daydreams

in times when i find trouble flooding my senses
i plant the sound in my mind and let it grow
grow grow grow, grow for miles within
to allow me to float away on traveling mindscapes
lending shelter.

my bed of sand keeps churning beneath my back
as i whisper sweet nothings to kind ears
lent by trees lining the avenues of the silent pathways
leading to the hearts of the innocent
lending smiles.

i breathe a velvet air, sliding in through my nostrils
caressing my chest from inside with fingers soft
etching out patterns yet unknown
filled with a sweet silent remorse of forgotten memories
lending hope.

from the corner of my eye i catch the sea of clouds
overflowing the gentle slopes of snow covered ranges
like blood rushing to the head
blurring uncertainties, frivolities and nightmares
lending life.

feeling blue

I grow older, and gradually keep losing my ability to feel pleasure in simple mindlessness. It seems like, the labeling of my thoughts and actions as 'frivolous' by myself, drives me to limit me from participating in activities which would allow for a difference in the temperance of the environment in which I now find myself.
I yearn for the moments where I'd once been able to skip across puddles with my private angel on imaginary naval conquests, or heave bicycles across walls and ride away to explore Chinese cemeteries nesting in an obscure South Indian village, or even rendering myself vulnerable to the extent of becoming the secret joke that someone would share only with their closest acquaintances. Even as I sit and write, I have this faint disturbance within that makes me aware of the fact that I'm still taking great pains to not only not sound 'frivolous', but also to endow what I put down with a voice of the erudite.

A girl passes by the table where I sit. I have this sudden impulse of sitting her down and writing her poetry. I do not seem to want anything in return for I would be amply rewarded by her company. I've spoken to her before and thus I expected feeling her sight bearing down upon me, awaiting acknowledgement, as I fail to muster the insanity to meet her gaze.

She passes by, evening settles, and the librarian puts on the lights before the sun can set completely. Its nice and cool in the library, but I seem to be struggling to stay afloat in the high tide raging within. I wish someone were near, if only to feel a little less lonely now. I also wish I wouldn't feel so guilty and shameful for wishing such a thing. But I do, for they remain frivolous in my book.
Of late I've been trying, almost too hard, to submerge myself into a state of asceticism unworthy of my age. I've been helpless and hence lost, thereby seeking direction in a pre-dictated manner of living. I've been trying, too hard, to survive. Step 1 was to stop thinking. Step two was to stop speaking about anything remotely associated with the way I feel. Finally step three involved continuous intoxication, to the point where sometimes like now in times of sobriety, I find myself grumbling in unintoxicated stupor. I like being intoxicated. I use it, and I'm glad its still that way, to simply find a place away from everything that bothers me. I use it to retire within a cave of my own conjuring. A cave sprayed with the scent of solitude, with winds strong enough to blow one off their feet stuck outside. I cease to hurt, and hence I cease to feel the need to express myself. Only the most vulnerable despair for shelter. Besides life seems too cumbersome with such fears as one's enemy, so I ally myself to it. I live planned without the impulse or spontaneity I was once capable of .
I do not rue these developements in me, however, it would seem nice to take an occasional vacation back to a world slightly simpler even in times of sobriety, or rather to a time when I would still be able to absorb the life around me devoid of its complications.

Its still early evening and the only available cure seems to lie in an overplayed SRV record; for the sunset to me now is the same shade as the sunrise painted by his guitar.