Echoes

You don't relish the attention your eyes seem to crave? Let's ask the happiness rotting in your childhood's grave. Strangled by desire under the magnanimous castle of ambition, Your smile vanished. What a trick! Oh, great magician. — Pranay

#commentary For someone who loves reading and watching scenes about psychopaths, I still could never come to terms with why a man would find satisfaction in killing another. This is my attempt to see it from their perspective, which still could never justify their deed but serves as a reason. I feel the need to tell what inspired this piece. The day before had been a total heck of an experience; I was tired and frustrated about the day-to-day things and personal conflicts in all. I got home and got my finger stuck between a door. As embarrassing as this tale is, I tell it! I got my finger stuck and started crying. I blamed the door, but it was never the door or my hurting nail; it had only been the slow turn of events that led to that point—a terrible heck of a day. In that moment, I realized how a single door and a finger could make everything go wrong in the world.

Kill the Rat: Indifference—A Cure and a Disease What drove him to kill a man? They all argued while circled around a table of whiskey and dishes. The lot said he was a psychopath; others said he had lost his mind, for he pulled the trigger seven times and had looked upon the man with no remorse, and when he had been asked, replied that the coffee he drank a moment before had burnt his tongue. "He must be a man with no heart," they all agreed, with nodding their heads. That day, another life was lost, or it must have been lost a long time ago. On July 4th of 2004, a rat he had brought home and refused to do away with when his parents insisted, chewed through his father's important certificates and other documents. So his father despised him. That was the year his mother started smoking pot. That was the year his father lost his job, and he was taken to Grandma Rita, and he was bullied in school, and he repeated a class twice, and Grandma Rita died of old age, and his parents got divorced, and his father drank too much, and his mother started working at a brothel, and he caught his girl cheating, and he drank his coffee too quick that he had burnt his own tongue. It is so that a man doesn't lose all hope of being human because of a certain event. It is usually the accumulation of similar events, of little setbacks, little failures, little misfortune, when, if all summed up, becomes a gargantuan mountain that drives a man to insanity. For when man and life are placed on a circus to fight, all physical advantage is to life, while all that lies beyond the physical realm, which is greater than the physical, is to the man. Yet man is unaware of this. That is the advantage life has on him. So as when life sends his weakest soldier, a home built with years of love slowly starts crumbling. And man becomes indifferent in thinking, by perceiving everything as insignificant or meaningless, then he has triumphed over life, when, in actual discernment of matters beyond the physical realm, he is merely being held captive by darkness. On that night, he had felt all that was burning in his life, and when the stranger had approached him with the word "friend," was a single tick of the clock after he had burnt his tongue. So he killed the man, not exactly because of the burn or the coffee, but because, in 2004, there was a rat in his home that changed everything. He killed the man because he said "friend." He killed the man because he saw a rat and didn't see a man, because he was trying to end another turn of events before it even started, because when he got the burn, the last light in his head went off, because many other lights had been going off before it resulted in the last, because at that moment the light went out, It was darkness, total void, of emptiness and nothingness, a culmination of all that has transpired, of all perilous and meticulous, malevolent tragedies. He killed a man because he was putting out a fire, because he saw a rat, biggest in its form, and with great indifference, he ended the rat. — Myra

A Miserable Man I know your childhood was misery, but some good memories linger. I know you go out wearing the back of your shirt out. I know your only enemy was the world outside your room. I know the good times you had with people were when you pretended not to be you. I know your best companion was insomnia and bipolar. I know your favorite dress was depression and fear. I know your brown-haired aunts find satisfaction in comparing you to your father. I know the happiness you proclaimed you had was merely a prayer to your God. And I say, why should your demise be mourned? You've been accustomed to the abyss all your life; only now have you gone to the greatest abyss of them all— on a withered ground adorned with flowers you never held, where dreams or purpose hold no meaning, where you finally become the fears you had feared. I know, at the end, your parents wish they hadn't borne you. — Myra

Father, save me. There's a heart attached to my chest and a brain attached to my head, yet I cannot find where my mind and conscience are. When I look in the mirror, I have this thought that the ability I have to see myself is because I'm outside this body, yet I'm stuck in a vessel I don't even belong in. — Myra

But They Would Not The truth is, when I once read and did read alone, I looked up to the writers, for I knew it surpasses mere knowledge to write something so captivating, mysterious yet understandable. I would spend time thinking about the kind of humans they are and how they could put down emotions in such a profound manner. As time would have it, I think I became one. And I realize now how everything is merely nothing, and I have refused what titles come with penning down words. I see now that it is all meaningless. If every being would exert himself into doing anything he wants with conviction and unyielding valour, who then is a poet? Who then is greater than any other? — Myra

There's a feeling in my heart, a will in my head, a life in my hands, a thought depicted through my eyes, a vibration that goes through my lips, an aura in my vocal—childlike. A soul in my feet, a heart in my eyes, a thought between my lips, an open book in my brain, a pen in my throat, a conscience in my ear, an ugliness in my beauty, fear in my bravery, courage in my humility, pretense in my priorities, a plethora of anxiety in my victory. There's a mind in my mind, a heart within the heart of my heart. And while I tore apart what makes me whole, still I ask myself, where am I in all of these? — Myra

The tombstone sits on boundless beauty I still believe our lives are like a sketch board split in two. I paint within my half, and you paint within yours. Where our brush meets at the center is where I offer a little bit of me to you and you to me. While the beauty of our merged colors brings forth marvels, the bigger part is left to someday rot in the grave. — Myra

I have a strong feeling about not being from here. Not truly belonging. And this is not in a sense of belonging to a specific group of people or community, because I have my people and they always make sure to remind me about the place and value I have amongst them. I'm talking on a deeper level here, the type of feeling you get, when you stare long enough into a colorful sunset, and you start seeing where one color turns into another. What matters to most people, all the things that are deemed essential and worthy of our sweat, appear meaningless to me. I become united with my surroundings and forget that my body is positioned in the most weirdest angle imaginably, yet snapping from that feeling of unity with nature doesn't feel like snapping out of a reverie. It's the getting back to the so called "reality" that feels like being in a stubborn dream. When I lose myself in the air, and become one with the dissipating clouds, I feel whole and real and solid. And the fact that I've been living this way ever since I could remember, makes sense now. I'm just finding the words to describe fragments of what it's like living this way, so that others would get a glimpse of it too. But truly, it's unexplainable. And I get agitated, when I remember that no matter how many times I try to gloss my words or try to mold them, and make them appear plain, there is no way others can see the world, the way I see it. So now, I'm trying to teach myself gently that it's not necessary to teach people anything. Especially when it comes to the relationship i have with nature and my feelings and surroundings. Just living it, and appreciating it while it lasts, is enough. That's how i celebrate life. And the life i have and my outlook towards it, will most certainly start to show on the way i interact with any living beings. And that interaction, and the chain of consequences it brings, will do the job my words failed to do. The only way to tell people about your life, is by living it as best as you can. And that is enough. — Lydia

There's so much to say, but of what use is it to speak when you can never say enough to say it all? To pour it all out, to fully open up and lay bare, bare in its barest form, completely dauntless of the hunting past and monstrous future planning to consume us all; of the strings that continuously pull us to each other when we want nothing but to be apart. Of the bucket list that gets shorter each passing season, with a promise to get more shorter, smaller, until nothing oh but mere wishes and the could-have-beens, given up for the sake of growing up or growing fast—I don't know the difference, if there ever is. Everything makes sense and makes no sense. I dream and then wish I had not. I love and then wish I had not. We aren't told; we aren't warned. There's nothing promising about this life but problems and familiarity that takes away every magic, every magic of a first time, the first sightings, the first wins, of a beating heart. If only there was a way to undo everything in order to do it all again. — Myra

I met her today. Or wait, was it yesterday? How would I know? I'm just stuck in that moment. She smiled when our eyes met. My lips just froze while her book of stories never ended. Honestly, I don't even remember what she spoke— Something about her family or Maybe her college? Well, how does it matter? I'd not see her again. Why, you ask? Because that's how it's always been. We meet; she talks, I pout; she smiles. We talk; she remembers. I leave; she tries. Some people come into our life just to let us know we are not worth it. I'm not worth it for a hundred times by now. I have not played this game for more than one day. They get to know me before even my stone-dead eyes would say. Simple, it has become post the twenty-first. After this date, I'd not hear from her next. These thoughts partying in my head, Smiling at my loveless life as I lay down on the bed. Phone rings with a peculiar anxiety— Probably understood that it has never happened in history. She called me back. Probably as a joke or prank? Her melody greeted from the other side: "How about dinner tonight?" she said. — Pranay

Sitting inside the most gloomiest state ever, I tried to think of good words that can cheer another soul up. In my head, letters assembled to form the most heart warming and comforting words written in the history of writing (what a silly idea it was). Trying to offer the world the things I so desperately needed but wasn't able to find. I want to reach out and touch a heart that was bruised multiple times. A broken dream that was crushed under the rough boots of "reality". A soul broken because of unreciprocated love, aching to get a taste of warmth from anyone. I'm just aimlessly wandering in circles, trying to find an even spot to sit upon and make sense of what's going on. But the path is bumpy and refused to lay smooth, typical! The moon used to warm me up, a different kind of warmth, different than the sun. She used to cradle me in her arms that were made of misty silver lights and lull my spirit to peaceful slumber. But even she turned cold tonight, blinking down at me somberly with her companions which, their distant twinkling failed to excite me. I stare, they stare. We sit in silence, thousands of unspoken words that won't ever see daylight surrounding us. The icy sleet used to be bearable, but not anymore. — Lydia

Self talk I would never be enough. I would never say that I am important too. I can concede that I am not lovable enough. It would be a lie to say that, My mistakes do not define me. I am certain about how, I should carry my past as a burden. I don't think for a minute that I am beautiful despite my flaws. I know that, I deserve no good things. I refuse to believe that, I can rise above my insecurities. I know deep down that Being ubiquitous is ugly. It is foolish to presume that I will always be enough, For me. #reversepoetry [Read from top to bottom, then from bottom to top]

When our words fail to reach through, I tell him it's the universe. "The universe." He replies, both a question and a statement; he doesn't buy it. "Yes, the universe wants us apart," I push on. "The universe," he replies, both a question and a statement. He smiles. The silence stretches and stretches on as we watch the sunset quietly and wonder if any of this is real, or when will any of this be real. — Myra

If your font size isn't twelve. Then it's all a terrible mess.

A distraction                                                                 I                               Once                         Had an idea                      And built upon it                   With more ideas and              It was expanding, decently         It grew bigger the more I thought    The more I observed and sat in serenity At the foot of a lake, my thoughts had shaped Into a pyramid of words and I became happy For a second I was lost in total bliss of this new found knowledge lost in the illusion of my dreams and hopes, then all of a sudden, something crashed into the lake which brought me back to reality And just like how the water splashed across, my thoughts scattered Every where And Made a terrible Mess of My Once Beautiful Pyramid — Myra

If I Had My Way If I had my way, if I was favored by the world, I’d live in the countryside. There, the rush in my heart would subside into steady thumps. My mind would learn peace as my sight lands on the calm of life. My feet would tread deliberately, caressing the tall grass. I’d befriend the echo of my voice, And it would return good tidings from my soul. Time would bless my joy, Flying at a steady pace to multiply my bounty. The love I’d lost for life would sprout Alongside the vegetables I’d grow. I’d bathe in the silence, Wearing the whispers of the field like a robe. I’d hold my breath at the beauty that unfolds every morning, Only to let it out at night, before taking a sip of tea. If I had my way, if I was favored by the world, I might choose the city instead A tower to call my home Overlooking life's endless race. The glow of the streetlights would smolder softly in the night And the hum of the traffic would harmonize with the voices in my mind. I’d learn the cunning of success, Mine fleeting chances, And prove I belong. I’d walk the crowded streets, Wading through people rushing somewhere— Anywhere but where they are. I’d walk the city at odd hours, Until I’m left alone. Every day would be a victory of survival, Rewarded with a coffee-to-go. If I had my way, if I was favored by the world, In both parallels I’d dream of, there would be you: The solace in the quiet, The constant in the storm.