~ imposter.

Alone on the roads
Silent night
All the streetlights
Flickering, all the crickets chirping
Unsteady steps -
Nobody notices
Maybe I'm
Invisible? Or perhaps
Nobody cares enough
To tell me I'm walking very-fast-the-wrong-way
If-I-walk-fast-enough-maybe-I'll-reach-somewhere
Even if it is only
Back where I came from, again.
Belief is
A dangerous thing
Belief is
Making yourself think
The waterfall is going up
When you're the one
Falling down.
To think!
I could've made it -
To think -
If only I hadn't faltered -
To think:
If only I would've stopped and looked around!
I could have gone where everyone else is going
Would've reached up to the tallest Ferris wheels
Instead of back down in the dumps;
Maybe I should just remember
Ferris wheels...don't stay up
Forever
But will the time in between
Be enough for me to reach
Before the last ticket for my ride is sold?
What if I
Am willing to pay a higher price?
Will they listen? What if I
Pack my bags and go somewhere
Nobody has gone before
Then I won't feel like an
Imposter anymore.

~ Vruta, November 2017.

Zero Brightness.

Image taken from https://inspiremykids.com/

Sometimes I stare at my computer screen at two in the morning.  It's blank, much like the wall behind it and in front of me.  It then occurs to me that I haven't written anything properly substantial in quite a few days.

At this point I start wondering if writing longhand would help; it's been too long since I've done that.  But then again, I'm not sure if I would be able to translate my thoughts from pen to paper instead of from keypress to screen, and thence blog--typing something you've already written out feels weird, the way you felt when you copied carefully curated paragraphs from Wikipedia into your homework and hoped extremely earnestly your teacher wouldn't notice (you know, 'cause back in the sixth grade we were all honorable persons--'for Brutus is an honorable man, so are they all, all honorable men').

And since I'm not sure, I won't write longhand.  I will keep staring at my screen, at two in the morning, mourning a little at my inability to form captivatingly coherent sentences.  I will think more about things and people than about words.  I will extrapolate my current state five or ten years into the future, wondering what it'll be like.  Where will I be?  Who will I be with?  Will I find my answers?  Of course, asking these questions to oneself right now would be--to say the least--futile, but at two in the morning, futility is not something I am immoderately concerned about.  

Two in the morning is supposed to be a time for adventure, and that adventure could also be inside your own head.  Or maybe you walk out onto the beach in the middle of the night, trying to spot waves.  Maybe you make a sandcastle in the dark, and then feel the sand falling through your toes because you stuck your foot in it by mistake.  Maybe you sit on the lone (pedophilic) swing and listen to songs of the night--chirping crickets and crackling incandescent bulbs--and sometimes John Mayer.  Then you probably watch a movie and walk home with your friend, shielding each other from the cold (quite ineffectively, because cold tends to leak through things, sometimes even your skin), and trying to hit the high notes from Mozart's Lacrimosa (and failing miserably, but not giving a flying rat's arse).  

Then, at two in the morning, you go back to your room, the one with the orange curtains, curse yourself for forgetting to shut your laptop down, and write all about what two in the morning feels like.

~

Twelve.

I found this today. 

Midnight is fascinating.

The Beast In The Tree

THE BEAST IN THE TREE

I once went for a walk

Along the cobblestone path

That generations past had not dared to traverse

For fear of being eaten by a beast

Who, it was said, screamed at night

The most pitiful sounds

That would make even lions cower in its presence.

The beast, they said, it lived in the hollow of the Great Big Birch Tree

It had built a door at the opening, and at night

It would push the door—and the door would make

A terrifyingly shrill squeaking sound.

But I, I was brave

And so I went along the cobblestone path

I walked, and I walked

I stopped, and then I walked some more—

And what did I see?

I saw a very lonely tree;

And then the wind rustled through its leaves

I thought the tree was screaming and then

I looked up, petrified.  I saw nothing.

I waited

And waited

Till it became dark and the sun would shine no more;

I heard the squeak—of the beast’s door, I presumed—

And shuddered in terror.

When I finally felt brave enough

To look up, I did.

And I saw an owl

Making all the squeaking noises

….And I fled.

~Vruta Gupte.

(I tweaked a poem I wrote last year to match the 'dark yet hopeful' tone of the idea I had for the poem.  I think I wrote it as a metaphor for when a person is about to realize their dream, having conquered all other obstacles, but then turns back at the last moment for fear of discovering something they had always known about in the back of their mind: their greatness.  

It's a little negative, but I think there's no point editing it now--it's beautiful as it is, and says what I need it to say.)

Want to check out more of my writing?  Click here!

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Thoughts About Silence

I was thinking....about silence....and came up with this.  I wouldn't say it's a poem--just a series of thoughts that occurred to me when I sat down in front of a blank screen...to write.



Why are we complaining about not feeling quiet when we can easily find the silence inside ourselves?

Why are we blaming everybody else when we know nobody will be able to help us find our true silence (because each individual's silence is of a different kind)?

Why does creation--a largely dynamic, fluctuating action--rely so much on being alone and silencing the buzz inside your mind?

What thought process of ours limits us to the noise of the outside world and keeps us from finding our true selves?

Noise is necessary if you want to know silence--just like you have to know what darkness is if you want to see the light--but most of us seem to think otherwise.

Why is there a common misconception that silence means stagnation and not progress or contentment?  

Are we afraid of silence?

These might appear somewhat deep, but, really, they're just thoughts....that might make a difference.

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What Happened At Midnight

This is a poem I wrote last December...at midnight.  (Yes, how surprising.)

WHAT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT?

It was midnight

And I could not sleep.

So I sat up in my bed

And rubbed my eyes.

I could see elves outside my window,

Flying on Santa’s reindeers,

With gifts wrapped in white-and-blue paper

And shimmering bows,

Houses of candies

And a palace of chocolate and bubblegum

That had no windows.

The air was filled with

The sugary smell of

Waffles in syrup

And caramel pieces

In whipped cream.

And then my sleeping mind

Woke up

And I realized

It had all been just a dream.

But who ever said

That dreams cannot be real?

 - Vruta Gupte

See y'all on the next post!

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!