Inspiration.

Days pass by
My pen has dried up
My papers are crumpled
My mind is caged
Words no longer flow freely
My thoughts battle with themselves
In the dark abyss of self doubt
The perfume no longer smells of fresh roses
And new beginnings
My step is no longer sprightly
My glasses are cracked and bent and broken
In dreams I find no salvation
In sleep no rejuvenation
In wakefulness no direction
A candle burning from both ends
Can light up only for a few moments
Until it dies, its glory short lived and transitory
The candle burns my papers
My house, my world, and my mind
A shadow of the person I could have been
In the end, a great light will be cast upon me
My worth shall be judged
I hope then that the ashes of my papers
The ink of my pen
Will have endured the incessant callings
Of mortality and temporariness
So that I shall be redeemed
So that I can spend the rest of my days
As a slave to ink and the stories it holds.

~ Vruta Gupte.

box.

From http://drawrstubbs.blogspot.in

i used to be a dreamer
a doer, thinker, wanter
sometimes if i was having a good day
maybe even desirer
however, like everyone else, there will come a day in my life when i will be forced to
choose

between a few things
six-year-old me was fascinated by space
and the universe
and probably a little scared at the sci-fi storyteller's promise that at night the aliens would abduct me 

of course, the storyteller and i 
were usually the same person
i would choose to read scary books
and watch scary scenes 
from scary movies
i remember watching one where a bearded man killed an old, gray-haired woman with a knife
while her grandchild waited outside
i also remember running up the stairs and shutting my door and reading some book
for peace of mind
right now, peace of mind is quite elusive

perhaps this is the course of things, and i should not complain
perhaps this was what had been fated
i no longer find myself surrounded by true fiction
the fantastical lands authors speak of that were supposed to give me hope
end up wounding me instead
because i am stuck and i cannot live there
because i am stuck and i cannot live here.

where do i go?

the paths i do not take will lie as burdens upon my shoulders
the stars will laugh and will scorn me as i trudge along the lonely roads
that are not quite laid with perfection, years ago,
i chose one path
t'was one of the easier ones
one where i chose not to fight for what i did believe in - at least not as much as the others did.
one where i was - as is the common phrase - a law-abiding citizen.
but these were different laws, more fluid, and dynamic.
no permanent harm would come to me if i chose to break them
of course, as you may have guessed, i never broke them anyway
i figured the price i would have to pay for 
not breaking the mold
would be a very small one indeed.

turns out all of us want to break molds, and cast new ones in their place.
and if we become famous, by some insidious circumstance,
they will make molds shaped like us.
and they will force their children, and grandchildren, and great grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren,
and not-so-great-grandchildren (these they will outline to the entire world)
to break and bend and crush and somehow fit themselves inside
the two-dimensional box i am sure i will turn out to be;
if the boxes of all the people in the entire world were to be placed
side by side, mine would be quite plain:
either everyone would stop by, or no-one would - 
a tragedy of life.
a few boxes will be funky, halos stuck onto them with Superglue
flowers sprayed with perfume ("what flowers are these?" "why do you care, they all smell the same anyway,") thumb-tacked into the cardboard
gift-wrapped with sticky wallpapers of nebulae and solar coronae that aren't really as colourful as they seem but the kids don't know that, do they?  oozing fakeness; the kids don't know that, either.
neither do the grown-ups.  maybe they wished for boxes just like these when they were younger.

maybe they never thought about creating their own boxes.  

"when i was small, i was a plain box.  nobody liked me.  i can't seem to find any plain boxes here;
they're all special.  so, you must be special too."

"but why?"

"if you're not special, they won't look at your box, dear."

"so what?"

'How To Make Your Box Special' would be the most watched show on television
school activities would be centred on how to build a great (great!) box.
"first cut the cardboard.  make sure you switch the laser off later, so you don't hurt yourself."
"give us money, we'll make your box shine!  we'll sprinkle glitter all around yours...and everyone else's, but you won't know until we're done!"

- i chose one path.
it is dry, uneventful, and uninspiring.  storm-clouds do gather, but no rain falls.  
once in a while, i do get a drizzle, though.
drizzles are on the good days.
on the bad days, even the moonlight burns me.
but on the worst days, there is no moon, only darkness
all-consuming, suffocating, no stars and comets are seen.
tonight i can see the moon, though.  is this some sort of omen?

at daybreak i will set out on the new path
to see what i can salvage; is changing sides even possible, this late into 
the battle against my own self?  but it will do me no good to think about these questions;
i shall sleep.

sleep.

sleep...

wake up!  a new dawn has come.  the sun looks more orange, today - more forgiving, perhaps.
i trudge along - 
this road branches into two - on one there is sunlight strong enough to melt my skin
on another, it is raining, and the sun is hidden behind the white and gray clouds.  i pick the second one.  strangely refreshing, although i am still alone.
wildflowers grow here, and the grass is tall enough for me to hide in it,
not that i want to.
i am probably done hiding behind things i tell myself i cannot change.
the rain will erode my walls
the rain will reduce all our boxes to wet cardboard 
the rain will set me free.


~ vruta gupte, may 2017.

Vanished.

Sometimes I feel like disappearing.

Sometimes I feel like going away from everything, probably to an abandoned treehouse in the jungles of tomorrow, where I will be at peace, away from all the sharing and over-sharing. It would be good to be disconnected for a while. Ironically enough, I am writing this on a post that will reach a lot of people, and that, sadly enough, a lot of people might be able to relate to.
You see, the side of yourself you share out here, where everyone can see you, is only a fraction of who you really are. You can't distill a whole person into just a particular number of likes they got, or something they've posted, or something they didn't post but that you thought they should. The risk of sharing too much of yourself with people is that after a while, they will come to expect it; but they won't notice if you disappear.

At least I think they wouldn't notice if I disappear.

Sure, they would wonder where I have gone, for a little while, but then they will return to their everyday lives and troubles and problems; people have too many of those anyway. Here I talk only of the part of myself that is a slightly sassier - and some might say cheekier - version of myself: the version that is the most opposite to who I really am, and not the version that stays up at night binge-watching harmonium concerts and my friend's classical music compositions on YouTube, or reading, or writing poetry. Only a few friends of mine know that side of me. Of course, this is assuming that people have only two sides, the good and the bad, the people-pleasing and the cold-hearted, the has-it-all-together and the slowly-falling-apart.

All my life I have struggled with balancing connection and disconnection. Connection eats into my life, while disconnection keeps me awake at night. Connection is necessary for relationships to grow, but too much of it will poison your friendships, and suffocate your friends. Too much disconnection, on the other hand, will suffocate you, and make you feel like you have no friends at all; a feeling I have felt enough times to never let anyone else think the way I once did, which is probably why I, oftentimes, share, and over-share, and never stop, really. (I seldom leave people alone. My friends will testify to that.) The endeavour to balance these scales is a confusing, draining, severely exhausting one. And so I have always been scared to even attempt to balance these two sides of the same (albeit virtual) coin.

I think it would be good to try, though.

Scream.

Bring me out of my despair
Stop me from clutching at only straws
Drop me off at the intersection
Of material success and walks with my friends
At three in the morning
All my matchsticks are dampened
By the humid suffocating salty air
My ceiling fan makes my room
Either too hot or too cold
My mind is too full and too empty
At the same time
Nothing of much consequence 
Occupies it.  Tasting failure after
Failure, I would gladly take
A different path, another sunrise,
Unreflected from blue skyscraper windows
Untouched by sweet lies they tell,
"Do this," they say, "and you life will be happy,
Like ours are."  But at midnight I can hear them
Scream.

Glue.

Doors locked 

Seatbelts fastened

Key turned

Radio played

Smiles exchanged

Gears changed

Brakes screeched

Silent scream

Silence screamed

Glass shattered

Smoke rose

Smoked rose

Flowers burned

Overturned

"'Til death do us part,"

Someone give him glue to fix

His broken heart.

~

Reduction.

'Kurt Cobain' - Artwork by Russell Thomas - middleagebulge.com.

Do you know what it feels like? Do you know what it feels like to listen to a song, love it, and then listen to it so many times you numb yourself to its words?  Then you have to find a new song, and you do that to the new song too, and you hate yourself for doing it?  Do you know what it feels like to think about how you could write about anything and everything before, but now you are only a shell of nothingness, and you also write that way?  Almost like a hermit crab.  Nothing truly holds meaning anymore.  I clutch at drinking straws but there’s no soda left in my opaque, freezing white glass, only sorrow.  The last dregs of chocolate left behind at the bottom of my cold coffee taste like cough syrup; they’re not bittersweet, like the romantic novel I have been reading.

Do you know what losing love is like?  From your friends, from her, from...yourself?  No?  Let me attempt to tell you.  Let me paint pictures with my sorrow, I will write sonnets and stories and disguise all my repentances into symphonies uncharacteristic of the likes of Beethoven. Let me write in the same font she uses on her carefully crafted—curated—blog.  Let me wonder how her eyes will flit across my words, trying to find a hint of herself in them—oh, who am I kidding, she won’t come back—

She won’t come back, so the person I was with her won’t either.  There was a time I noticed everything from the dew on the grass to how the sunlight made red roses look like lava, back then, I was a volcano, spouting life-truths as though I knew everything about the universe and what was in it: especially us.  One of the things I think I did not know was that we would end, eventually, do you know what it’s like to end?  I don’t mean dying, no, I mean the ending that knocks silently on your door in the morning.  You would probably let it in for breakfast because it was tired and in want.  You would show it where the bathroom was in case it wanted to take a cold shower.  You would sit on the swings, together, in silence, though—because endings can’t talk, never.  You would read your favourite books to it in the dead of night when the rain refuses to stop pouring.  Then you would make sandwiches, and while you cut the tomatoes and make them bleed, the ending will snatch a butter knife from your unsuspecting drawer and it will stab you and draw your blood: because endings know exactly what to do with a butter knife.  The red roses she gave you will turn into lava and will melt the letters you wrote to her (but never sent).  Then they will be black.

Do you know what it is like to slowly lose sight of your dreams?  Do you know where the long walks on chilly nights with the smell of smoke in the air went?  Do you know why words I read make no sense—am I asking too many questions?  Do you know what it’s like to try to find answers in your questions because people can’t help you themselves?  Do you know how I feel when I fail; have you ever failed to try?  I wish you knew.  

I wish you knew how sometimes the sadness comes in waves.  Sometimes I sit outside on the sidewalk at two in the morning, with my tea, and my drooping teabag-like eyelids, and I stare at the grey shadows between areas illuminated by orange streetlights, thinking about how even if you have almost everything, you’d never have everything.  Some of us have less of that everything than most; I believe they’re braver than the rest.  I wish you knew that I’m tired of being brave.  I also hope that after reading this, you would still be brave enough to stay with me.  But if you’d rather not, I would understand.  Not everyone wants to be reduced.

~

I can't write a poem.

I can’t write a poem tonight,

I went outside and took some pictures,

And my right shoulder is aching.

I can’t write a poem tonight,

My brain is too full: I’d rather

Write something really really (really) long,

So that people know what I’m thinking about—

Not that that’s interesting; who I’m thinking about

Would be more enticing to read

And to know, quite frankly.

I can’t write a poem tonight

Because pouring myself out would be so much easier

Than freezing myself into short lines

(They read like stubble, not a long, flowing beard.)

You should know that you’re the one

Who made me want to capture in prose again

You’re almost like a plucked marigold flower—

It hurts a lot, but you still love helping people;

And sometimes it hurts me that you’re hurting.

I can’t write a poem tonight,

I’m thinking about you:

Not that I mind.

~Vruta Gupte.

Blue.

To write stories these days, I use an app on my phone, because I don't want to get out of bed and turn my laptop on and type that address in, because I know I will type in the wrong address. I will go somewhere I had never meant to be. I am, now, the laziest person I have ever seen. Lazier than I have ever been.

In four days I have exams. I have not studied for the past two days. I should, but I don't, and I don't know why. Maybe it's because I find that I discover how I should have done something long after I have had to do it already.

The app on my phone lets me change colours. Lately all my notes have been blue. Blue because that is the colour that most intrigues me, for reasons I cannot say. Blue because blue is the colour of a picture that I see on my screen every day. Blue because my profile picture on Facebook is blue (maybe that blue has reasons too). Blue because blue is the opposite of red, and there has been too much red in my life for the last few days. Red in my journal. Red in my notebook. Red on my screen, because of Quora. Red in my room, because of my blanket and my towel. Red in my blood.

Blue because I have a blue bed-sheet that has the Wimbledon logo all over it (no, I don't watch tennis). Blue because...deep down inside, I am green and blue. Blue-green is the colour of the sea. The sea is where I would rather be. Instead of this concrete excuse for greenery, and scenery, I would much rather be real. Blue because blue is the colour of pretence. I pretend. I pretend I know where I am going. I pretend I believe in the things I used to believe. I pretend I know how to help you.

Blue because these past few days, you and I have been blue, sad. You are bluer than I am. I painted myself blue to match the opposite colour of one of your shirts. Inside I am green. Green will give you hope. Paint yourself green, and be green with me. It'll be fun. It'll be new, for you. And as much as I hate to use the word--it'll be--fresh. Fresh as the grass that you have not set foot on for more than a week. Fresh as the grass I was rolling around in just yesterday. Fresh as the grass I had to wash off my feet. It is already half past nine in the morning and I am--I am--dead beat.

You have too much red in your life, too. The scars on your heart are red. The scars on your heart have the opposite colour to my handkerchief. Maybe that's why I can't wipe them off, because I read somewhere that you have to fight fire with fire. The scars on your heart are there because your heart was broken a while ago. A while feels like a long, long time ago. A while feels like yesterday. Fire is red.

On some nights, the moon is red. On other nights, it is white. That means you can draw anything on it. What do you draw? I draw green. I draw a cabin in the woods, a cabin made of wood, with a bed and a fireplace and a chimney and cheese and potatoes. Burnt potatoes. Slightly burnt potatoes, to remind you of a distant past. When is the past distant and when is it close? I am cheesy. Am I too cheesy? Do I make you sick to your stomach or do I make you feel delicious? Am I cheesy, or am I just cheese? Do I ask too many questions?

But you said the questions are more important than the answers. Does that mean you would rather not find the answers to some questions? Do I ask too many questions?

Blue because I believe that if you paint yourself enough--or maybe--if I paint you more than enough, you will be green again. Maybe you don't want to be green. Maybe you want to be white--blank, so you can draw yourself again. White, so that you can fill in the colours again. Or colour outside the boundaries of what you have drawn. There are no rules, here, with me. But there are no rules only for you. Are you white because you want to wipe yourself off? Please don't. There will be scars on my heart if you do that. And they will be red. And I don't like red. Because I am blue now. I will stay blue until you remove your blue, even though I know that wiping colours off of yourself is not something you or I, or anybody for that matter, can do. If that is the case, then wipe the colours off me. Turn me black, because black is everywhere. That means I will never leave you. That means I will stay with you forever. How long is forever? Blue because blue is a part of black, and I would much rather be black than green, if that is what suits you. Suits are black, too.

Blue because blue is royal and fancy. And we are fancy; even though we may not be royal. We are simple beings, of things that look worse than stardust. We are, probably, just dust. But your dust is beautiful and poetic, and broken, and sad, and...and please tell me how to break my dust too. Then we can glue your dust back together. Your dust doesn't need surgery. It needs paint. Your dust is blue. Paint over it. Paint inside it. Paint everything with yourself so that wherever I go, you are still there. This does not mean you should wipe yourself off. Don't wipe yourself off. Okay?

Okay. Now it is time for me to go. Now it is time for me to paint. Paint with words. Paint the gloomy dark suburbs of my soul. You, you paint your sole. That needs painting too. Paint it the colour of you. Now that I think about it more--you are probably not very blue. Maybe you are black. Maybe you are who I have been looking for. Now I am awake. I was sleeping before. For twelve hours. Now I am awake enough to paint you. Don't leave before I finish. I know she has painted you blue. I will paint you green...I will paint you white. I will paint you starry. I will paint you everything. Maybe you are my paint.

I am your paint. I will always be your paint. I will never be your pain. Don't leave before I leave. I will never leave. Now I must go. You are still blue. I have to buy paint.

At the Tunnel's End.

Some days you would rather sleep through.  Some days you would rather not live.  The minute you wake up--these days--you get this empty feeling around your heart or in your stomach or wherever it is saying something is wrong.  

Something could go horribly wrong today.  

I feel like this right now; I don't know why.  Probably the weather; probably the fact that I've got submissions due, and books to read, and problems to practise, and facts to memorize (this is the distasteful part--although sometimes, some days, one must do what is necessary to stay afloat and not drown in this ocean of thoughts and obsolete prerequisites), and it all becomes slightly overwhelming at times.  Or very overwhelming.  It's like a cycle, really, happy one day, sad the other.  This is part of the reason I don't like cycles much, but it is not as if one could change this cyclic nature of life into something more appealing (to me).  Some might say I'm mad.  Some know I am.

Some days you feel like you are falling into an endless abyss of thoughts dark enough to kill Death.  Some days you feel empty inside--maybe it's because something happened, long ago, that you're trying to forget and move on from, but with each passing hour, you find yourself being dragged deeper and deeper into that black hole you so desperately wish to escape.

I guess everybody feels this way once in a while.  Or twice.  Or more.  I suppose the real question would be that if sadness is inevitable and cannot be beaten, what do we live for?

I do not know the answer; I can only guess.

You live to come home from a long, tiring journey from the deepest, vilest pits you encounter during these necessary excursions into this thing that is called the outside world.  The outside world can be cruel sometimes--so much so that you have to look at Facebook posts detailing how someone's faith in humanity was restored: it is quite sad it has come to this--but things can change.  I hope they will.  It would not be good for humankind's skeletons if we were to go about falling into pits like Cheerios from a cereal box (except the bowl Cheerios fall into, here, has an end and a boundary).

You live so that you can taste the wind and feel it blowing through your hair in every direction, like a cloudburst of air.  So you can smell the smoked corn cobs as you walk by a lone stall near the edge of the sidewalk, and buy one, relieved that you can finally pay for your food in Indian rupees.  Maybe so you can photograph (and participate in) the explosion of colours during Ganesh Chaturthi or Pujo celebrations--or you might want to spend an afternoon with coffee and your favourite books--or coffee and your favourite friends.  

Maybe you live so you can watch your favourite band live after nearly a decade.  Or so that you can write.  Or so you can dream.  It wouldn't hurt to dream for a while.  Nightmares are dreams, but all dreams aren't nightmares.

This is just a real-life nightmare; this too shall pass.  It is only temporary, and what I should probably remember is that life is a rollercoaster that only goes up, and keeps going.  Eventually, the skies will clear and the sun will shine so brightly that--it won't blind your eyes--but instead of black and white shades populating the cones inside your eye, you could see something profoundly new.

~

Oh, now I'm floating so high.

I blossom and die.

Send your storm and your lightning to strike 

Me between the eyes

And cry.

Believe in miracles.

Oh hey, I'm floating up above the world now!

Oh hey, I'm floating up above the world now!

The Aloner.

His words, I feel, are magic. You don't know where they come from, but they are always there, in the back of your mind, and they remind you of things like stardust and the aroma of coffee and cream in the morning, of fresh, warm croissants—these I have been missing of late—of dewdrops and wet earth after the rain, the almost scalding sunshine when you have no cap to shield your eyes, and that perfumed scent of the yellowed pages of a book that people have forgotten about, but you remember, and, oh, I could go on forever. For men may come and men may go; but he will always remain immortalized, past his time and life, and death, as someone who wielded words, but not as weapons.

He used words to make you exalt and suffer at the same time, as though he wanted to remind you of the maladies that most of us are, but he did not wish you drowned in your (inevitable) despair and sadness, either. Quite a paradox, he was. He buried himself, and still wanted people (me, I like to think) to understand. Amused, yet amusing. Half empty, and half full. Broken, but he would never break you. My truest friend and his own worst enemy.