I'm not an atheist. I Believe

In books, beads and rocks
For long we have sought Thee,
Little did we know
Thee is in you and Thee is in me.
We've paid huge amounts
and sailed through seas,
Looked at the right doors
Searched for the wrong keys.
We are convinced of His Great Power
How he knows and how he handles,
Wouldn't he help you if you didn't offer
Those flowers, notes or candles?
Men aid one another
That's how it works till day,
So why did we think a figure above
with a halo has anything to say?
I'm not an atheist,
I do believe.

Chill in the frill

Old trees stand
with strength and might,
caught me eye
struck at first sight.
Steep cliffs bending
making our way,
paused my beat
imagining them in May.
A curvy long road
to me it said,
"The evil inside you awakens
only when fed."
My hair stood up and
froze my arms,
then came the sight of
the first few homes and farms.
As we went round and
round with fear,
the bus whispered to me
"I'll reach you to the top,dear."
People looked into our
window to see,
if there were tourists
coming across the sea.

-Written on 12th Aug, 2011
On my journey to Coonoor :)

My soul stained Royal Blue

My soul stained Royal Blue
Writes upon something merely white,
Torn, lost or if this flew
Not paper, but my soul will lose light.
Or if it becomes cloned by another
It is my soul that will fall,
For the one that copies is none other
Than the weakest man of all.
Or if i lose it halfway through
'The Flow' as they call it,
My soul that once grew
Will now be left unlit.
So let me transcend the best
Shakespeare, Keats and Poe,
You put them all to rest
And I will write without a foe.

The blue-pencil

What is so intriguing about something that is scraped?
Our ears become more alert than ever and eyes bigger than ever when a deleted chapter of a book or a deleted scene of a film is available to us. The book or film which was once completely acceptable by you as a whole, is now suddenly incomplete without you reading this scraped bit. Our minds like unedited and moreover unpublished information although we know that it was unpublished for a reason. Probably the author of it thought he needed to do better. So then those scenes did matter and I'm glad that they do. Maybe deleted scenes have as much validity as the ones that made it on air for the simple reason that, for the writers, in their minds, those scenes or chapters have happened. They wrote them, they shot them and at the last minute, they cut them but they'll be relying on them anyway.. maybe for the mythology of the film/book. It doesn't matter how beautiful, expensive or awesome a scene is- according to editors, (or so it may seem to us that according to them) if you can cut it and the film still makes sense then cut it. The missing scene most of the times proves otherwise. It changes the movie/ book. Maybe they scraped it just to release it in solitude later and add "How it changed the movie", because they know, we like information that is given to us with a title 'Deleted', and so they use their blue-pencil. 

Home-made

The place that is synonymous to childhood to you.
The space you never knew you would leave.
Houses are such an important part of who we were at that time. First homes particularly. To you, it was not a house built by bricks and beams, but a home where you built your love and dreams. It is where you started from.
You had your corners that you loved in the house.
Balconies of which, you still remember the view.
Doors that, would have changed many colours now.
The mess you made as a child was okay, because you were making memories more importantly.
And sometimes only a wall listened to your silent cry.
Yet, it was not a place but a feeling.
It was 'Your' home- whether legally true or false. You knew secret places where you would never be caught during hide and seek, or the predictive behaviour of your the then neighbours. You played and played and played, till the four walls resonated your laughter and the ceiling looked down to your mischief. There are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.
The relationship between a man and space I believe, is none other than dwelling of a kind that is strictly thought and spoken. Dwelling, whether poorly or well, is an imprint in your head; an irrevocable condition.
Maybe you cannot go back home, but the truth is you can never leave home. Your feet may have left but your heart will always be, so it's all right. Looking ahead, we will also hopefully find home in a person and that may be our only solace to longing for that place.

Muddled Mind

Thomas Mann once quoted, "A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for others." Which is true, because every writer has trouble writing and you will relate to this if you have a flare for writing but often find it hard to give wings to your flare. Our hands pick the pen, kiss the paper and then are taken back without a word being written. This happens often. Sometimes only paper listens to us so we approach writing to empty our minds. Sometimes, we write because we have a story to tell and the thought of creating something that didn't exist before is as close as to magic as we'll ever get. The most difficult part when one sits down to write is his/her content. How do we pick one topic out of all that we have observed and made a mental note on since the last time we wrote? What could a reader relate to with more ease; History, politics, ethics, religion, food, relationships, aspirations, environment, logic, fiction or one of my personal experiences?
It seems like all you have to do is sit down with a calm mind, put one word after the other but in reality, writing is the outcome of a restless mind that is dying to paint its voice on paper. The mind of a writer is never on vacation, he/she is either writing or thinking about writing. Also, there are only some pieces that a writer publishes and shares. In some pieces, a writer may choose to use simple words to reach his reader to the fullest and then there are some pieces where, a writer chooses to use words that are synonymous to a simple word and we like the complexity because there are some pieces we write to just be empty and not to be understood. Writing is like a code that the writer invents and uses this to decode his own pieces looking back at them. You may not write well everyday but you can always edit a bad page, you cannot edit a blank one.
Every writer comes across several points in life when there seems to be a tree that has fallen on our road. A writer's block can probably be understood by saying it is those many times in our lives when our imaginary friends stop talking to us. Another part where we scratch our heads is the closure to our piece of writing. You are aware that your reader will remember the last few lines of your piece better than the rest, how do you make an effect in that one last line? Do you post your opinion? Or quote somebody famous? Or leave it reader-ended? Or end it abruptly with your most used punctuation- the full stop. I will be doing that here.

Itchy feet

"If we were meant to stay in a place, we'd have roots instead of feet"
                                                                                                           -Rachel Wolchin.
Wanderlust is consuming. Wilderness is calling.
 It is so often regarded "crazy" to wander. Wandering is what many and I really mean many, hearts want to do. No this is not a gypsy writing this. We're using our feet to merely commute from our homes to our workplaces and back. From our lives in metropolitans we seek a place of  'get away' so often. Is it getting away from the city and its noise? Or away from the person that we were amidst the noise? A place that is a little or too away, whatever the heart wants is perfect. One that has spaces where anything is allowed to grow, where nothing is tamed, not even man.. where rains are super-added charm, where signboards are really not eye-catching because you want to wander. Not all those who wander are lost said Tolkien, but what he din't consider is that we wander so we can get lost. Lost does not necessarily mean you cannot find your way, it simply can mean you found joy in losing it, in losing yourself and you do not want to find a way and just maybe you want to look for alternatives that are appealing. The destination is not known, but is sought. The way to the destination though, is not on any map and never will be. You see a road and it calls you, you take that turn eagerly unfolding the path yourself. Meeting strange people along your way, strange in the way they think and live, is something you yearn for. People form such an important part of our lives that we vividly remember people we've met or seen in particular places. Some are like a mirror and reflect, and some amuse. Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes in the middle of nowhere you find yourself. Maybe we travel and constantly like to do so, not to escape life but for life not to escape us. The world is waiting. You haven't seen everywhere but it can be on your list. Then it would be right to say that the world is a book, an out of the way intriguing one, and if we haven't travelled then we have read only a page.