Paradox of grief

 You hold grief prisoner,

Though you cannot contain fleeting time.

 

You hold onto every memory you have,

Though you cannot cradle the essence of their being,

You grasp your being tightly, while struggling to keep theirs alive.

 

You embrace the ambiguity of these troubling thoughts,

Soaking in the grayness of a mind that seems to have a mind of her own

 

But am I not part of their being?

Should you not let grief settle in?

 

Why do they say that grief hides in most familiar and unfamiliar places?

Aren’t you supposed to carry on, with grief as your anchor?

Does grief ground you?

 

As always, there are too many questions run in parallel

And yet you ask, why do I camouflage?

 

Yours

Mastering the art of becoming, where solace arrives on a not-so-wintery morning

~Cathartic~

 

So serendipitous but not-so-destined

How do you expect her to feel?

When she learns the boy she loved

With every corner of her soul

Once loved her, too?

 

Not now.

Not still.

 

But he did at some point in his lifetime and in her lifetime.

Conveniently.

Briefly.

Serendipitously.

 

She doesn’t know

Whether the truth breaks her more

Or sets her free

 

And yet somehow 

That almost-love

Feels heavier

Than none at all.

 

Then there is destiny.

Then there is ‘destined’.

Then there is domino effect.

 

What is love, truly?

Why can’t it be simple?

Why can’t it be serendipitous?

Why can’t it be a Hallmark Christmas movie?

Why can’t it be two people sitting together on a bench under the autumn sky?

 

Well, as always, I ask too many questions!

It is. What it is. 

 

Yours

Apparently

On the cusp of turning 40

One must do some damage control

One must learn to blunt the hurt

One must learn to tidy the heart

One must learn to grieve the grief

One must learn to patch the leaking wound

One must sit with oneself

Not as a critic

But as a witness to survival

For this is not the end

This is an ode to new beginnings

Loud thoughts, you say!

 Why is it the way it is?

Why does it hurt the way it does?

Why do I vent the way I do?

Why don’t you fade the way everything does?

Why do I drown my thoughts the way I do?

Why can’t let you go the way I do it for other things?

I ask a lot of questions. I know I do. Very few know I do.

Yours

Numbness of the monkey mind

Holding back

Holding back is a  trait

Holding back is a safety net

We all hold back a lot of things and we spill a lot of things

I don't hold back when I write
You don't hold back when you paint

I don't hold back when I capture photographs
You don't hold back when you sing

I don't hold back on my instincts
You don't hold back when you sting

I do hold back a lot of things
You do hold back your deeper emotions

Isn't holding back is a sign of not letting go?
Or is it just a game of the mind?


Or sometimes things are just plain black and white
Not grey
Not blue
Not even red

Yours
Exhastipated mind of an overthinker's soul 

Why does it still hurt so bad?

 

A single tear runs down your cheek,

A single breath in and out shuts down your emotions

A single song

A single voice

A single baritone melancholic soothing voice of the maestro

A single conversation

A single fragment of your silence

A single syllable of an old song

A single glass of good old red liquid

A single memory of happiness

A single memory of sadness

A single fling of an illusion

A suffocating chest tightness

A reminder of old love.

Yours

Piya basanti re, kahe sataye

Koi fariyaad dil mein dabi hai