Ria

Please meet me by that field beyond right and wrong?

The sculptor. — May 27, 2015

The sculptor.

The lines on your face mapped the road to my heaven.

Clay blended with the holy water of passion, I drew your face with utmost devotion. It took days and nights of sit and struggle, but the value of work was much more greater. I couldn’t care less.

To finally feel you, I could barter every other possession treasurable or not. I have always worshiped you in my heart, and now my worthless fingers will learn the true experience of touch and adoration—they will memorize what my heart had did years ago.

That is, if you’d please allow.

Promise — May 16, 2015
My dark man. (2) — May 7, 2015

My dark man. (2)

December 29, 2014:

“It is not I who accepted the Dark Life. The Dark Life accepted me.”

He sat on a rock, his head bowed and hands resting on knees. “I did not want to be what I have become. But I like it now… It suits me. I feel I am where I belong. It is Real. It is Me.”

I was sitting before him on the road and there was no one else around. When he said these words, I looked at him. I wanted more answers, and I was searching for them in his eyes. They are windows to your soul, after all, but somehow his soul was a locked corridor now– the key to which was unknown to even himself, I suppose. Read more.

“You don’t know how it’s like to be what you are not.”

“I sure do. I have known you for so long and never uttered a hint. That is the same thing in a way, if you see.”

He turned his head. I stood at a distance from his seat: a log placed in the middle of the road. An empty road– our secret place.

“No,” he whispered. “You cannot see the sea in me. You can only see the waves.”

“I can see the sea,” said I. Then taking his name, I continued: “And I can also sense a storm. Please confide in me now, let it crash me down if so must. Break me because I need you.”

For some time he said nothing. I walked closer to him and sat by his knees. Putting my hand on his lap, I asked him to look at me.

He did. His eyes were red.

He was crying!

I can’t say how it broke me into bits to see him unwrap himself out of that favorite strong shell of his, but I begged my own eyes to not show. I was going to be brave, for once, for him.

“I got defeated, ¦_. They took away my child. You should have heard how he cried, how he wailed! I don’t know what to do. Can any man be as helpless as I am now?” Each sob pierced my heart as I heard him speak.

“My baby was snatched away. They ripped open his chest right there. His death floated among a crowd of brutes, ¦_. His soul – it saw not a flower bed on exiting but got trapped instead in a tube of frozen, viscous blood. It makes me cry. I could do nothing but watch, and watch I did as they pinched his little fingers away. My breath stops when I think of what I saw, but I saw and I am living. Why am I still living?”

Infinite]simal[ — April 30, 2015

Infinite]simal[

I belong to these veins

this skin covers my world

I see infinity inside

each capillary of my being.

I see infinity outside:

beyond the borders of my skin

and borders of my country.

It baffles me, sir, at how importantly huge

and still so insignificant

is this picture you and I

are oh so busy painting!

Morning notes☆ — April 19, 2015
[Re-]Quest — April 16, 2015

[Re-]Quest

What am I without you?

A bag of bones;
useless.

A restless heart–
stopping just.

A cry unheard,
a sob.

silently packing way
into oblivion.
disappearance.
to unknown: nullity.

What am I without you?,
so see towards me.

Grant~

A Look
That may last an eternity.

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli; an Iranian-Born, American abstract surrealist painter.

¤

Before I wilt
Crush me
On your Palm
And let
My fragrance
Diffuse
Into your Skin
And be carried
Through your Veins
So that I
Dissolve Utterly
Into what
Is Ultimately
Yourself.

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli; an Iranian-Born, American abstract surrealist painter.

¤

 اَلْحَمْدُ لِلهِ الَّذِيْ خَلَقَ النُّوْرَ مِنَ النُّوْرِ وَ اَنْزَلَ النُّوْرَ عَلَى الطُّوْرِ فِيْ‏ كِتَابٍ مَسْطُوْرٍ. فِيْ رَقٍّ مَنْشُوْرٍ بِقَدَرٍ مَقْدُوْرٍ عَلٰى نَبِيٍّ مَحْبُوْرٍ.

¤

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli– an Iranian-born, American abstract surrealist painter.

  1. Desire.
  2. Al-desire.
Shutting old doors — April 11, 2015

Shutting old doors

Illusions. Mirages. Fantasies. There comes a time when you need to let go of the unreal things and start life anew. A friend, who wants to keep anonymity, wrote this piece a few days back and shared it with me. I like it because of the different perspective it gives and because sometimes, only written words can help you understand what nothing else can. This gave me hope.

There comes a time when you give up
Your old dreams, your unachieved goals
And surrender yourself to the reality.
No, not because you’re afraid or scared
But at some point in the chase
You get tired of running
Behind the unattainable.
You get tired of seeking shade
Under a mirage.
But remember, that moment of
Surrendering is not the end.
It’s far from being one.
It’s an opportunity,
A door to a new possible world.
Shut the broken unbolted door
With humility and grace.
And break open the new door
Take in the whiff of fresh air.
End the previous chapter
With the notes of complacency.
Start a new chapter,
With the ink of belief and faith.
Trust yourself.
There is a whole new universe
Of dreams spread out,
Waiting to be fancied.
And bazillion stars waiting
Impatiently to get into your
Bottle of fantasies.
And the instant you realize Continue reading

Punished — April 5, 2015

Punished

That night I fell in love with a voice. Only a voice. I wanted to hear nothing more. —Michael Ondaatje

With the voice now silenced, I remember only a silence today. A silence that screams like sirens in my ear. It does not stop. To make its presence known–as if I could forget it anyway–it keeps blaring. At first it whispers in my ear.

Like a snake.

Then it wraps me from head to toe; entraps me;

suffocates me!

It feeds on my mind, but doesn’t leave my heart. Makes my limbs go weak, makes me beg for relief, but also doesn’t leave my soul. It seeps in, like stale air, and spreads its stench everywhere. I feel I am brimming with silence now, and it finds no exit! I miss the voice— the one and only voice I have ever loved. But I am not sure if any part of me would remain to hear it again, if ever, it comes.

Obsessed — April 1, 2015

Obsessed

with the taste of metal
in my mouth

the purple wound

the cold that makes me
shiver

the liquid oozing out
from the wound

the threatening rhythmic sound
of the metal
chain

the wet blanket
wrapped around my shoulders
which fails to protect me from the cold

Bandagi supardagi~ — March 30, 2015

Bandagi supardagi~

Insaan khuda banna chahta hae. Isay apnay wujood ki takmeel samajhta hae yani ke wo khudai hasil karay. Us ki paristish ki jaye din raat. Jism mandir, rooh zindagi! Subah kay sitaray ke chamaknay se raat ka chaand madham honay tak, shor se sannatay aur sannatay se shor tak, takleef me aur rahat me, har qadam sirf “ehsaas”. Aik aiteraaf. Aik naam. Koi kahay, aap aali maqaam! Inayat ho!

Kuch loug beharhaal ibadat nahi kar patay. Bandagi pe poora nahi utartay aur phir zamana unhain thokron pe chor deta hay. Aam mazahib ki tarah yahan bhi itaab nazil hota hay, aur sach maanye tou khudai ka dawa karnay walay inn lakhon khudaon me rehmaniat ki phir aik ramaq bhi baqi nahi rehti!

A silent death. — March 28, 2015
Escape (27.3.14) — March 27, 2015
What To Write? — March 25, 2015

What To Write?

randomlyabstract:

A collaborative heartspill on words and wordsnot.

Originally posted on Life Confusions:

This poem is as a result of collaboration between Maria And I. We were chatting and she suggested we should write something together but then we couldn’t decide what we should write about. So it just went from there and we came up with this. It was a pleasure writing this with her. Here is the final piece:

We can write about betrayal.
Or we can write about snow and fairies
We can write about a deep pit of sorrow
or we can write about rains that fall like mercies.

You are right, We can write about anything,
We can write about how life throws curve balls at you,
And then leaves you around to wallow in your misery
Or we can write about how beautiful it is,
The very small things,
Sunsets and the sunrises,
Flowers and the trees,
Birds and the bees,
Shooting stars, moon and the sea

View original 211 more words

The Unending Game — March 21, 2015

The Unending Game

randomlyabstract:

This… ♥

Originally posted on Random Thoughts:

Sea

As I stand on the sea-shore
With waves washing my feet
I drown into my pensive lanes
As I see them retreat

Million forms of the formless
And yet they are the same
Million colours of the colourless
Playing the same old game

Thousand waves that strike a day
Trying hard to gain some land
Endless efforts go in vain
Invincible stands the rule of sand

And then to roaring seas I ask
“What do you boast of all day
There is no song of glory to sing
You try in vain, the world does say”

Smiling at me the giant said
I seek no songs, no glories, no praise
All those are transient, they come and go
It is the joy that forever stays

Where is the joy you talk about
In this never ending game?
Never shall you gain an inch
The land shall forever be same

What…

View original 83 more words

Black well —
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