“Just keep going straight ahead, you’ll reach the light.”
I’ve been spun around and shaken, My thoughts are shivering in a small corner, Hiding, wondering if it’s safe to come out. I’ve lost all sense of orientation, of balance, of life. Forgotten which foot is right and which is left, Where my eyes are and where my heart is.
I’m starting to collapse upon myself, I’m not a supernova but a black hole: Everything is dark, dark, dark.
Tears blur my mind, it all feels Hot and sticky and wrong, but I can’t do anything. Oblivion blindfolds me and abandons me in a silenced void, I slowly lose feeling, lose memory, lose life.
I try my best to keep going straight ahead, But I keep circling circles and meeting an abyss Every time. I’ve lost my way, the blindfold thickens, darkness threatens, And the promise of light is long forgotten.
when i was four, i carefully wrote my name in the sand. my dad held my hand and helped me trace it in two other languages and i watched the sea gently caressing the shore, but never reaching my name my name was protected from the rolling waves and the salty foam- she was resilient.
when i was seven, i stared at a sheet of paper; my dad wanted me to write seven lines about ‘A Day on the Beach’. i wrote about the yellow sun and the blue sea and the tall sandcastles i made and how tanned i was, yet holding the dear memory close to my chest like a secret.
when i was eleven, i scribbled stories and poems in my notebooks probably not knowing what exactly i wanted to say, but knowing i had something to say. i wrote about fireflies and stars and magic- aching to pen down the wonders of life that i felt i knew too well, achingly wanting to be heard.
when i was thirteen, i dug deep into myself and wrote about life and death; about experiences too deep to bring on to paper but which i tried my best to capture; about all kinds of love and somehow even more kinds of loneliness; i drew from a pool of ideas, not knowing how jagged and scattered its depths were but still wanting to swim in the deep.
when i’m fifteen, i now stare at a sheet of paper. i lose myself in thought, holding on to heavy words in my heart- are they worthy of paper? do my ideas deserve the freedom of ink? are my stories truly resilient? i wonder as i still channel the written word, somehow not always satisfied: waiting for rain to flood my desert and one day, set my words free.
Words are water that need to be set free from mouths. They need to be welcomed and cajoled and Warmed before they can flow out to the shore.
I used to be a brackish well. Brimming with water full of words that Stand ashamed and jagged and confused, I was ashamed and jagged and confused.
My words spoke of other people. Of other stories and other experiences and Other lives. I always Overlooked mine.
I slowly try to cleanse myself of Muddy feelings and coarse opinions, Maybe my words will now be sweet water. Sweet joy.
I know I stand as a tiny well. I want to be A wild ocean. I want to have waves that reach the shore. Salt water that is cold relief to the throat. Words and words and words: all stories, mine to tell.
in another world, we’re calm. we’re not agitated or afraid or trembling or turbulent or impatient or livid or morose or bitter or crestfallen. we’re calm.
in another world, we’re smiling as thick, sticky honey dribbles down our chins and resilient red strawberries stain our tongues. our faces are messed in whipped cream and our hands hold pulped, tangerine oranges and our feet barely open the oven for the apple crumble in time- we’re calm.
in another world, we’re slow dancing to christine mcvie and john mayer. we’re losing balance and losing ourselves and laughing a laugh as true as the sun, as open as the sky. our home hums this graceful song like the songbirds, who sing like they know the score, and we know- we’re calm.
in another world, we’re rejoicing as we’re running towards something worth living for; your hand is the key to my locked fist- together we’re sprinting through the fields of daffodils and daisies, towards that ocean of dreams we’ve longed for. our clothes are sandy, our hair is tangled, our hearts are beating boom boom boom and we’re not afraid anymore. we’re calm.
in another world, we’re living the freedom we’ve only been promised till now- we waited on the world to change and we decided to do it ourselves. we’re grinning as we spot the Big Dipper in a canvas of constellations, we’re wide-eyed at heaven, may she envelope us in her beauty. we’re marvelling earth as she hugs us in cool dew and kisses us in moonlight and cradles us in this calmness, this hugeness, this coloured life.
Clutch the crimson rose, More coloured than your maroon lips, Flavourful and dangerous- Singing a deep ballad of bloodied love. Bite that scarlet rose, those Cherry ruby petals, adorning your Magical, mysterious mouth. Stain your teeth with the Deathly juice of raw pomegranate, Holy cerise and classic carmine, harsh hues. Crush those poised petals, give way to Powerful dyes to blind the world. These sacred ashes of a flower’s beauty, still Alive in pure paint; What a beautiful burgundy. A resilient scream of red in a sea of muted tones. Sing, you red rose, sing.
Be a cartoon heart. Open your eyes and stare wide at the sky and take it all in. Bask in the brilliance of being alive. Let your heart be as eternal as the ocean, As tender as the twinkling dew at dawn, As kind as the sweet rain to a scorched earth, As brave as the red rose bursting through the concrete. Let your heart be both, A gentle breeze and a fierce storm, Let it aim true and find home. “Be forgiving,” says my heart. “Be caring,” she whispers. “Be loving,” she breathes. “Be.” She gives me final advice.
This is a poem about two young lovers, walking along the pier in the evening. Their love is exciting, bubbling, and shy but somehow they’re both nostalgic for the moments they’re experiencing that evening.
Small Stars
We’re welcomed by the gentle evening; The crimson sun embraces us, the sound of the sea kisses us, the salty air tickles us. Our hands fit awkwardly in our pockets Our faces face the coloured sky, We’re silent for a few minutes.
We’re bathed in golden paint by the sun- That fat star in the distance Sinking into the horizon to sing the sea to sleep. Knowingly or unknowingly, the sun leaves us not as two humans but As two small stars. As products of her own love and care. As descendants of her fierce passion and resilience.
The sun knows. She knows us. She sees us.
We’ve stared into the distance long enough To find comfort in each other To start walking again. We fall into easy conversation, still shy and tender: Gentle laughs, knowing smirks, playful jokes.
And yet, somehow we’re self aware. We know. We foresee our supernovas, We know we end. In the midst of joy and love and life, we know.
We’re sitting on a Ferris Wheel that jerks And suddenly our hands fit in each other, We’re testing the waters for a few seconds, Not meeting each other’s eyes as we blush furiously- putting the scarlet sky to shame. We’re two stars slowly melding together- Our hands are molten lava, our hearts are wide as the ocean.
But early Venus in the distance Smiles forlornly at us, She knows we’re fleeting stars. And we do too.
We’re eating fries dipped heavily in sauce but we’re still dipped in nostalgia. We’re decorated in memories from the future- Longing for today. We know we’re precious; We know we won’t be this bright again; We miss ourselves as every moment passes.
Twilight nods and understands, She knows and she whispers to us, “May you always be bathed in golden paint, my loves.”
This is a poem about a group of friends who realise they have to part ways. They all want to pursue different things and won’t be together anymore. Although they’ll be in the same city, they realise it won’t be the same anymore.
EXPIRY DATES
I knew it was going to end, just not this quickly. The family we created was one day going to part ways. Was going to head towards new beginnings. Was going to change.
But I didn’t know when.
And suddenly when that expiry date transforms to today, I’m bittersweet. I’m the sour oranges you still chew because you like fruits, The promises you make just to comfort yourself, The hug you give someone you know is going to leave tomorrow.
It all happens too fast and I’m trying to be more meaningful. To wonder what I did right and what I did wrong, To smile at everyone and generate joy, To capture every last moment. I’m trying to console myself and somehow reason that we’ll be alright. We’ll keep in touch. This won’t end.
But I’m also trying to figure out When the world will decide it’s my turn to do everything, to be that person. My turn to be the main character, to write the story. My turn to live the life others have been living- independent, strong, beautiful.
But maybe life won’t turn out that way. Maybe I’ll still be stuck- Surrounded by newer people, unable to replace my family, but still making do with what I have. Maybe I’ll just be a spectator- never the lead. Maybe that’s how things will end. Maybe that’s what the aftermath of an expiry date holds.
Total and utter confusion.
With no instructions on how to proceed ahead- Just a warning of decay. I’m being handed my own pen and being Pushed into a world I hope I can make the best of. I’m bittersweet. Always.
I’m eclipsed by my own mountain of expectations- telling me to somehow Find the limelight. Find myself.
As everyone waits in anticipation for the ‘ball to drop’, the world comes to a standstill at midnight. We all halt for a few seconds. It’s one of the more meaningful yet fickle moments in life, a sign that time moves with a mind of its own. A sign that we’ve endured 12 months again without realising how truly impactful they were. A sign to make more resolutions we know we can’t keep because maybe 2023 is going to be our year.
In those few seconds, memories of the last year flash before our eyes. The highs, the lows, the awkward moments we still haven’t unpacked, all of it. Distantly, it strikes us that we’ll have to write the date differently- 01.01.23. A lovely Fibonacci date wasted on a generation far too nostalgic to even move past 2019.
It isn’t until a month into the new year that we realise the year has begun. It won’t wait for us. Meanwhile, we’re still stuck making collages and scrapbooks, trying to document life to make it seem more tangible. To make it seem like something worth holding onto.
01.01.23 and we arm ourselves with all the lessons we’ve learned from 2022. We stand tall in gratitude for our support system, for our beloved friends and family. Yet we also bow our heads, humble in our approach as we greet another year of life. Always ready to grow.
Those few seconds pass and applause erupts at once all over the country. Drinks are clinked, cakes are cut, firecrackers are burst. Silent prayers and promises are sent out into the air with new hopes and dreams for the coming year. Reality comes roaring back with hundreds of chats flooded with celebration. And we stand there, knowing that maybe 2023 is our year.
should I let the waves of colour and composition pull my feet out from under me till i fall to the wet sand, heavy with honeys of hues and tints of timber?
should i deliberately get lost in a forest of untold stories and broken dreams, of stars that burn you, scorch you, unalive you, and leave you ugly scars, of beautiful things too sharp to be part of this world?
should i eat life unafraid of eating the food of Gods, of seeing my red blood turn gold, of losing grasp of memory, moment, sanity- for the sake of immersing myself in art?
in hopes that one day, i will also be known as a story, as art.
