4 posts down and i feel like taking them off .. even if i know there aren't many people who read my blog.. (nor do i want them 2) neither is every sentence scrutinized by journos for possible masala nor are there hopes of that ever happening unless i get murdered aarushi-style or go on a shooting spree making my blog come under the self styled sleuths' lens for a possible psychopathic streak...
Still,every word written in the past smells stale,as if it's soiled with the dust of the past..
The poems more so.. A poem is like a piece of art,to paint one you have to purge yourself of all the petty irrelevant unimportant rigmarole of day to day activities and yet look beneath all that to find that common thread incessently running underneath and spinning into purposes,feelings,ideals...
Sunken,Betrayed and thrown asunder;
I climbed the highest branch to end it there
A beautiful poem etched on the leaves
It stopped me
held me enthralled
And then floated away into the mist
It's beauty had me spellbound
And all this while it had kept singing,
"I am the poem of your life,
personified I am you;
My beauty is you
just open your eyes
and you'll see me within you."
When i look back at every poem I've ever written,at first read it seems unintelligible.. and i can fully understand if anyone else cant understand what I've tried to say (and that perhaps is the beauty of it,it reveals itself only to those who understand.. ).. But gradually,tracing back memories.. reaching the same mental frame of mind.. being faced with the same dilemmas,the same questions,the same frustrations.. and it all begins to unfold like the opening of flower petals at dawn..
such a bugging question ..
it will probably take me a whole lifetime to define whats me.. n perhaps that lifetime wouldnt suffice either.. to decipher what it has defined..and here in some profile intro,i'm supposed to sum up in less than 1200 characters the sum of what has been and what will be me..