Steps

Step, a little step;
in a million little steps,
I walked away from home.

Home, now a memory
A vague smell of distant rain
Dark wooden rooms and blooming flowers
Lose perspective in black and white
That airbrushed perfection
Stinks of nostalgia on the breath analyser.

It’s now a drunken darkness
of memories and musings
Consuming and numbing-
Shapeless mind freezes, imagining home.
Legs liquid, point home.

Shouldn’t this be home?
How do I start my getaway?
What am I fleeing?

I am so far away from home
yet it shimmers brilliant
in the streets of my mind;
Peace smiles with genuine recognition

My mind map: reality moulds
a bread trail of it;
Playing games with my faint trace
of smells, looks, words, jokes.

How did I get this far from home?
Will I find my way back?

In Paradise, By Her Side

As her lips form my name, calling out to me through the thick darkness of my sleep, I sense her doting tenor.

I would, even if I were dead.

As she comes close and wedges herself perfectly into the nick of my curled up self, I babble random nothings that she alone can decipher. I snuggle closer, wrapping my warmth around her in search of hers. Smiling that compassionate smile, she breaths in my scent, gently kissing me back to silence. There I stay in that supremely pleasurable lull between wakefulness and sleep, listening to her call me ridiculous endearments. She opens out my left palm and kisses it awake narrating for the millionth time how my soft palm was what she loved the most about me when she saw me first.

Even as I realise that I am smiling a peaceful, sleepy smile at being admired I can feel myself shift to accommodate her. As she settles down, gently gliding her right arm under my neck, her body evolving effortlessly to match my posture, I burrow into her bosom searching feverishly for the safety of a long-lost innocence. As we lay there in the clinging wraps of the early morning, all I know is her illimitable love.

As I savour in the knowledge of being truly loved, I wish to be framed for eternity in this moment, a moment of true happiness, a daily moment of being woken up by Amma.

Always By Pablo Neruda

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life!

The Life And Death Of A Dream

There has always been a peaceful turquoise dream. A permanent dream of having a person of one’s own.
A person for whom one is most special. Of being someone’s that special person.

Elaborate details of being someone’s reason for living had been sketched and re-sketched a thousand times over. Right through all this idle imagining there was an understanding that this was a dream, just a dream; an impossible indigo dream.

Implausible: stacked like audience in a theatre; having wilfully suspended disbelief; enjoying the performance. Though the longing for such a person was palpable, never once was it imagined that this royal blue dream would come into acquaintance with reality.

The dream turned a questioning shade of blue this May. Summer was blamed for the strange colour change. It took a while to reckon that the darling dream was being eaten.

Eaten whole by a nerd.

On stage the blue dream was losing colour like a 2x rewind of liquid blue in water. The spotlight switched automatically to the weirdo who stood up from his seat. Simple and regular like any other, this psycho stood.

The dream, now faintly blue, was lost for clues as to why this was happening to it. The blue dream was supposed to be eternal. Audience sleepwalked towards the exit as if the titles had scrolled. They seemed to know better. They seemed to have known all along.

On that fateful day, the dream had met Neirdpsy, the slayer of blue dreams. This blue dream grew pale, for having met the prototype of reality. He had no use for this happy blue dream because it wasn’t his to live.

As the dream lay on stage being progressively de-blued, ‘All dreams die’, waltzed the music notes. Though the spirited dreamer who gave it life would dearly be missed, this was like the limitless blue sky for the dream; Neirdpsy was here with a possibility of a real life for the dreamer.

Devoid of all hints of its blueness, the dream knew it had to die, the time had come for this blue dream to give way to a differently coloured reality.

My Recreational Dream

I dream of a stroll up a mountain
Arm in arm with him
The naughty wind blows cold kisses
Closing us in

Happy little flowers stand waving
Like children along the roadside
Indifferent the ravine flows
Stealing time on the flipside

Rocks offer seats and
landscape hawks views
“I am different; watch me!”
And the valley smiles anew

Unknowing, unseeing we walk
In a time and space of our own
Both Time and Space our own
Whispering inconsequent nothings

My nothings, his nothings, our nothings
In a world that will end with this walk
Resuming later when I dream
Of us walking together again.

We Are Us, You And Me

Peck through a flea market
Bargained desirables become proud trinkets
On a lazy day as sun naps
On her hammock of clouds and
Breeze sneaks away to chatter

Snuggle on a sofa with balloon mugs
Brimming with coffee like gossip
Feet up, hair down
Rain like a nagging mother
A cherished presence

Midnight romantic movies
Elbow to elbow lying in bed
Legs dancing with titillation
Night hums in compliance
As stars twirl in sheer delight

Sautéing ideas, roasting discussions
Spilling fears, scalding arguments
Wind holds her breath as
Humidity leaves passively

The dream lives in
Irregular phone calls
While parallel our busy lives run
Amassing memories to share
When the day finally comes.

After aeons we meet
Like birds in spring
Senseless of seasons of separation
No awkward silences, no explanations
We are us, you and me.

A Fictitious Head That Writes

There have been various versions of myself online, none of which I have been comfortable with. Regardless of being read only by my brother, three of my friends and one other anonymous person, each passing day gave me the jitters when I contemplated my lack of privacy online.

I will admit to anyone who cares to read that I am a creature of control. It makes me happy to know my readers and how I am perceived. None of this being possible online, I write fictionhead anonymously starting today, complete with a pseudonym: headless fiction (the way I’ve always wanted to write) that lets me publish peacefully without fear of incessant questions and never-ending justifications.

Let’s get on with it while political correctness takes a walk to find a tree, shall we?

To the net that awaits new tags, there is nothing extraordinary here, this is fictionhead: fiction from my head.