Thoughts to Words

The notes and letters you wrote to me, I still have them. I could never seem to question them because in those minutes of truth I knew you were not a lie. You are busy and busy is a tranquilizer that has been fooling me with a seductive rationalism and keeping all my logically stirred doubts in the closet. Then I spot you crossing a road on a Friday afternoon in this funny small world. You wave at me and call out my name. The smile you have is flushed with a face value of excitement. A bus arrives, I get into it before I forget where I am headed to. In between the notes and letters you wrote there is a chit about benefit of the doubt and I want you keep it. ©songbriti

Crammed messages on my fingertips, loitering in the steel railings. Patches of asynchronous music by trees freewheeling to please the stormy winter, insinuating midnight's solo gig. When two rough surfaces meet and greet, the settlement is amicable. A handpicked ambience to barbecue the excreta. Un-effing the eff ups after the fire is put out. A pact having conspicuous weightage but the heated leftover is a pokerface and can launch an asteroid to pay homage to the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park. Inadvertent disclosures auctioning the queerness of an outrage to craters. Bidders with salt and bidders with freshwater. The highest bid is...? ©songbriti

An incantation she muttered, in the cathedral, the temple, the mosque, the synagogue, the gurudwara and the monastery. World peace around the globe, prayers are answered, but instant messages are a no no in heaven, the Creator has blessed us, to help ourselves, faithfulness has eyes, humanity it practises, blind followers of hate, in religion's name, helping hands of kindness, rescue these prisoners, walk them to light, redemption is at the doorway, nature takes its course, a stream of rainbow, feeds colours of respect and love to tunnels of darkness. ©songbriti

The replica of a collar necklace in red was neatly placed on her slender neck before it rolled down like decadent cherry syrup. Her monologue came to a standstill. The onomatopoeia of her screaming was quitened by a glass with a pointed edge. Edges have a finishing line, her body fell on the floor and those warm palms were getting colder and colder. Her eyes were open in shock and her lips slightly parted. Her last word was "aarghhhh" even though she had the potential of doing much better than that. I closed her eyes and packaged her in a plastic larger than her size. She was ready for delivery, I put her into the freezer and ran to the bathroom. I retched up a thick tributary of vomit. I washed my face, scrubbed my hands...washed my face... repetitively. It was my first murder without a plan. She had done no harm to me. Why did I then kill her? I was guilty but "Sorry cannot make a dead man alive", hence an apology was not required. Guilt is disposable. Satan wa...

A friend is home, the golden sunshine during your Monday blues, a friend is home, the pillars holding you, in the cry tucked inside springs of laughter, a friend is home, the warmth giving you a hug, in winters spent on alien lands, a friend is home, the soil empowering the strength in your roots, fallen leaves leave, a friend is home, home travels with you. ©songbriti

Life is too short to be demeaned by toxic positivity, cut me some slack because when there is a real problem with my mental health I take the responsibility to heal myself by addressing the illness first. Optimism is in the rulebook and a part of my routine too but the idea is not to exploit its usage by bombarding one-liners to shoo away the acknowledgement of the wound. Seeking help to lead a healthier life (physically, mentally and spiritually) is a human right. On humanitarian grounds, be kind and patient to LISTEN because off late good listeners are missing in action. ©songbriti

You ever felt out of breath? Multiply this feeling with infinity and that is literally how it feels when I cannot write. Pale, a feeling so colourless. My words are turning pale and the odds are not in my favour. I want to be able to write about the tangerine sky and about the white orchids calling out to me from the hills I grew up in. I want to able to sketch my heartbreak into a poem that dissects my tears into metaphors explaining the anatomy of pain. I want to be able to write the lyrics for the melody in a child's innocent eyes, a farmer's hard work, a soldier's day with her family, a friend's jokes...the list goes on. I can laugh, I can cry, I can do all of that in neat shots distilled like the water in Victoria Falls but the inability to write pushes my universe into a black hole. It does not end there, when I force words on paper it turns into a futile rhetoric with superficial aroma and this artificiality is harmful for my health, I feel sick when I get down...