Grey

I’m grey.
I have a humble beginning.
You’d think I’d go away,
with all my tiny, crumbling pieces,
that you mistake for a light black,
a dark white,
but, you see, I won’t.
I’m here to stay.

You’d find me in the roads you tread
and the buildings you make.
I am in the gravel,
cementing a solid ground
for the wearing walks you must take.
I breathe between the bricks
of your well crafted walls,
beneath the pastels and patterns,
that hide your innocent tricks.

Every now and then,
I appear in the sky,
bringing the world back
to the truth it must accept.
And, you know what?
So should you.

You see, I’m the cloud in your head,
when the whirlwinds won’t stop
picking every ounce of grief and remorse
and won’t stop planting them deep
into your bones and remember
as I rain down from your eyes,
I do not always promise a sunshine after.

I’m this heaviness sitting on your chest,
when you don’t have reasons enough
to keep on with this grey thing
called life-
your strongest bet,
your weakest whim.
Yet,
I am all that will be left of you,
if you don’t die
before you are burnt to ashes.

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Black.

I am black, aren’t you?

I am here.
I arrived after the burning,
losing parts of me
I didn’t know existed.
I lost them one by one,
changing and developing
into new, mix shades until
I lost it all, didn’t you?

I’m here, now.
Something tells me I survived
even if the parts of me couldn’t.
And being here, now
I see what I was-
Yellow, red, blue, green,
And now, just black.
I died a little, didn’t you?

I am not there.
But, I remember them.
Maybe one day, I will create
something from this nothingness,
this void, that eats me up;
this lack of void, that finds no release.
Or, may be not. Maybe I won’t.
I accepted myself a little, didn’t you?

I’m not there, yet.
And, maybe I won’t ever be.
So, I’ll just…be here and
make myself a home
to all the darkness,
which speaks of pain, dread and loss,
but, also makes everything else a little brighter.
I’ll go on, won’t you?

Skin

skin

I’m skin. I’m very clever.
I’d change colors and you
wouldn’t even know.

Sometimes, I’ll define you
and your aspirations.
You won’t get it but
I’ll seep in, from the surface
to your mind.
Too dark, too light, too rough,
I’ll never be enough.
And thus, I’ll define you.
Don’t let me.

I’d start off really mellow, soft, fresh
into the bright new world.
Unafraid and ready.

I’ll get bruises and bumps,
I’ll turn blue-black
and all the other shades of
life, misfortune, defeat and dismay.
Without you realizing when,
or knowing what to say,
I’ll become a part of the ravages
of the sun and the struggles and
trying and failing and falling.

I’m a witness
of your moments of weakness
as much as of your strength.

I saw what you did
when no one was looking.
I watched you trying to change me
into who I’m not. I watch you hide me,
but I’ll remember it, and I’ll remind you
of what all I was, what all I can be,
of what you are and what all you can be.
and even as you loathe the sight of me,
even though you’re more,

I am a part of you.
I’ll define you.
This time, let me.

It’s not over.

It won’t be over just like that.
It’s not like turning off a faucet.
Pick up the strands tenderly,
There’s some yellow in there,
Touch her. Roll her over your fingers
for she knew what you did when
you thought she wasn’t looking.
Let her slowly slip away.

Let go of the strands that
they keep handing over to you.
It’s not your fault.
Do not think twice.
Rip them off.
That’s not your burden to carry.
Drown that guilt away.

It will be difficult,
Watching what’s left
of the damage.
“Blue sky, think blue sky.”
Bullshit.
Let not the darkness blind you.

And trust me;
actually, no. Trust the air around you
Trust the yellow that slipped away.
Trust that gut.
Believe in your backbone,
it’s a rarity to have one.
And know, that once it’s over,
You’ll be free.
And please, remember,
It won’t be over like that, still.
It’s not like turning off a faucet.

The balance

It can be more than just black and white, right?
It is so much more
Than the balance,
Than the set patterns,
Than the cycle that keeps moving,
Slowing down where it needn’t,
Pacing on where it shouldn’t.

Life’s much more
Than the monochrome
or the colors,
Than the joy
And the smiling eyes
Watering where they needn’t,
Burning where they shouldn’t.
It is so much more
than a full stop;
And so I put my trust
In the black and the white
In the fire inside.
And I move with the cycle,
Slowing down where I need to
Pacing on where I must.
I take the monochrome
and I take the colors
I hold on to everything that’s inside
And I let go of the balance for a while.

I can be more than just black and white
Or
I can just…be.

Silver.

The first time I recognized silver

was in a star, on my report card.

It wasn’t gold, for exceptionally good;

it wasn’t bronze, needing a lot of push;

it was an acceptable silver,

for those who got by.

 

It took some sweat to see

its tinge between the black and the white.

It crept up, eventually. And always

kept the poise: stripping yellow off its bright,

Adding glitters to the darkest blue.

 

The universe made more sense, now

that the extremes were all sucked dry.

It kept me looking for further more;

I got through, I got by.

 

The cloud stood bare, the lining exposed.

I could move up and ahead,

I was all set…

 

Until

 

I drew with silver

and out came red.

The imp.

“I do not wait for unconsciousness to force my eyes shut. The moment the blue truck hits my bike and sends us flying in the air, I let go. I close my eyes, refuse to hug myself and hold on to the shattered pieces of my being. I stretch my arms, loosen my grip and let myself fall on the concrete. When I said I wanted to be a grounded person, I didn’t mean this, gosh!

My left arm hits the ground first, dislodging itself from my shoulder. I hear the bone break before I feel the dampness of the blood on my neck. It is strangely comforting. The warmth of the sun and the pool of blood are soothing enough for me. I open my eyes and see a right hand, palms up and dipped in blood. I try to hold that hand when I realize it is my own. That brings up a chuckle and some blood right out of my mouth. Sometimes, when you’re broken, you can’t always hold your hand, pick yourself up and get on with life. Because sometimes, you really are broken. I make myself laugh from the inside, I refuse to look up or cry for help. I stare at my severed palm and try to make out the lifeline hidden in that blood somewhere. I watch the blood pool beneath me getting bigger. The blood moves around in perfect, steady curves. I decide to trace its boundaries with my fingers. I try to move my fingers; only the forefinger moves. Soon enough, my eyes start to close, so I let them. I am being lifted up by some strangers. I don’t like that. One of them climbs on top of me and tries to get my heart start beating on its own. Suddenly, my eyes are wide open. It’s so dark. Why is it so dark?

I am lying straight. I should move to my side. I can’t move to my side. I try to move my forefinger, I can’t do it either. I feel the heavy weight on my chest. May be the strangers are still trying to save me. But, why am I at home? I try to shift my gaze from the roof towards the stranger sitting over me. I have to keep staring at it in the darkness to make out what I am looking at. She is crouched up on my chest. She’s so tiny. How can such a tiny person weigh so much? The heaviness is killing me. She smiles at me. The pain is killing me, I try to say. But no voice comes out of my mouth. She continues to smile ear to ear. What’s happening? Why can’t I move?  I yank my neck to my right, a hand waves at me. I keep staring in that direction, but it’s just the hand. I try to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I can feel my body shrink. I want to ride a bike and get hit by a blue truck. I want to be able to choose my demons.

My home is full of people, so many people. I don’t recognize any of them. “Hello, who are you?” I ask one. She keeps her hand on my shoulder. I break away from her. I bump into several people in the process, making me sprint away faster. I am running away from my own home. I don’t want to run away. My eyes open up again. I stare to my right, the hand waves. A smile appears above it. I look to my left: two faces, smiling ear to ear, shaking their heads. I try to look away; my neck is so stiff. Someone help me! I try to shake my arms, my legs, neck, anything, everything… Nothing moves, except those faces, smiling at me. I struggle like that for a few minutes, or hours? I try to shout, but all I get is a steady stream of teardrops trickling down from my eyes.”

I stare at the words. I stare at them long enough to strip them off their meaning. I stare at them till the wish to be in an accident and get extremely hurt lays bare, till the shamelessness of writing it down hits hard. I stare at the words that fail to communicate the experience of several regular episodes of sleep paralysis. There’s no relief in being stuck, there’s no relief in running away.  The words dissolve into the randomness that is this moment in life. The forced expressions, the obvious, suggested humor in the work melt into the chaos, taking that last bit of shame with them.

“I want to be able to choose my demons.”  Seriously? Accident would be a trick of fate; sleep paralysis, just a bump in the natural process. But writing and having written? What weird imp is this? I wait for a moment of realization to strike. I wait for this random blackness to move just a tiny bit aside to let the bright light blind my eyes, giving me something more than the clichéd dark-and-light imagery. But deep inside, I am happy with this cliché. It’s dependable and encouraging at the same time. It’s always there, even when it’s not.

The words mock me. They mock me for all the times I used them at places I shouldn’t have. Wait. I refuse to take that shit. I write some more to hit them back; because I would use them again at the same places if I had a chance to do over again. Am I playing with them or am I the one being played with?