Dreadful despair.

Attracted to morbid dreams,
of love and separation following thus. 
When suddenly afflicted with picturesque moments,
of hearts and smiles,
I paused,
momentarily confused.
And stayed, put.
Aft a while, I began,
the search for despondent happiness,
that lay in lights,
and in self-benevolence.
And as I passed by your abode,
that lay, perhaps a thousand miles from mine,
I felt a strange complacence, 
and sat there,
put.
Waiting in solitude,
but in contentment,
at the aberrant happiness that lay ahead. 
The lights now chose to appear,
out of the blue. 

How she settles, oh how beautifully, she does.

As she silently settled onto her seat, her eyes vividly began dancing and established themselves on the page that her fingers tried to trace.
She began reading.
You and I might be forced to think that she was oblivious to the silence around her, but we might think, or we may think, or it may not be so.
Her loneliness in the dead of the night surprised her, and made her weirdly content.
And suddenly, almost notoriously, the water droplets began to spur her. They came, almost abruptly, like perhaps, by accident. She panicked, and her arms closed around her book.
What followed was an awkward moment, wherein she couldn't decide if closing the window was a better option to moving.
And then, as abruptly as before, she calmed down and smiled.
She sat where she did, did not rush to close the window, and let the rain drops replenish her troubled frowns and soothe them.
She marveled at the peace that's infused in the most unexpected moments.

"When the dream is gone"

It is not often that one's thoughts serenade into those mystical spaces, that otherwise exist, but for us, just in the mind.
But her's did, always.
She called it, yearning for a life, altogether different.
I called it being untamed.
She was definitely not one of us. 

The lights of ecstasy.

We're not dissecting age-old norms here.
Nor will we talk about how it was wrong for her to have gone out that night. How it wasn't appropriate for her to step out of her periphery of custody.
But the want for freedom sometimes, beguiles the most careful of them, eyes.
And I have, always, silently appreciated her wavering attitude to stability. I somewhere, saw my unwavering soul in it. The one that has always dreamed of quenching her faltering thirst, but has never been able to take the first few baby steps. I was in awe of her. But that was a feeling that I solely kept inside of me, and thus, forever, sealed my lips.
Well, so coming back to the spunk of it all, she silently averted our attention that night, and made way, to the acropolis where royalty waited for her with baited and nervous breath.
I have never been  able to duly comprehend the love that existed between them, but then, she once silently whispered to me that love was not to be understood, either way.
And as she made way to his ready-to-embrace arms, she saw the lights that had forbidden her all along. The lights of pure ecstasy.

The incoherent ripples of child-dom.

We've all been part of the same sweet game. 

Often, if not, always, when abundance of emotions prevail, and situations run high and dry,

like the demystifying eyes, that flutter across your troubled brows,

that are often shriveled, like the ripples that we made in the lake, in the days of yore.

When often, life was defined by the shoe-clad wriggly feet,

that were often pointed to the stars in the wavering nights of child-dom.

Oh, how often, if not always, my thoughts go back to the same incoherent folk-tales.

When the Maharajah extended his strong hands to the erstwhile princess, and how we blushed,

at the prospective love that was deemed to happen.

You and I looked into each other's eyes, and we realized that love is not what is spoken about, only. Love can exist, sporadically, insignificantly. And having made our compelling discovery, receded into the the same child-dom of blooming happiness.

When you and I were a little different. 

A bit more silent, a bit less coherent, slightly more eloquent.

Touch-me-not plants had a role to play.

Summers are not what they used to be.
When a pony-tailed girl with a punch serenaded in shorts, wildly running in a beaver of touch-me-not plants.
When mangoes did not induce pimples.
Summers were different then.
I remember, in the old fort, when time was consumed by idyllic banter, and when evenings receded into unpretentious excitement.
When buses were red, and so were telephone booths.
When taxis were royalty,
And share autos amusing.
And the baby seats, that you were so reluctantly made to sit on, even more so.
When cinema meant whistles in single-screen theaters.
And the beach was where, your mother never let you be tempted by the water, lest you drown.
And a coke placated your empty heart.
When running around in a towel was pardonable.
I think the touch-me-not plants had a role to play.
Their importance only grew, not in the mere presence of it, but it in mind.
They slowly meandered into the summery afternoons.
While the pony-tailed girl, stood confused, and bewildered.
Change took place.  

Everything is clearer when you're in love- Lennon.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,

Tomorrow I'll miss you;

Remember I'll always be true.

And then while I'm away,

I'll write home every day,

And I'll send all my loving to you.

I'll pretend That I'm missing 

the lips I am missing

And hope that my dreams will come true.

And then while I'm away,

I'll write home every day,

And I'll send all my loving to you.

All my loving I will send to you.

All my loving, darling I'll be true.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,

Tomorrow I'll miss you:

Remember I'll always be true.

And then while I'm away,

I'll write home every day,

And I'll send all my loving to you

To the love of music, that has just sprung up, almost in sync with the lovely weather outside.