ramblings of:

A predisposition, tendency or choice that makes itself, clear and loud in what I think, speak, dream - even that which I write about!

I envy the optimists riddled with cheer without cause, a smile is too difficult to find Ask me to summon at will instead some doubt, anxiety or thoughts unkind

Let me begin with a question; can you take the monster out of its lair? Do you think it could change, given a warmer hearth, kindness and care? Did the claws creep out, mind unhinge, in reaction to years of hate? Or did the fangs bared, matted hair, have nothing to do but with fate?

They say that in there, sharp words shot like poisoned darts in the blind, some left only hard skin, but others settled like the back of a porcupine. Rotting breath, vicious growls and angry spittle falling like acid rain they all came from an aching stomach, bursting full with anger and pain.

You think it haunts the lair alone, but there is more than what meets the eye; The myth of the solitary villain belies the wildness that shakes the skies. They say shared joy is doubled and unhappiness halved – a lie ignorant and funny! For whether friends or foes, like-unlike, demons are best raised in company.

What made the monster grow its might, taught it to scratch and bite? What kind of evil made it weaker of the heart, but stronger by the fight? Who could shape it so then fill it with darkness that has only grown Surely you’ll find this is a job fit only for shared flesh, blood and bone.

There lives a little cat, white, brown, speckled, and furry warm and soft as they come, yet they find him quite contrary.

For he jumps high and often at sounds too quick or loud or near and runs away from loving hands even those by now, familiar.

Surprise him with company if you want to drive him into hiding whether friendly or well-intended he doesn’t give a rat about your tidings.

But don’t think him a dull soul, his bright eyes couldn’t be mistaken when he aims high for the birds he leaps fearlessly, and lands barely shaken.

Then there are unwitting escapades (that add to an already troubled mind) and plenty more misadventures, harmless but unpleasant, of the gastric kind.

I wish I had more than stories of magic and triumph that I was fed For now I need references to reality to missteps, dread and failed attempts.

I wish, Instead of happily-ever-afters I was told that battles of the mind never end I wish, instead of rosy love stories, I was shown that some hearts are forever on the mend.

For now I’m left with lofty ideals dreams perfect yet unrealised and my optimism is weak and waning I was never told that magic takes a while.

And I was never shown that magic isn’t easy that darkness doesn’t disappear overnight but that magic lies in the long and slow dawn and in patience that burns into the twilight.

And that not all stories end with neat morals, but with questions and not exclamation points and that most stories lie unresolved, unfinished, and some with endings rewritten countless times.

I don’t want to hear of bleak beginnings and how it all worked out for the best Tell me of the weary minds and tired hearts and the darkness in the middle instead.

My hands connect like old friends parted; in my head, words and melodies are a-jingle; The object of shared attention draws me in causing habit and belief to mingle.

If God was truly listening, her wand raised, What’s the first thing you would ask for? Best to keep problems lucid, priorities straight if you believe that deliverance will be sure.

Perhaps, I praise the good that’s been done (hitherto it seemed, unremarkable serendipity); one might say it’s only polite to be grateful when omniscience claims accountability.

When they say that no ask is too big, it’s the wisher who seems ridiculously small; Perspective, after all, is holding things relative and too many options is no choice at all.

She was told if she tried she would surely find it, so she always looked In smiles, in comfort, in praise, in power, in faith, and plenty other nooks.

Then she made peace, perhaps some chance upon it while others do not But she couldn’t help but notice that serendipity always favoured the same lot.

Staring at the blank page, I resolutely declared: “Today, I shall write about a daisy in the sun!” Afloat in a pretty glass filled with water; and how the water made the light more fun.

Today, although my thoughts lie in dull shadow and cower under the burden I must take in stride; but words turn thoughts into something more real and so mine must only speak of something bright.

Lonesome, this daisy sits by my window gleaming golden in the narrow slant of light; I shall praise the green, the white, the yellow with phrases that someone happier might.

Perhaps, sadness can be recounted when you wield more power with pen; but my words - they don’t seem very honest yet I find them troublingly transparent.

When it comes to introspection you regale in negative space bound by what you’re not, could have been, all that you should have chased

His phone buzzes to life again. Another day, another number. It tells him 5 minutes. He accepts every time. The short pause is simply to soak in the mundaneness, to resist the urgent digital squawking, to retain some semblance of choice. His car guides him through the rain again. The voice navigation is interrupted only by his impatient honking. Is he truly impatient to get there? He slows down, and the doors open and shut. The car surges forward to another destination that holds no meaning to the one who drives.

Between the heavy pattering of the rain, his phone beeps to let him know he’s arrived. He steps off his bike, his shoes squelching on the wet pavement. He opens his carrier to fetch the bag of food, reading off names. To him, each name is a ticking timer, each trip a tick mark. He feels the warmth of the food in his cold arms, warrants a guess as to what he’s delivering. Wafts of the escaped smells linger until he reaches home, until he switches the lights on in his small kitchen late at night.

Of small wonder and simple rhyme Often I wish to pen a tale for I suspect, as with all dear things, my memory too shall wane.

Sometimes I write for the love of make-believe of all the things I wish, feel and see If fiction is the lie which tells the truth Truth is far more palatable when imaginary.

But if you wondered, it isn’t easy – words whiz past and phrases lurk out of reach; when I do get lucky and find the right ones, stringing them together is a formidable feat.

Slowly, my voice turns to words, and words to pages but my doubts remain stubborn and unmoved; What should I do with these lines of letters? To never show them the light of day seems crude.

These words may reflect and refract yet I fear the image will closely resemble me I suppose it’s time I learnt the lesson to seek the light of improvement in lack of victory

Tiny pink babies coming out of cold blue rooms into warm sweaty arms. Mothers sitting in a row on the floor feeding the miniature bundles held in their sarees. Toddlers sitting next to their newborn siblings eating out of small steel plates. The smell of an attempt at cleanliness laced with grime and sweat. The nurses taking slow, heavy steps that resound with learned apathy amongst the hustle-bustle of the ward. Family members peeking over, not sufficiently occupied with their own miseries.