Imprinted

You may have left
you may have ripped me apart
but you can’t take away
the shiver that ran down my spine
when you called me by my name
or the flutter in my heart
when I think of the way
you used to look at me
piercing through my leaded soul
you can’t take away
the way you held me
when I woke up shivering
from my recurring dream
or the impression
of your wet lips seeking mine
when I woke up to your sound
my fingers reaching
to caress your quivering throat
you may have left me
but you can never take away
the memories you imprinted
in the shards of my broken heart.

You and I

We are a coincidence
In a strange world of improbables
Like strands of gossamer
Floating around in a haunted attic
So unique, so distinctive
Yet so inexplicably similar
That it makes it hard to believe
A sentient creator didn’t premeditate this story.

Tramping alone on unforgiving trails
Our paths crossed at the foot of a waterfall
Tumbling down a towering granite mountain
Our eyes locked from opposite sides
Of a rainbow that was left behind
In the wake of the spray from the falls
There ain’t a grander view in the whole wide world.

The tingling evidence of our very existence
Plucks invisible strings
At the depths of our hearts
Stirring buried instincts
Lifting us out of the shadows
And soaring to the stars
On wings we grew on our own
Turning into better selves worthy of the other.

You and I
We are a stunning coincidence
Far beyond our wildest dreams.

Sarah’s Dream

It’s a sunny day
no longer a thing to dread
from a wooden cottage
a girl walks out
to a rock by the sea
carrying a cup of tea.
She leans back on the rock
pauses for a minute
her expansive gaze
taking in the calm sea
and chirping seagulls.
Distant notes from a guitar
light her face up in a smile
with a content sigh she reaches
for the bookmark in a worn-out book

A/N: Dedicated to anybody who thinks this is a happy poem  ;)

And yet I wonder

Your long fingers gliding on the piano
in an ethereal ballad of lament
your gravelly voice
forging sounds of inexplicable allure

The crack in your parched lips
in my mind I let a finger trace
an untold number of tales I’ve conjured
to hide behind your thousand yard stare

You are the epitome of inspiration
for all the words that I write
my only redemption
is the hope that you’d notice some day

Every faltering step that I take
every grave mistake that I make
it’s all for your sake
and yet I wonder, love

This life that I lead and the air that I breathe
you unwittingly bequeathed me
I’m eternally in your debt
and yet I wonder, love

Who are you?
my master and my muse
was I better off before you salvaged me?
was I better off dead?

Song in my head: Glass Arm Shattering by Porcupine Tree

Sometimes

Sometimes it’s not worth the anticipation
and reality is just not good enough
Sometimes people don’t mean what they say
and you realize you don’t even care

Sometimes the world is unfair
and the rulers resolutely unaware
Sometimes you should leave the mess alone
and not untangle the knots anymore

Sometimes when the band plays a different tune
you can take in your stride and move through the moment
Sometimes when you can’t get the words to rhyme
you can be grateful that you have dozens to rip off

Sometimes you tarried far too long
and missed the last ray of the sun
Sometimes you fail to cross the finishing line
but rejoice for at least you tried

Sometimes your choices are all you can control
your thoughts are all you can shape
Remember you can always choose
to close your eyes and make everything better

Now Playing: Let It Be by The Beatles

 

You

You’re smiling at wordless whispers
remembering stolen glances and impassive kisses
when you were broken and broke
dancing with anyone who’d take you home

You’re recoiling the next moment
watch that smile turn into disgust
projecting your thoughts onto
a world of illusions and dreams

You’re wishing for a calamity
the brooding drumbeat tells you
a loneliness so bad
that it bleeds into the surrounding walls

You’re imploring a memory
of a warm afternoon when you made a promise
to never leave the sanctuary of a certain love
you’re still at the beck and call of the absent lover

You’re drowning in an ocean of self pity
walking like a zombie to your own funeral
You will never understand
that it was never about you

You’re neither loved nor hated
all that you had
and all that you will ever have
is indifference.

Immerse Your Soul In Love

I am inside the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles. It is a remarkably beautiful and intimate auditorium with a magnificent, ornate ceiling. Its aroma vaguely reminds me of an old Sivan temple in my college town that I used to frequent back in the day. The temple was a kaleidoscope of distinctive smells: of vibhuti and camphor, multitudes of agarbattis and of bats clinging to the dark ceilings, as if to remind you that the temple was first built sometime in the second or third century. What is of significance at the moment, however, is neither the ceiling nor the nostalgia. It is, in fact, the people who have just walked on to the stage: six odd English men who make gorgeous music that is, at times, out of the world. I follow them with an embarrassing passion and dedication; they are called Radiohead. With a bit of careful planning, the help of very kind friends and an enormous amount of luck, I’d laid my hands on a ticket. After weeks of intense anticipation, here I am, at last, sharing four walls with the band and a few thousand like minded fans.

I spent the past two hours roaming around by myself and lost in thought. At the pre-party I met a group of fans from the Radiohead subreddit, some of whom I had only known as usernames and flairs, and others I hadn’t known at all. Armed with a drink, my awkward and insecure fan girl self plodded on through discussions on favorite albums, past live shows and best Thom dance moves, and was intimidated by those who were fans since OK Computer and had been to several Radiohead gigs. After we had clicked a photo together, we dispersed to our seats, the lucky ones to the pit. Mine is the right most seat on the first row of Loge, incredibly close to the stage. I’m now trying to create a makeshift stand for my phone in hope of live streaming the show on Periscope as a token of gratitude for all the fans who had streamed the previous gigs on this tour, but this would later turn out to be a massive failure. My thoughts wander to the forty thousand fans on the subreddit, especially some of the regulars on the live stream threads. I ponder over what I have in common with this disparate group of individuals “on the internet” whom I have been on a virtual tour with.

Why are we fans? What do we get from this collective adoration of musicians and sportsmen and actors whom we hardly know? Why do we obsess over their scribbles and words and interviews from the past? We are deeply convinced of our undying love despite knowing that it is not their real selves that we love, it is only an image of these artists projected by the media and our own selves that we love. We buy posters for our walls and decals for our cars. We are shouting at the top of our lungs, but what exactly is our message? Is it acceptance and belonging that we crave? Or are these displays just a manifestation of juvenile arrogance? I recall what Carrie Brownstein wrote on being a fan and it slightly warms my heart.

My favorite kind of musical experience is to feel afterward that your heart is filled up and transformed, like it is pumping a whole new kind of blood into your veins. This is what it is to be a fan: curious, open, desiring for connection, to feel like art has chosen you, claimed you as its witness.

I snap back and focus on the present. The first big surprise of the set is the proverbial True Love Waits. This elusive fan favourite has finally found its place on a record and is now pervading the room in all its glory. I am shocked and thrilled beyond words. Staring at the stage, mouth wide open, hand on my chest as if I’m trying to clutch my heart. Out of nowhere, there is an arm around my waist. It belongs to the girl next seat who just arrived with her partner during the last song. She has exactly the same expression of disbelief on her face. She pats my back gently and I hug her, overwhelmed.

I have only read about the legendary fans of jam bands like Grateful Dead and Phish and have always wanted to be a part of such an accepting and tolerant group. I get to experience a mild taste of it today thanks to this amazing, drunk couple who proceed to share the rest of the concert with me. As his favourite song starts, the guy screams in joy and together we yell “Weird Fishes”. As Jonny is banging the drums with fervor during Bloom, Thom pauses for a moment to shoot a fond and amused look, I turn to look at the girl and she laughs. We both get it. And as Idioteque starts, the three of us collectively lose our shit and dance and jump and flail following the path carved by our glorious leader. I do not know these two people, I do not even know their names but I will always remember them and be forever grateful that they let me share this precarious joy.

The last song of the day is Street Spirit, quite possibly their darkest song; one about looking at the devil in his eyes and knowing that he will have the last laugh. Once Thom famously said that it is a song that has no glimmer of resolve. I have the balls (well, metaphorical) to disagree. Call me naive, but I do think that it has the vaguest hint of redemption. It lies in knowing that you are facing death but calling on love to give you the strength for acceptance. The terror of the certainty diminishes when confronted by the power of love. We are not afraid because we are not alone. As we sing along to the refrain, the auditorium echoes with the voice of all of us, the fans, who have immersed our souls in love. In our love for the band, for music, for humanity, and for hope.

Edit: Bwahaha, I found another person with a similar opinion on Street Spirit. WE ARE NOT ALONE!

Now Playing: Street Spirit (Fade Out) by Radiohead

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Radiohead Live at the Shrine Auditorium

I’ve Been Searching

There’s no spark
No light in the dark

As I lie trapped between iron doors
doors that I forged myself
Suffocating, drenched in sweat
forever trapped inside
with no respite
I’ve been seeking the memory of a cold, rainy day
when a mug of steaming hot chocolate
and the familiarity of a favourite song
provided me a semblance of contentment

As a pain takes hold of me
and fills me until I choke
and I lie crying over missed chances
chances that weren’t mine to begin with
I’ve been looking for a muse
to inspire me to write
to put to words this gush of emotions
Oh, dainty muse!
Would you be so kind as to not scorn
at the advances of a heart overflowing with love?

For too long I’ve been drifting
along the sea of wretchedness
that the banality of human existence is
I’ve been searching for a soul
to render the mundane meaningful
I know not to seek a beacon of light
to guide me to the shore
All I want is a mirror to reflect my life back
a voice to assure me the ride was real
before I wipe away all evidence of its being.

Now Playing: Analyse by Thom Yorke

 

A Kind of Birthday

And all that ever mattered will some day turn back to batter like a joke.

There lies a disfigured desk lurking amidst a multitude of such disfigured desks in the eighth standard classroom in my old school – one that has the name “Vital” etched painstakingly with a divider and colored in glittering red. It stands as a testimony to the height of blind conviction that a thirteen year old mind is capable of.

When I was thirteen, I had a best friend and my life was complete. (I had two, actually, but this story is about just one of them). When we weren’t rooting for our cricket team to win or indulging in such superstitions as dressing exclusively in blue to increase their odds, we were busy getting our science teacher explain to us all about homosexuality, or contemplating the evils of child molesting. (That was the period when Michael Jackson’s child sexual abuse allegations were all over the news). We were equally drawn towards a social science teacher who preached anti-populationist ideals (her motto was No Marriage, No Family, No Child) and towards often taking misogynist stances ourselves. I still have a book called Quotations and Proverbs which has, on the page titled love, the words “A wife is a knife to kill your life” in my friend’s writing. We discovered our own ways of rebelling, but we were all right, for the most part.

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Of Homos, Hobos and Momos

A few weeks ago I was reading about a San Francisco Chronicle project called Last Men Standing, which recounted the stories of a number of AIDS survivors. Reading about the lives of these men who were connected by the common fortune (and the misfortune) of outliving AIDS in a city which was once the most sought after destination for AIDS victims, and their daily struggle today in the same city that lacks the support system they deserve reminded me of three books. They are about three different marginalized sections of the society. They all left behind a deep impression.

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