You are caught in the clutches of one's own thoughts, akin to the vulnerability of a poet, the madness of an artist, the imagination of a novelist, and the creativity of a writer. Despite being confined with no visible escape, there is comfort in this suffocating modern clothes - the emperor's new clothes!
M🦋
#Myscribbles
~ From the archives 2021
Between two grassfields, with
a stream in the middle flowing
downward to the river of flowers, live
two pretty ladies of different colors, and different sizes, with
stretch marks here and there.
Of course, they are middle-aged!
Raped by eyes,
abused by words, they
live in a myriad of emotions:
love, lust, laughter,
desire, disgust, delight,
shame, sadness surprise
fear, anger, and anxiety.
Women, she is you!
She is your breasts.
~ From the archives 2021
You look in the mirror, And
you see,
The present,
Flaws on the skin,
Pimples on the cheeks,
Wrinkles on the lips,
Darkness under the eyes,
Grey hairs hither and thither,
Your reflection!
You don't see,
The past,
The places you've lived,
The people you've loved,
The mistakes you've made,
The hearts you've touched,
The moments you've laughed,
The times you've cried,
The courage you've shown,
The strength you've gained,
The kindness you've showered,
Either the blessed moments or
the blushed moments.
You are invisible!
Insomnia, my Romeo, and I, his Juliet,
Upon the balcony of my bedroom, whispers romantically,
Casting the moon as a flickering candle, causing the stars to blush, proclaiming
"Let’s talk; it is not day"
At 2,
I did something good
I bathed three chicks
helped them submerged
But, they died
.
At 6,
I did something good.
I kept fireflies in a glass Jar
Helped them to have a home
But, they gasped
.
At 10,
I did something good
I inserted a dog's tail into an iron pipe
helped him straighten it
But, he barked
At 16,
I did something good.
I encouraged a classmate copy my answers,
helped him write the exams
But, he failed.
At 20,
I did something good
I assisted a friend doing his tasks
Wrote his write-ups on ethics
But, he failed in ethics
At 24
I did something good
I helped a fascist win elections
stayed inside my comfort zone
But, democracy died the very day
At 28,
I did something good,
I helped someone alter history
Kept silence when he distorted truth
But, people were traumatised by the distorted history
At 29,
I am doing something good,
I am helping modern-day colonizers to colonize,
I sit in an alternative world, reading essays on de-colonialism.
But, history will haunt me forever
Found something I wrote in Feb 2018, when I was just 23 and not really into Facebook. It's like, "Shucks! What's this? What was I even saying?" But then, oh yeah, something is there, though, i dont know what's that "something"😃 Those were the days when I was prepping for MPhil entrance and jotting down random thoughts about the Dutch East India Company. Thus all the pages of the diary says about my blunt thoughts on the Dutch company and Kerala historiography. Some positive remarks are also there that says "Let's work for it rather than wishing and awaiting for the same." 😅
Good times!
Just posting what I scribbled on the diary 5 years ago as I feel, it's not that bad 😃
In my quest for truth, I buckled up and delved into thoughts, battling questions told and untold, only to fall into oblivion.
Oh, fallen in love?
Why did I fall?
Why did I fall in love?
Beware!
You can’t rise in love!
It's just 'fall' in love.
Oh, I don’t give a damn
What is love? I found no love in this world of materials, capitals, money, man, power, lies, binaries, and dualism. Can the world be freed from binaries? "Can the subaltern speak"? Is there any truth? Where is H(er)story? Who am I? Sheer madness!? Say, say, say!! You, educated and not enlightened highbrows, stand anxious and muddled amidst theories, actions, preaching, and practice. Slanted is the intelligentsia. Impartiality and objectivity? Oh, hypocrisy!
I can’t sleep, I can’t cry, I can’t laugh, I can’t smile. I stand in chaos amid episteme and existence, episteme and experience. Finally, I found multiple truths and multiple lies
When I slept the other day
Gasa was a shattered human puzzle,
crisscrossed with scars, and
debris lay disconnected like amputated limb
The streets were wounded veins, and
Structures were human skeletons
The city's heart pulsated irregularly, and
voice breathed like a wheezing patient
The landscape resembled a major wound with its peeled skin, and
Perishing children akin to heavy loss of human hair
When I woke up today
Gaza was an artist's bloody canvas,
a battlefield bereft of colours, and
broad brushstrokes merging with blue(s)
The Alleys resembles Paul Nash's The Menin Road, destroyed utterly and filled with shell holes.
The space is similar to Asger Jorn's stalingrad where bodies were buried in mass graves.
The bodies reminds me of the scattered body parts in Otto Dix's The war, as the hands in Gaza has their name on just to be identified after death
Cries of the Palestinian man near the debris SEEM linked to the muffled voice of the white-shirted, wide-eyed “martyr figure,” in Francisco de Goya's The third of May 1808
The sky is akin to Van Gogh's starry night, swirling and bluish, bearing many traumas and myriad of pain
The mothers in Gaza mirrors the bellowing bull in Picasso's Guernica or that terrified mother in Léon Cogniet's Massacre of Innocents
If I wake up tomorrow,
Gaza may echo a Discordant Lullaby,
akin to the ever-changing Torah.
Letters stand bare, devoid of vowels, punctuation absent, struggling to find meanings,
The white spaces amidst letters bear room to wander,
as they say ceasefire is temporary
