, then Run , and if you cant run then walk and if you cant walk then Crawl, the important thing is to move forward no matter how hard it is, because there are no destinations there are journeys Only...