White Lines

We are travelling.

I can see some white lines,
criss-crossed and
curved,
bending time.
These days
they are bending
my mind
as well.

On those lines
we are surfing.
Very fast.
Buoyed by
each other.
The lines are
as light as
a feather falling
from a height
And
as relaxing as
a shower in summers.
-

2019


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Gold

Never knew that you’d grab my attention so strongly, ever. I underestimated you, I think; took you too easy and controllable; shouldn’t have done that, or, thought that about you because, the world, you see, can’t be wrong; I, alone can’t be right when it comes to you . that means… I am like the world but not myself. What the fuck! I am no different? Oh, you asshole, you fucking player, you attractive beauty, why, why, why do you elevate me like nobody does! don’t do that to me because you know you’ll win and I’ll succumb. Please? . . . Please! Just get into me like you do with those fluctuating temperatures of yours. Slide into me and grab me however you want, I’ll always be the world and not me.
Read more

Raw As Fuck

The pages turning yellow As the days Pass by; Desire to write Burning inside, Wanting to destruct The world With my fucking arrival. The lusty craving Of being A famous artist Drives my actions, Thinking that I Am making Art And serving Art And aspiring That I am an Artist, Is fucking dangerous To art itself. Kurosawa inspires To write and never Ever stop. The thirst, The lust Is insurmountable. I want to Fill the diary With Ideas Emotions Illustrations Scripts Stories And make A living, A fucking name... My fucking name. The ideal Of creating For, In, With the present Is the Ultimate endeavour. That seems damn Elusive right now. Beckett, Scorcese, Anderson, Tendulkar, Joyce, ionesco, Kurosawa, Chekhov, Tarkovsky... All inside the Lusty craving Entirely to become The Big Artist Who creates art Of Originality, Quality, Provocation. The diary And The pen, Tools forever, Colleagues forever, Saviour forever.
Read more

डर है तो.

कल क्या होगा इसका डर अब कम है; डर है तो पनपते कलाकार का, पन्ने कितने भरूँगा इसका डर है, पन्ने भरने में कहीं अभिनय न खोजाये इसका डर है, कहीं अभिनय के डर से मैं कोई पात्र ही न समझू इसका डर है, और पात्र न समझने से कहीं कलाकार ही न बनूँ इसका डर है. डर है तो कहानी का, कहानी बनेगी या नहीं इसका डर है, बनेगी तो बिकेगा या नहीं इसका डर है; बिकेगी तो लोग देखेंगे या नहीं इसका डर है, देखेंगे तो सराहेंगे की नहीं इसका डर है. डर है तो समय का, क्या यह सही समय है इसका डर है, किसके लिए कितना समय है इसका डर है; समय मिले तो लिखूंगा या नहीं इसका डर है, और न मिले तो जियूँगा या नहीं इसका डर है. दिन बड़े लगने लगे हैं और रात थोड़ी कम, दिल में बसे अँधेरे से आँखें आज भी होती है नम; पर यह आँखों की नमी कभी अभिनय से न छूटे इसका डर है, और अभिनय से छूटे तो कभी मेरे शब्दों से न रूठे इसका डर है. कल क्या होगा इसका डर अब कम है, डर है तो...
Read more