Bare Feelings

In all probability you have a face, and a mouth on it that could form intelligible words. I am not sure. I am occupied otherwise. Your wide child-bearing hips, accentuated by that narrow waist, are having a hearty conversation with my evolutionary needs. I don’t love you. I don’t want to flay your soul and carve it with an intellectual self portrait. I don’t want to let my ego destroy the person you represent to gratify my need for approval and conformity. And by destroy, I mean change it ever so little. No, I just want you. And this seemingly vulgar emotion of lust is my sincere attempt at respecting you as an individual; a confession that says I want you as you are. I want you in the capacity you excel at and trade it with my best. I want exactly what you are right now. Nothing else and not later.

A Mild Headache

“It is so difficult being an adult.. don’t you think so?”, she said, as I sat there, contemplating the question in my head. Utter chaos. It wasn’t a sudden realization of the hardships of adulthood. I am not naive or demented enough to believe it is easy. The problems with being in charge of your own life are so inherent to the act that you overlook them. Imagine if a child were born with a mild headache. He would grow up to realize that the feeling is indeed unpleasant, but would be incapable of disassociating the pain with his existence. And she sat there, asking the kid if he felt wretched because of the pain in his head.

तेरे मेरे बीच

अनजान है तू, खुद से, मुझ से, इस बहती सड़क से।
कोई दूरी लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।

नज़रे मिली नहीं, पर हटी भी नहीं, जैसे पहरा हो रूह पे।
कोई शिकन लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।

आवाज़ लगाऊं या, आँखों को कहने दू, किस्से तो बहुत हैं।
कोई अनकही लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।

ना बेपरवाह हैं, ना ही बेक़रार हम, बस एक खिचाव सा है।
कोई तड़प लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।

Damage Control

The beginning is slow. The influx is limited. A nudge here, another there; trickle by trickle, the fluid pours in but always remains contained. You believe the source will dry up and the leak will stop. But it continues. The well up becomes evident and you panic. The desperation to prevent the breach grows, because you are in control only as long as the dam holds. You attempt fixing the problem. Diversion doesn’t work. You try to block the source. Nothing works. The level swells and hangs precariously on the edge. Helplessness prevails; your rational faculties surrender and you choke. But you are still hopeful that the tide will subside. With clenched jaws, you recede into an isolated secure zone. You draw in a sharp breath and then you hold it. But that doesn’t stop the time like you wish it would. And then, the tear falls.

Enclosed in Asterisks

Am sick of finding the right words; I want to say it with my eyes and engrave it on the canvas of your mind. Shouldn’t have to tell you how much you are needed. You know it, because I have told you before. But that’s how far it goes. There is no way to top that gesture if you are missing. If I could, I would brand it on your skin with my touch.

Let’s not share anything or go over every excruciating detail of the day. Why waste time? What good is it to know how your day went if I can’t hold you until I know exactly how you feel about it? How does it help if you can’t hold me back until you feel whole again?

And I don’t care if you are always “by my side”, or the fact that I can count on you. I need your body as much I have your mind. Lay down by my side. May be, stare in a different direction. Your smell and breath! I am done with intentions enclosed in asterisks and silly emoticons. Let me reach inside you through the lines on your face and read you like a book. Flared nostrils. The occasional glazed over eyes. I want to deal with character flaws, not network congestion.

These interactions should feel good; tiny little opportunities to touch you ever so slightly. But it’s as if each phone call, each text, each smiley, clears the dust on my window pane, and reveals, just a little more, the amount of distance that separates us; the never ending wasteland of promises and desires that lies between the small log cabin my life resides in and the nearest village I am welcome to.

Update [13th of May, 2014]:

Found this wonderful video that speaks of the ills of social networking and is in a peculiar sync with what’s written above:

The Innovation of Loneliness from Shimi Cohen on Vimeo