Day 64: Without a Single Address

I have been fascinated with the John Doe letters I used to write, when I was a boy. It was an exercise in learning how to write, and for a long time I used to think we always did it wrong. The idea was always about the format rather than the content, the content was irrelevant often and it would have sufficed to write enough to just get your idea across. None the less we would write these mock letters to mock addresses and learn about this wonderful art , that would soon be replaced by instant messaging and emails. Today was about revisiting this little boy in the back of my head, as I sat with my family reminiscing the past, it reminded me of arguments that I had with myself and how I learned how to communicate with letters, with words to no one. And hence this is an expression to that nature of not knowing addresses simply a purpose should be enough

Without a Single Address
I have found you at the dawn instead of the , I am book you read when you get up for your day,
You find me by your sides, snuggled right beside in the blanket that lies tucked away
The little children outside, run more free in my mind, in fiction and dreams and tales of today,
They are happier in the dreams that create, in the painting they paint and in the colors they play

The author resides in the depths of his home, through the crusty window glass he stares outside,
To the soul he writes about endless words, in pages and warmth of a page where he conspires,
He makes flames out in story books, he tells tales so brave, so passionate and yet so kind,
He tells of men who have vanished into the abyss and then about legacies that they have left behind.

The little child in my head,still reads day by day, he learns words at night,
He steals meaning from the things he can relate, he writes them down in only spaces in his mind,
Falling down the road seems just an excuse, I dust up myself as I get ready to go again,
The day may be over, the dusk may have drawn close, but the things of great beauty is far from an end

To cheers that bounce off the walls as they might, on days that I often sing by your side,
And the words that spin around in my head, they find meaning somehow , wherever they can find
I have found the little child that still writes letters to no one, but none the less,
He has found a way to communicate with the world, without even "a single address". 

Day 63: So you say

It is not often that I write poetry with a darker note, but being up late at night most times will let you think about the strange relationship that this darker side of the day shares with its counterpart. They will tell you of the best of story books and fairy tales being read at night, they will remind you of the warm sleeps we all go to , and also the strangeness that surrounds , that shrouds the night. It is almost strange that the hero and the villain must both come out at night, the valor and the grace that are tested and for me sometimes the only times I can write, must be here. I told myself, what if the night was having a conversation with the day? about what the day and other people say, what would be speak of? what would it complain about? Hence the choice of the phrase "So you say" the you refers to the counterpart, the roles being reversed and the walls must refer to the spaces of our head where we think out loud, and where we dream and forget, where we write and erase. This is one of the more elusive ones that I write,

So you say
So you say that the walls are painted blue, the chairs lay bare on the floor,
The windows shut the wind outside, and all I can hear is the creak of the door
The twilight zones of the night come and go, like flickering lights set on repeat,
They are meant to be passages you write everyday, things you ponder about when you can't sleep

So they say they are the invisible ones, the ones we can't forget or replace,
The music that plays on and on , and the ones that builds a place somewhere in my head.
They are passages of the book no one reads any more, they are obscured like the night,
They are words that haven't been unlocked quite yet, they are ones that haven't fought a fight.

So you say that the night is always young, it never reaches the end; it slowly drifts away,
And when the stories are all told at night, do you often wish for a brand new story every day?
The knights of the night, the victory marches of the day, the reasons we all sometimes celebrate,
Is that among the many words we write, the paintings we draw, we must all but simply "create"

Oh dreamer of the night, the ones who summarize and make sense of it all,
The ones who remember the dreams in their head, every time you memories hits recall.
So you say one day when the writings are all done, the walls will have scribbles no longer blue,
They will be filled with words that carry meaning , they will speak for me to "you"

Day 62: The Impossible Love

In the last couple of days, though there was much to write about, my wandering soul wanted a break from things. From the realities we face everyday, from the things we dream about and some that have always been great. In the last couple of days, I have been thinking about what we called the impossible love, our challenges to our own selves. Our preface to a good book, our prelude to a song, and that little bit of hope that lies in impossibility, in knowing we are all looking for places to belong. They will tell me one day that writing must come easy to me, to be able to write and to set your mind free. I often write the description without rhyme and though unintentional it seems to read like one, as I find hope for those many who have had their impossible love, and here's winning the fight everyday

The Impossible Love
We are what we were yesterday, no questions asked no expectations for the day,
We didn't change , we didn't grow up, we just defined our friendship in someway

We didn't fall, we didn't get up, we didn't relive the mystery,

We just found a reason ,and a time and place and often something that we wanted to be 

We say we love the impossible things, the ones that are often hard to get

That are meant to be free, that are meant to be secret and yet this is what we look for instead

I row my little sail boat home, the oars get lost in the tides of time,

And in whatever memory that you keep as yours, and whatever I can salvage as mine

There are those who believe in destiny, the journey from point A to B,

And everything that lies in between, is what we get to choose, the things we want to be.

We fulfill our promises to only ourselves, the feel good factors of the day we live,

Are among the many times we had a chance to get, and we decided to rather give

Among treasure maps of the heart, among chests that are found in depths of time,

I hold on to the anchored ship, the one that I claim is stationary and yet mine.

We will often sing to memories, to changes I often forget, the ones that mend themselves,

They are often read and reread in times, they are unheard of being stacked in shelves

Oh weary mind , my fellow traveler, my reader, my company in finding the impossible love someday,

When all maps seems to be drawn without direction, find solace in the little fights you win, keep writing, keep reading anyways

Day 61: Traveler Diaries

I often wish I was only a traveler, I didn't have a sense or need for permanency, no defined goal no objectives in mind and the only think I would know is how much time I could spend at a place. The people I would meet would be like long arrays of names, and name tags and hellos and some of these names would stick to me and some of them won't , some of the memories will keep me happy at night and some will haunt me and yet none of them are things I wish didn't happen. I am a man who has made many mistakes and though I would love to tell everyone that I could take them back and just be a name on the flight list, my bags remain unpacked for now, and though you may remember me as that blurry figure who might have been nice or worse I hope it changed something someway.

Traveler Diaries
Here's to the traveler who travels at night, between handles and pumped air and seat belts alike,
Who has packed up with no baggage underneath his seat, just the things he gets to carry in his mind
The ones who are remembered like the stamps on a passport page, and in interviews some days,
Who are often found like the box of lost and found, some who have always in memories remained

The coffee cup lays empty still , I drink no more, I no longer walk you home at night,
You are but free from the traveler, from the niceties , and what the world thinks is too polite
I am carried on between memories, we are what we write about in nostalgia sublime,
I have lived but without a log or trace, and then there are things that I have left behind

My expectations from a travel diary at times, is that it talks back so loud in  pages I write,
Between miscommunications, and flawed design , we will often find a reason to not let go, to fight
In between this right and wrong, in between what you may call as fiction at times,
You will find my impressions on the tea cup I used to drink, the coffee cups were never mine

The traveler travels this Christmas day, he logs his ups and down, he lays his eyes to rest,
He keeps his motives in the dreams that he dreams, if he could steal a dream as he lies in bed
When all that matters, is between pages of a book , he closes that chapter he feels no one reads,
He disappears without fare or farewell,  he does what he does out of happiness he cares not for heed.

Day 60: The Lonely River

I have been thinking about this for a long time now, working with rivers for the last 7 years and trying to understand it a little better every single day. It is interesting when you hear it while you close your eyes as it flow gently over the rocks or as it gushes with range and frees itself where it feels the need. But most of all what I realize is that no matter how much the river wants to hold on to something, no matter how much it wants to wait up for someone; it moves on. It is a lonely traveler and it is also the travel itself, it leaves an impression on the bank, it shapes it everyday and yet somehow its non conformity gives it an elusive nature. It is this lonely pursuit, this nature of not being able to wait which makes it so close to what we often feel from time to time, why we meander in pain, and yet sometimes carry on when the need comes. For now the lonely river rises and falls

The Lonely River
In the memories that I leave behind, the scours on the banks of time,
I have felt myself more alive, and sometimes times I have failed leave myself behind.
I flow from places and in time, I fear change every day,
And yet change is all I am capable of, to my brilliant dismay.

Forever lasts my lonely pursuit, I meander my ways in between this time and that,
I have no reason to brood , no memory of things I kept, no recollection of the world I had.
I sail with many so great, so beautiful, so kind, so gentle on the soul,
I have learned to believe but the stories, some of which still remains untold.

I am but the lonely river, I forever sway in between the days,
Between memories, and landscapes that flood my mind, and from places where I stay away.
I have reshaped lives, I have relived and was reborn from time to time,
And yet my greatest regret is not knowing, whatever I can truly hold as mine.

There are times when the impressions I leave, the places I carve stay with you,
They are forever a reminder of simpler things, of whatever things that you hold true.
In yesterday, today and tomorrow's tide, I rise and fall, I swell and sway,
The lonely river still flows inside and out, and is kept only in memories till this day.

Day 59: The Plastic Human

Last Friday while discussing ideas on statistics projects and in the midst of Herfindahl index, as usual conversations shifted pace and we started talking about the plastic nature of human beings. This idea was particularly interesting because it suggested both the malleability of being plastic in an obvious way and also the fragility that comes attached with being plastic, the idea of being something non natural in some sense, molded into something else. And hence tonight or today morning I share this idea of the plastic human and write to the many who have shared there insight over the last couple of days, who have heard back from me and who have in someways always found a way to make things more real.

The Plastic Human
I was written out of a story book ending, the characters of a play that once rose and fell,
Who were captured in stories they were written somewhere, and yet were only for time to tell
My own existence questions me at time, do I come in boxes that are packed away,
Am I real when I only need to be , and the rest of the time am I tucked instead

The plastic human but sees and feels, he molds into the world, he fits everywhere,
He is among the many who closely sees, the words that aren't said and yet he seems to hear
He takes the road less traveled at times, he crosses the world when no one pays heed,
He is beyond a figure in the background wall, he is more than alive when you feel the need.

He drags his feet sometimes, he lives a lie, he sleeps comfortably in his bed at night,
While the many who can't find sleep go on looking for a reason, go on fighting a fight,
In the end my dear friend, we are all a bit too plastic to be true,
We are written in fictions better than we are , we are often far away from the simple truth

I fear the world where we glean to be unreal, when we model the changes we think we perceive,
Or do I know the perfect recipe in my head, do I know the perfect lie & have I learned to deceive?
Withered cobwebs on my window pane, the reminders of things that have come and gone,
And yet the plastic human,the fiction of this night, is found in summary of the day that hasn't begun

Day 58: Stories we Tell

A friend of mine told me today, that we need to be able to be in touch with ourselves to write. The brilliant thought of being in company with your thoughts, sitting quietly in a chair mellowed by the dim lights of the room that surrounds us and in that inkling we find inspiration. And it is often the realizations that come from and through others that must inspire you to tell stories, the very reason I even began to write. So I write to the Stories we tell, about journeys,and about quiet corners of the room, about being in the company of many and often in the company of your thoughts, of being true to yourself and hoping that it percolates down to those around you. No matter what stories we tell to the world, I am glad we get to make them important, and to that thought I write, I share tonight.

Stories we tell
We often read the fairy tales,with pictures and drawings and dog eared pages in time,
We are drawn that which can hold imagination, and can yet be found in a simple rhyme
We are story tellers of the night, we are fighters of the day we write about life as it comes to us,
We are born out of fiction at times, and it is the truth that we find the hardest to trust

We are found in lost relationships, we are found in stories that we could not find,
Sometimes we are just too late at the scene, we are the glass that lay unfilled till even time unwinds
We are stories we tell to each other, we are inspirations in locked rooms,
We are simplicity that is carried on behind the tales we tell, but for "what"? and for "whom"?

Stories we tell are often found, like the last pages filled with scribbles of the day,
Like word lists, and doodles and paintings by my side , the ones I hear from you someway,
We are in phone calls we missed, in the times we returned a few,
Stories that have been told over and over again, and yet very often they are written to you

Stories we often tell, are the unwritten ones my friend,
The ones that start with preface and the ones that are written with no end,
We are but bound in a leather jacket, we are often unbound,
I have reasons to believe we are waiting to be read, we are hoping to be found.

Day 57: Till the Restless Child finds sleep

I have often found it is easier to write during the night rather than the beginning of the day. I do not know if this is because we feel compelled to summarize our day in words, or if we are too afraid that we will miss out on details the next day we try to write. But for whatever maybe the reason the idea of being restless like a child still comforts me, because I can imagine this means that I can be rocked back to sleep again even if by my own thoughts and words. In the slim chance of being adamant I often feel I tend to overlook that which is obvious, after all the obvious isn't always interesting. My choice of writing tonight hence, though fairly obvious finds no credence , no relationship and no reason than just a sleepless night, and a choice to write.

Till the Restless Child finds sleep
Till the dawn carries the night, till the restless child finds sleep,
Till the chilly winds of night slams against my window, till there is nothing left to keep
The footsteps on my door that I hear no more,
And the silence I slip in and out of like ever before

Till I refuse to tell you how, or what I feel sometimes,
They are just thoughts I could do without and some that I will never reveal or leave behind
The tired and weary lays his head, on the pillow that holds the imprint of his mind,
Till the clues that guides even his dreams , and written down somewhere and yet hard to find

They are not remnants of the day, they are musings of the night,
They are tickets of the front row seat of a long lost fight.
They are the players fortune, beginners luck whatever you may call,
They are whatever you may need, till you find someone to break your fall

Till the restless leaves and weaves his way out, till the sleep wins again,
Till the fairly tale endings of the night are not written but in vain,
We are heroes of our own story books, we are but captured only by the night,
We are captured only by thoughts and words and of musings to which we write. 

Day 56: Here's to Absent Friends

I have always thought. that we are often not a single piece in the making, we are merely multiple pieces that fit together, glued onto a surface to make sense to the world. In the past couple of days as I had written to journeys and reflections, there have been times I was reminded of the friends who could carry me on, the ones who have remained and most importantly the absent ones to whom we all attribute a bit of our persona. These are special ones who have etched their role in our lives, and though some have left in much haste, some have never called or cared, we have become indifferent to that familiarity as I wrote about it earlier. We have become accustomed to a world that is incessantly trying to rig the game but we have become better as it, we have been heart broken and in the end though we have had absent friends, we have been absent at unfair times. And hence here's to the absent ones, may you find inspiration in the roles we all play

Here's to Absent Friends
Here's to the absent friends,
The ones who have followed us home in our stories with no end,
The ones who are never lost in duels that we play,
We stand on street corners and fight the world instead

Here's to the absent ones, the ones who could really wish they we there,
To change the world around themselves, and to show they really cared,
They would hustle into busy streets, and could yet find out where we are,
They had learned to recognize faith, disbelief and even fear from afar.

Are we carried on by disbelief, that these kindled souls were once part of our lives,
Or too busy reading the pages of our past, where they lived on , moved on or simply survived
Here's to the absent friends, the ones who kept secrets as we kept theirs
Chances are they have learned to be indifferent to the world we once shared

Here's to the ones we hold high, question or have simply thought about,
Some who have chosen to be absent from our lives, and some who are just as far as a shout,
Oh carry the ship wreck home with you, and fix the pieces some are harder to find,
And then are some who need to repairs, they are absent by choice and yet never left behind

Day 55: The Indifferent Familiar

Most days, at the end of it we always return to familiar places, spaces and people in our mind, and though this distinction we draw between what seems more familiar is short lived from time to time, we keep coming back to it. Over the last five days I have flown over 11, 232 miles to the warmer southern counterparts, and though the warmth of the heart speaks of grander journeys to me, they are constant reminders of surprises. Coming back though, far from fresh starts, always seems to capture that extended luxury of a fresh one, the idea of starting the new found day with an indifferent zeal. For today I write to the indifference we enjoy in familiar places when we revisit them, the beauty of playing out "nostalgia" in that short lived time, almost as though enough time had passed.

The Indifferent Familiar
For today I write to fresh starts we often steal, in the absence of a few days,
The writings we write with no different zeal, just in a very different way.
We have traveled far, through many a closed doors we have peeked to the other side,
Through security checks and airport lines and through the panics of long flights.

You have traveled long , you have gone but far and wide,
Through checks and crossings of the days, you have written to people from a far away,
You have felt the New, every time you stopped, to take a breath; every time you took a stride,
You have grown out of airport lounges, and recycled air in cold vents on a warmer days

The indifference grows in familiar places, the moments we can no longer comprehend,
Has the day merely started this way, or does it carry of the burden of the places where it ends?
We often create Nostalgia, it comes with memories even those created in shorter times,
They are not about time zones, just familiar things as they are born out of thin air in our minds.

You have grown up at times, wishing to run away, to travel as though nothing ties you down,
No wings that tire out under the great blue sky, no ocean too wide to turn you around,
In metal cages you fly, with windows you peek outside, & with the wind beneath your feet,
You look for solid ground, in bounds and leaps and in your indifference you look for familiar things.

Day 54: No Stranger too Strange: "Adios Valdivia"

As my Chile trip comes to an end I cannot help but ponder the ease with which we often find friends at conferences , similar passions drive us and allow us to learn from the strangers we feel we are in the world we live in for a couple of days. The idea that random people come together,the fact that strangers can be friends doesn't seem strange to me at all. So today is about writing to those strangers who find a different role in our lives and even if the interactions are short lived sometimes and hard to follow up, I find no stranger too strange, I seem to keep coming back to the idea of familiarity in the vague and the idea of the need to know something inside out which drives me from time to time.

No Stranger too Strange: "Adios Valdivia"
No stranger too strange my friend, you will find the good days the bad days and the others alike,
The notebooks will fill with contact sheets, the remainders of the days that have come and gone,
The emails and telephone calls we no longer make, yet find warmth in the fact that we have then saved aside,
The unplanned days, the reality check the facts and figures on the white board I scribble, and when I write music when no one is listening I am often humming a song

My last day at Chile stands out to me, among sharing stories and memories and pictures on a phone,
We are covered by the schedules , the lectures of the day, we pay no heed to lost times,
I often mispronounce that which doesn't come easy to me, but I learn from my mistakes as I take them home,
And I decide to write poetry, my greatest concern is no longer to find a rhyme

The Pisco sour by the bay, the boat rides that end too late into the night,
La Ultima frontera (the last frontier) seems a familiar place, in the company of those whom I have only met for a while,
The restless night doesn't let me sleep, it carries me home through the streets I know,
And to the ones I often wish goodbye, I wish them goodbye "adios amigo".

No stranger too strange comes knocking on my door, the ones I promised I will poetry to a drink,
We have all gone our separate ways, we have much to ponder upon, as we change time zones in between,
And here's to all the randomness, to travel plans; and to Valdivian blues,
The things you will carry back from the trip and till the next time we meet, write back to me too

Day 53: Lost in Chile

There are times I believe that there is no better way to find yourself than among strangers, among people who not only don't judge you for the lack of a better expression but can't even speak the language you speak so fondly. Where the streets don't look familiar but still feel like the ones we find behind our home, where the distinction between doing something and wanting to do something is often met by people who move mountains if needed. The castaway sailboat tugged to the marina reminds me of the shores of calmer day, when the complains of the waving water lies silent. As I walk past the flower store I smell the momentary nature of time, of our crossing and yet the breathtaking beauty we can all relate to. It took me a while, while trying to interpret directions in a different language, while walking back to my hotel room in the middle of the city late in the night and in going about in circles and finally finding a way back and so I write

Lost in Chile
There are times and again I must find myself so lost,
Where the city lights have been turned down and the voices are sleeping at last,
Where the sneaky evening catches you, and follows you home,
Where the roads seems but all so familiar , and yet the maps are all wrong.

Lost in Chile my mind, from a city it hops to a city if goes,
Where it has not lost the reason to be sane, there are things that even the city doesn't show
The quiet streets outside the door, to the noisy ones as the sunlight fades,
We are trapped in between the skylines tonight, and in between lines we know we can't erase

We all wish our goodbyes somehow, and good morning must come in familiar ways,
When the familiarity in my mind, and in my writings are lost, when a new is born everyday
My tired handles of the suitcase still, the wheels that often lend me a hand,
They roll with no questions, no thought, no regret, they just play along like a band

Come to the shadows of the streets with me,roam along and share a drink,
In between stories that you could write, just take a break, have a look at what would be,
Lost in Chile from many a miles away, I travel along but as more than just dots on a map,
In whatever reason that I may choose to keep tonight,
                                                               let me keep my words & you can keep the man I am.

Day 52: Familiar Roads Mile High

I am writing this poem while on a flight to Miami, we have 26 minutes before we land and then another one and that means I can only post this once I land. For a long time I feel that journeys always leads you to ponder more about things , not because you have nothing better to do, but perhaps because it is quieter with your thoughts. For today I write about familiarity and travels alike, hope it is worth your read. The picture is during our descend to Miami Airport from my window. 

Familiar Roads Mile High
Do you feel the rumbling beneath your feet?
The giant soars in a pitch black sky,
It knows not where the path may lead,
It only breathes as it takes flight.

So many a times when you fly back home,
To places you come back to, places you belong.
To some weary roads, to familiar smells,
Where home is all about , what stories you have to tell.

Find comfort in the story tales, the ones you were part of, but never wrote yourself,
In familiar faces and places sometimes or in the faces of strangers where I sometime dwell.

Pack your bags and take wings my friend,
Your journey, your escape often comes with a cost,
Wherever you go, whatever you may find,
You have found more familiarity than the chances to be easily lost.

I write this to you from thousands of feet above the ground,
Where the roaring engine is the only sound,
I unmute for a while, I write on napkins still,
I have only but only my journey for now as I find more spaces to fill.

Day 51: Bring me Home this Thanksgiving

I believe that in general, the places we write from are often reflective of what we write, the people who are in those places with and the moments we often share with. And it is in these moments that we resonate among the strangers around us, the friends who are part of our extended family and our so called alternate realities that we live in. Our notion of warmth that we find among others extends and constricts from time to time, in between the kindness we find in the corners we least expect. Here's to the souls who are away from home this thanksgiving, the holidays, the get together and the musings , I wish you just the same among friends , or in the company of yourself, among family that you find when you least expect it, and among strangers who give new meaning to the word company. Whatever you may or may not find this thanksgiving, whether it is a warm sliver of turkey, a piece of pie or the company of those you enjoy for the time being I wish you & promise you nothing more.

Bring me Home this Thanksgiving
Take me as I come to you, even if broken down from time to time,
Remember the song we used to sing, I would call it yours and you would call it mine
The nights we sat on couches still, we figure out how the games were played,
We didn't read instructions on the box, we didn't care if it was the right or wrong way

Bring me home to the company of those, who have stories to share,
When it's cold outside and there are moments about which we care
The steam above my hot chocolate cup, the perfect start to some cold morning days,
Or even if I stare outside my lonely window, here's hoping some warmth your way

Take me from the first flight home, my bags too as I stare at the homecoming boards,
Nothing drowns my shadow tonight, I will find my boat I will reach my shore.
Find me in the footsteps in the snow, leave your door unlocked I maybe coming home late,
But I promise you this much, there are something that are always worth the wait

Bring me home this thanksgiving day, even if you are my own company,
Between families , friends and warm smell of food , find me among strangers who take me as me
The snow starts to grow on my window pane, it clings and falls and flurries along,
And to those who are at home tonight, find a reason, find warmth & bring "yourself" to a place you call home.

Day 50: Wishing upon a Wishbone

Reaching 50 poems was hard not just because it got more difficult to reflect at times, but because sometimes inspiration takes a long break from work. I was talking to a close friend today, who was sharing her wishbone story, how it signified some things and it reminded me of the warmth of wishes, the secrets we guard often for others and not just from others. The wishes we make that include much more than just us, and in times when we get homesick I find they keep us grounded, they give us reason to keep doing the things we do everyday. Even with or without the wishbone we often guard little dreams, we often keep the snippets of the day. And in between all the chaos if you can still find and value the wishbone wish, I wish you find the tale at hand. Here's the wondrous souls, the ones who wish upon wishbones and those who simply dream of them when they put themselves to rest, find a warm place to keep them tonight, and let me write, let me simply write....

Wishing upon a Wishbone
There are chances still, that we will make them count,
The wishes, the chances, the fates and more often things that turn around
The wishbone wishes, the private ones, the special ones kept close,
And the ones we couldn't share but the ones we simply chose

Are we wishing upon the happiness, are we wishing your pains away?
Are we wishing for more time well spent or are you hoping that some things would stay?
We are far from withered between pages of a book, we sketch our painting in living hearts,
We are far from going home right now, we are a fan of chatting forever and taking long walks.

We often miss the chatter, the voices, the songs, the radio shows, the music we sing,
We are held by reason in our head, and yet we keep hoping , we often pay heed,
Wander along my traveler tonight, do you tuck yourself like the dreams of the day,
Like recollections and diary entries, among the things we couldn't simply put away

Sleep well my dear dreams, my night that finds no rest even with no regrets,
Find a home, a path , and a wish as you put your day day to rest,
Our greatest secrets our strongest fears, and simple thank you notes; are the hardest to leave,
And on some warm thanksgiving night, I hope you wish upon your wishbone, a wish you get to keep.

Day 49: You Remind me of Rainbows

There are some pockets of warmer day we face in between the cold winter nights. We are packed away between cups of hot chocolates, families and friends who are reminders of life from time to time. As I write this from a different city a thought that enters my mind is that of nostalgia of a place, space of the people we are and so I write to the warmer hearts. The ones who have reminded me of beautiful things from times to time, of strangers who have spent hours listening to me and talking back, of those I have know only from a voice and to sing back to them almost as though distance was ephemeral. Here's to the rainbows outside your window, my warm hearted ones, You remind me of Rainbows so I wrote to them

You Remind me of Rainbows
In between the train rides home,
In between finding the places we call our own,
I find people around that keep me grounded still,
Who remind me of empty spaces and walls that I can fill

You are caught in between the sun and the rain,
You remind me of rainbows and a brand new day.
In between the times you have written through my thought,
You are a mystery everyone knows about but only a few have sought.

The simple things are often heartfelt, they are easy to keep,
They are in between the smiles, and warm hugs and between moments of giant leaps,
Between looking for trust, that is often hard to find,
The promises have always been hidden, between harder smiles.

The wind rustles against the tress , the evergreens stand tall,
The wind shudders behind the window pane and behind thinly veiled walls,
You are reminder of a warmer day, you are rain when it's too cold outside,
You are a language that I wish to learn, when it's easy to listen to you but harder to write

Day 48: Have you Traveled?

Had a long road trip to Chicago today, and among staring outside the window from time to time and dozing of between things to do, I kept listening to the same songs I would have heard everyday and not thought about it twice..........There is something about a long journey, staring outside into the quiet fields, and something about the silence amplifies whatever you feel, think or recollect. And though it is hard to capture something outside its element. outside its natural way I wished to write to travels, to friends and to the rhyme we find on roads. I often question myself, what are we looking for and what are we looking at?

Have you Traveled?
Have you traveled from time to time?
In buses, in trains and sometimes just at the end of the line.
Held a straight face though your tired shoulders might have given away?
Kept up your spirits as you are often told to wait

Have you ever lived with no fear of the cold? the cold wind numbs you from time to time,
Or been afraid of the snow outside, wishing the warmer things are often close by,
I find it hard to find my way sometimes, I get lost in the city that never sleeps,
That reminds of maps we used of draws, and secrets and stories that were only times to keep

Oh traveler of mine, Oh friend extraordinaire come find me alongside wherever you may go,
For now I may not be close around, but I am not buried in the rain, I am not yet trapped in the snow
I am merely losing tracking, I am dizzy as the cold wind blows,
And of every time I walk in circles , and in between the places I seem to go

Do you carry a map to guide me home, do you trust me with your stories tonight,
Do you recollect, do you confide at times and just leave your worries behind,
Come talk to me, just share a drink at times, we are both but drunk in nostalgia tonight,
We are far from finished chapters at the end, our books is still being written , just put on pause sometimes

Day 47: Box of Lost and Found

Find me a kind world and I will find you a sensible one . In more than one way the most valuable lessons in life are the ones you don't hope for, the one comes either on a cold winter morning when you are least expecting it, or something that has to run into you more than once to be realized. Whatever may be the case, the best lessons are still free and find their way from time to time. In the last couple of days my workplace had been flooded with new people, people I work with , share a meal with and learn and write to from time to time. And though it amazes me how certain things comes easy with strangers, it is in the warm moments that I share a cup of tea that I find welcomed. Here's to those warm hearted ones, the inspirations, the obstructions, the reality checks, the day dreamers, the kind and the cold and the meaningful among the meaningless. Lets hope that my writings today knows what it wants to be and I find my box of lost and found.

Box of Lost and Found
There are times that keep coming back to me,

About things we choose to write about and then are some that we let it be,
Times when the world is too hard , just look around,
I am wherever you need me to be, in that box of lost of found

The snow covers my road outside, a bright sun may still feel cold at times,
And we can write poetry, even if we no longer find rhythm or rhyme
The missing warmth of the day is what hugs are all about,
And when the whole world seems upside down I am waiting for a shout.

The kind world writes just the same tonight, we wish adieu we say goodbyes,

Because long before we know it, we are far away from corners of our mind,

Hold the center stage my friend, play your part as things may come and go,

You are meant to carry the things you keep special, the pieces of you that only you would know

There are things we often lose in memories, and then there are those we can recollect,

We are far from drawing within the lines, the best of us are incomplete and best is still imperfect.

Day 46: Smell the Coffee

Almost a year back, on my first day at Indiana University, I was trying to find Starbucks with a friend of mine.A fellow student pointed us in the direction and said keep going up the stairs "till you can feel, smell and see the coffee". We knew nothing at that point about how the next phase of our life was going to start, about how easy or hard our PhD programs were going to be, whether we should be worried about the things ahead or we would simply fit. I just sat at a desk and we ordered coffee and tea and decided we had plenty of time to decide. We never found out where the other one ended up.
                             This week after an entire year of my life I found myself sitting at almost the same table with two new friends of mine, still trying to figure out what it means to be wherever we are. And though the definitions, the meanings and reasons we ask that question had changed from time to time, I often tell myself, it was never about the coffee, but the company.

Smell the Coffee
In just this day, on a warm August high or a November low,
We were characters of a story book, the one we didn't write and a story we didn't know
We walked through the closed rooms and we found empty hallways,
Through lines that we waited for and in between quiet couches that lay.

"Smell the Coffee" I was told, I may not drink it at all,
I may stand and order the sizes, the Venti, Grande and tall,
I may punch out the stars and I may wait up in line,
But I still scribble at the coffee table, whenever I find time

There are those who will find my writing too easy, too mundane,
Among the many things we have kept for a while, both the joy and the pain,
Among the coffee ground, the steamed milk and etchings on the napkins where I write,
And waiting for the music to play, as my words find a way to come alive.

Day 45: Just Pretend

There are moments here, when the sky just fills with clouds and though it is not raining yet, it is often in the precursor that makes us anxious. The idea is we are all filled by this anxious feeling of not knowing "what next" but planning incessantly for it. I sometimes believe we are designed for this , while there are times when the need to know is all I have in my mind. For sometime now people have wondered why I write about the things I write,and though telling them about topics suggested by others and musings of the day isn't always satisfactory, we walk in between these little things I choose to capture. For today my day 45, is about such an transition between the warmth and the cold, between the rain and the snow and about anyone who shares it with someone, a friend, a mentor or whatever your situation may be. For now they find me chairs to sit, when I want to run, for now they find me a place to be when I find solace in being anywhere and everywhere else.

Just Pretend
Pretend we are gone, somewhere long time ago,
We are covered in rain, we are waiting for the snow
We are cold inside out, we are barely awake,
But we hate to rather leave and walk home instead

Do I find you a chair,
Do you pretend I am not there,
Holding what comes and what comes but so sincere

The days comes and goes and the stories they build,
There are dreams that are born among the ones that are killed
They are kept in the envelope you can wake up and go,
You are nothing if not a friend, like ever before

There were times when I walked, I walked you to the door,
There are places I couldn't be, were the ones I wasn't looking for
In between the read books, in between everything that's easy,
I find meaning in fiction that feels more real, I find answers in the mystery

Do you find the footsteps by your door, are they coming in or going away,
Are they fresh from the snow outside, or they just a bit warm as they come your way,
You figure out the rest of days, I figure out simplicity in just this bit of time,
Just pretend you were written long ago, you were a piece of writing in my mind

Day 44: Keep up my Friend

Today is all about pure poetry from songs, a friend of mine sent me a song and I felt it was too incomplete, so I write this one as an add on. There are times we write to the wonder we feel, to the wonder we bring, the ones we can't always capture in words and still we must try, I say we must always rehearse. Find rhyme in my words for now keep up my friend, keep singing, keep writing till you know me, till you remember me and can't find where the day ends.

Keep up my Friend
Keep up my friend, no matter what the day brings,
The etchings on the wall,
The ones that crumble and fall.

Start your day today, with a smile that you kept,
Like an old letter in your memory, that you can't erase,
Use up your will, use up your day, you are more than a song that for some time but plays.

Keep reminders of your heart, the brave soul that beats,
The ones that doesn't let go when you need.
The musings will be, of an old friend who stayed,
Who left letters and chocolates and maybe simply wishes your way.

You are no where if not here, you are listening to my song,
You are dancing with your eyes closed you are dancing along.
You are finding your fault, but you are fixing your day,
You are keeping yourself afloat as the hours pass away.

Keep drinking my friend, keep listening to the song,
You are nothing if not words, the ones you write when you are high,
Keep etchings on the wall they will will remind you of home,
They will carry you longer and they will fight your fight

Day 43: The You

There are days that are often harder to drag and then there are some that will talk to you about being forgetful once in a while even if it would seem impossible. Between the many binaries of life, we often find a space to make our own, our grey areas and white. Our blues and shades that in time but fade. The idea is simple; we write to a few not all, even if they find no reason for me to write.  We write to those even if they haven't given us a topic till date, because they are present none the less in my writings in my musings of the day. The rain grazes my window and the night reminds me of the quiet times we share from afar. Our table tops are empty because we choose to keep it clean, let me come back from time to time.

The "You"
There are musings of the night, there are givings of the day,
The are things that we seem to forget, and then there are some that stay,
The simplicity in an open door, the knocks that we hear like ever before,
The staircase falls and fills my home, leads me to you when the days are gone

The "you", is a friend I believe, the "you" could forever find space on my shelves,
The musings , the music , the paintings you draw, the "you" are in pictures that are well kept
Imagine the cold wind that numbs your hands, the remnants of the day are still found warm,
The "you" is the story I share about for the day, the "you" remains in places where I belong

My old friend reminds of of birthdays still, asks me if I still write to them,
If I remember the days that are all but gone, do I still find the time or do I need to pretend,
My forgetful mind but forgets so little, it holds stories it plays in constant rewind,
It find places to go, and people to meet, even if the stories are only in my mind

The "You" finds solace as the warmth on my cold winter day,
And hence I write to nobody and to none, but whoever is listening it is for you today.

Day 42: Writing at 3.25

There are some nights that are about incomplete conversations, that remind you that no matter what you figure out at 3.25 in the morning it can't possibly be the reason you are still awake talking about life. There are those who have spoken to me about madness and then there are the mad ones themselves who have tried to make sense. There were holes in days I couldn't listen to, and the ones we couldn't plug . Crossed wires in your head makes you the you. And makes me "me". You have hardly begun to ask me the right questions I will answer them anyways. I wrote the beginning to this piece Friday night around that time, wide awake among the many happenings and musings thinking about the things that keep coming back and the music we love to listen when it's quiet outside.

Writing at 3.25
Yes we are all but lost children, in the games that grown up play
We tread so strong , we move on from time we live the grown up way
Yes we have all but wielded our day, we have much left to do from now and onward still,
We have pieces to compose, writings to write and we have only started to paint the places we fill.

Writing the day, the givings of the week, the givings of a day, at 3.25,
And a long way from sleep, from dreams I call home and my eyes are open wide
I would often listen to the song that plays on the radio, and is on endless repeat,
The beauty, the melody and the lyrics of the song, or are we simply not listening to the beats

It was warm on this cold winter day, even the messed up bits seemed right,
For now I am composing a song that I have yet to sing, for now I simply write,
Dance to the tune you cannot find, it exists in more places than only your mind,
Find that bit of courage, that extra luck, that hope that follows you even at 3.25.

Day 41: Finding Shelters

Walk outside your home for a while, when its so cold that the chill runs down your bones, Stand on your own doorsteps pretending you don't know the way back home and the only thing that you can hear is the cold wind that shears by your ears. The street lamps flicker with the same breath and cold nature of the night, there a kids who are out for candy on the streets, the slow and shallow hallow of the pumpkin and yet all I can hear is the quiet. Tonight was all about taking shelter, packing your bags and heading back to warmer places we called home. And though it might seem crazy that I actually stood outside on my own doorsteps, I could only imagine how hard it is sometimes to get lost even if the whole world is known to you, so tonight I write to finding shelters for my friend, finding solace where there is none and finding warmth when it's simply bright outside.

Finding Shelters

The street lights tell a story, even if they cannot say,

Would the night win the fight, or would the street lamps flicker the darkness away

Would your poems find a place in this world, would the kind man and harsh read it alike,

Would the bitter sorrows and sullies of the day, haunt you on this cold night.

Some speak of the Halloween spirit tonight, dress up in ways and find street corners to play,

Even if the cold winter speaks to them for a while, they were always there, they were here to stay,

I wish shelter for those who couldn't find a way back home,

Who are wrapped in shards of blankets and sweaters, that we only hope keeps them warm.

Find shelter my friend even if these words don't reach you for a while,

Pay heed not to those who stay, but to those who have kept you, the one with whom you smile

The restless spirit, the warm glow of day, my doorsteps, my mailbox tonight,

Finding shelters is all I can do, with you and yet I know not where, or how sometimes.

Stay warm my dear friends, and keep sending me more things to write about.

Day 40: My Paper Boat Ride

My colleague always suggests me to write about rain, and though I have written about it in the past this is something worth revisiting from time to time, tied down to so many emotions. In the moments we hear the rain when we are warm and snugly inside in our houses, or when it cools the weather down almost bringing it to a standstill. The little woodpeckers those raindrops, that peck against my glass windows as they lay down and trickle to the edge . Like the wet leave that gives way for you to walk quietly without a sounds now, like the poem you carry when you stare outside and wish you could get wet in the rain. There is a friend of mine who loved the rain, and though I didn't get to play much I seem to have learned to like it as well. In between the times I find myself staring up when it starts to rain, to the point where I wait for the water to trickle down the branches almost as though hanging clinging on the trees I find it absolutely brilliant that we keep coming back to rain. For tonight I write to those who have found yourself getting caught in just a drizzle, a downpour or a thunder cloud, find shelter my friend, find warmth where it all began.

My Paper Boat Ride
I wandered for a bit sitting on the chair, staring outside my window,
The lights of the distant streets, and the story book endings we find in shadows,
We are fearful of what we can't see, and sometime more of the things we already know,
We are harder to define with all the things we keep to ourselves, and the ones we seem to show.

I wrote across the window pain, the little kid who sails his sailboat in the rain,
Who tires out with sailing in the wind, but he never gives up in vain
I wondered would I want to so much, to pack up sometimes, and sail away,
Would it be just right, would be like a story I could write, and most of all would it be okay?

I board my paper boat, I ride the puddles with joy, the rain washes my ride down,
I travel even if just for a while, among the pools outside, among the rivers in my town.

Day 39: Sometimes About Mediocrity

The day after Friday usually comes with just a little more ease that it should, specially when the weather seems to be favorable. The whole idea of keeping track of things is to make sure that nothing falls apart in life, that the messy parts and bits we don't know about never find their way home. And though for some it is just like any other day there is something beautiful about the craziness. We are not supposed to be perfect, we are not supposed to find meaning in between the craziness all the times but we are supposed to be relentless, we are supposed to be restless as the night waiting for the day. Someone told me last Saturday, that learning to believe again is one of the hardest things to do, but we take chances anyways , and we make changes anyways. On that very note I decided to write to the phone calls from the other side, the ones you almost thought you lost in your phone books and the scribbles at the edge of your page. And on another note don't forget to keep sending me more things to write about.

Sometimes About Mediocrity
About mediocrity is sometimes all I write about,
About the books I never wrote , about the things that lay incomplete,
About music that plays only in my head out loud,
And the artist who scribbles on a page , and the scribbles that I love to see

Folded page from the chances I took, of books that no one would ever read,
But at-least find the dog eared pages, and maybe stop for a while and give them a peek.
Do you find yourself lost in the season, in the colors of fall that writes back to you,
That cooks and smells so sweet at times, that falls from trees and that rhymes so true

A girl sung me a song once long ago, about the leaves that falls from trees so true
And though I don't remember the lyrics , I hear the same song as a leaf brushes through
Insanity cries to me in my things to do, my underscored life, my ligatures in the language I speak,
Among the curious places I often go to, the places you wouldn't know, the ones I get to keep

About mediocrity I write sometimes I guess, about poets and musicians alike,
That are found somewhere, somehow and someday and in between the lyrics for now
Stop listening to the earphones out loud, let me whisper for a little bit, let us hum alike
Among the  many places you go to in your head, let me follow you, simply as a mediocre guy.

Day 38: Bits and Pieces

It's early morning out here and though the processes of the day have not yet started, to make this day warmer or brighter for that matter , considering there is such an overarching plan must give some weight to our need to ask such questions. I am writing with a feeling of giving something up for the first time, though I often believe there is often a difference between sharing and offering a writing, isn't giving up your most true self in a poetry a thinly veiled reality.
                                      There are instances that have made me think that I have written to people in bits and pieces, in formats I no longer write but I often communicate if there is no other way I can.So for today's writing I guess I could cheat from my earlier writings the ones that I have written to people here and there and compile it among my own pieces. In the essence of it all to those whom I write, just know you are a part of my poetry.

Bits and Pieces
Is it ok? if I write to you.
In the hope that some days poems will speak too.
They will have voices of their own, they will come alive,
And somewhere in memories they will survive.

Find me as a friend, so close that you can hear me breathe,
Till the reality is so real for you, that you have to fight for the things you keep.
Willow in the shadows, lurk in the corners of the day,
Find treasure in conversations still and mystery in the things we don't get to say.

To be like life unchanged as in a photograph,
To be kind to those around you, among that many things that make you glad
There is no language that speaks of strength , as often as a smile,
Be the change you often linger for, the one you still hope to find.

The last bit of the piece I write, must often come to those who are true always,

Even if there were gloomy days and there were days we could keep quiet too,

People will often explain qualities of the faint and as equally of the brave at heart,

And there are some qualities which we dream of , and a place to know how and where to start. 

Day 37: A Birthday Recap

The last time I wrote was a day before my birthday, and though most people would think I should write my best work on my birthday, I seemed to have missed out on writing all together since that day. No, this is not me being lazy but this really is me being busy and though I realize that it is important and equivalently hard to keep writing poems everyday , it gets trickier when you have a schedule to maintain. A lot has happened over the past week and instead of going with the most recent changes, topics and discussions in my life, I am going to go back to the day of my birthday and write you something from a birthday boys heart. And I have decided to keep things shorter as I seem to write better when I have small bursts of word. I hope you won't mind a weeks recap and would only see this as a late birthday gift that I might get to keep. For today let me write to something that was stuck on my mind a week before, when Friday unfolded like any other day and when I was supposed to write day 37. The most unexpected people called and though the misgivings and shortcomings and dreadfulness of the day haunted me for a while, thinking it would never live up to what it was last year, it was only a tat here and there. Here's to those who made it work, those who took away my insecurities and fear about facing this day alone, I thank you for you phone calls, cheers and hugs and those who didn't know but cared enough my hugs back to you, I write this one only for you all.

A Birthday Recap
For a phone call from "far" away,
A used up wish that never gets older this way.
That recycles back gets better in time, like a old song you play,
Till the last bit of the coffee you love, till a warm cup is all you hold today.



A phone call from a old friend, a nightmare to forget of dreams where I pretend,
A birthday recap drives me , wakes me still in the middle of the night,
That recites poetry, sings to me and often puts up to my fight,
Never leave the door open you said, never close it I say, don't let it end.

Wrapping paper lies on my table today, the patterns the colors from my last birthday,
From the things I know I have kept for a while, the ones you couldn't give away
I didn't get a cake this time, I wasn't lucky enough some would always say,
But even if the weirdest, busiest of times, I still got to keep a few friends neatly tucked away.

A week from now when I write this for you, will you write this for me too?
Will the realization that this is song and poetry, keep coming back to you?
Think of me looking at the last present; I didn't unwrap quite yet,
Don't give up on me just this way, just for a bit, let me keep keep my birthday, let me have my bet.

Day 36: The Other side of Walls

A friend of mine asked me to write about the other side of walls , the feeling we often face when we are on the other side of things far from people, far from any kind of power over a situation and far from looking and taking a peek at the other side. I would often confide to people that I am among those who believes the glass is full based on whether you need it to be, and though being positive about a thought process doesn't always help it allows you to assimilate the impossible. My idea isn't to share my philosophy, it isn't about writing to biases that I might have towards friends or toward the topics I choose to write about, but I find the sneakiness of the write up still worth the wait. As I fall from time to time, and wish for a sneak at the other side of the wall I remind myself the other side for now, is whatever I want it to be.

The Other side of Walls

The other side of walls, are often beyond the reaches of mystery,

I want to think of things, and often hopelessness in something we believe,

They are about the times you struck your head against a dead end,

Or reasons you decided to keep coming back, the reasons you would pretend.

My comfort lies in disbelief, and yet hoping for the best,

Walls are constant reminders to try harder , and to keeping looking for the rest,

The tired soul, the weary travelers rests against you for a while,

And the silent gazes you share as you sleep and the whole world simply smiles

My tired self pours down on the side, I write on you my only blockade,

And yet my scribbling fills pages to come, you provide me with my only escape

You don't crumble down, you don't fail and fall , you are a part of this history,

You are every bit as stubborn as reason is, and you can always be as unreasonable as reason can be

The other side of walls are a tiny bit hazy, they are captured by dreamers of the day,

They are written about in fantasy and won in wars to the worlds dismay,

But sometimes when the pieces crumble, you get to keep your etchings on their side,

You have every reason to leave and yet you stay to take a peek even if for a while.

Day 35: Leave me with

In this weekend a lot of my friends have lost their near and dear ones. Some have lost family, some have lost friends and no matter how much we want to make sense of things it never seems to fit in perfectly. I have had my moments like that, when I was in undergrad I lost a close friend to an accident and though there was nothing I could change about it , it changed me because of our last conversation. Our need to know something about the other person, and coming to a stage where we have learned enough. Many have asked me about this innate need for me to know people, for more reason to explain why I feel the need to know, and though I don't have a better answer it is honestly because I don't want to miss out on learning from them. A time comes in all of our lives when we have said goodbye to the most comfortable things in our lives and moved on, when we have decided to do that exact same thing. I write to that time when I knew we needed more time to say and even though this weekend seems mellow , I guess we all need a little mellow in our lives. Here's to the part we couldn't learn, and here's hoping we'll never question the need to learn more

Leave me with
Leave me a part of your soul,
Even if I don't believe in it at all
Something about warm memories,
Will keep drawing from more sun shines that will set us free

We will breathe the air, till we hear the wind rustling by,
Till the warm October turns cold and yet covers what is mine,
We will feel like the blade of grass, like the fresh morning dew
Few will always will be remembered by many, and some only by a few

Leave me a bit of belief,
Even if the chances maybe, that everything are against odds,
We have grown to be the difference we see,
We have learned to hold hands, even if we are distant and apart

Leave me with inspiration , till we learn how to fly away,
I still believe you are grounded still, you were always meant to stay
We will be like the empty dishes, the lost voice mails that stays in your phone,
We are still the soul, the memories, the wind in my ears, we were just there like never before

Day 34: Lost Keys

I have often sat in my room , and thought about people as puzzles, as pieces that come together in my head as things that should make sense and never do. As I sit in my room filled with heaps of carry bags and mess everywhere, the chaos that fills my room which is not new and yet feels like the pieces I still need to clean up from my life. The idea was never to make sense of every piece, the idea was never to keep the puzzles fitting together but to find meaning and sometimes it is to move onto new ones. Life will always be filled with chaos that reminds us of what's missing and it is at these times I write about cleaning up the pieces. This writing comes from a personal place, not just my apartment. I still find myself between the heaps of paper that surrounds me, that builds around me from time to time and in between the light switch I still manage to find when I need to, and between all the times we have all felt just a little stuck. In between the old newspapers and candle sticks that lay on the floor, the books that shared the bed with me and times we all felt nothing was reasonable anymore, I feel it is time to clean, time to find lost keys.

Lost Keys

We wander between the mess, we tip toe among the edges of things,

We wonder have far we have come, are we counting backwards in time?

We have moved on with the timers in our head, and somehow we have lived,we have all survived

Find us among the pieces we no longer keep, the ones we could finally keep somewhere,

The roads we don't travel anymore, we have figured out they lead nowhere

Find us in the books that lay on my bed, the places we no longer exchange,

We have learned to grow up for a while, or have we simply learned to misbehave?

The puzzle pieces, we put in boxes today, we move away from what no longer comforts us,

We find the tired self taking at peek at things, we have fallen down and stood tall for a while,

We have all lost the ones we love, but for some reason we have managed to smile

No this isn't written to sadness my friend, life is rarely what we want it to be,

We are all but wanderers I feel, and yet for our chained selves we have lost our keys

We are far from writing our lost song, for now we are far from setting ourselves free.

Day 32 & 33: Two Days of Fall

I missed out on writing for the last two days,and though I was asked about it I didn't really have a good answer. I don't consider writing as one of those tied down activities, that can be done at a fixed time of the day and sometime hardest still to do it everyday, but when I want to touch my pen to the paper or in this case when I sit down to type something on my keyboard I want to relate to you, to those who share the topics I write about and keep hoping for more topics to keep coming. This writing is about the two days of fall I missed out on writing and about the simple pockets of happiness we find in company of those who try. I was joking around today with someone about fear, when I said "Power must not come from fear , power must come from love" and whether power is over someone or because of someone is hard to define. None the less these extended weekends always give me more time to think and so I write to these two days of fall and from the many topics and experiences my friends shared with me. Though some will tell me I cheated with one writing for two days, I hope you excuse my flaw and still find the read meaningful in someway

Two Days of Fall
Here's a long lost letter to the two days of fall, from the beginning to the end,
From the start of the week , and to honest reasons why we never pretend
Here's to the talks by the cafe, I often don't visit anymore,
But the place is still the same, filled with strangers like every before

Two days are all I need, fill my heart and let me simply write,
About the friends who were a phone call away, but did I really dial?
There are those who will walk with you, understand chivalry is far from dead,
That there are reasons we grow up to keep people special, and we don't need one to care

Two days are all I ask, when I find the large bucket of fries are lost in hockey games,
And the real reason we love changing so much, is that we still love to keep things the same
In weary Friday morning alike, I feel losing the game of trust from time to time,
I have come home for a time out , and then to strangers I talk about personal ties

Are my two days same as yours somehow, do you recollect, reflect from time to time,
Do you pass like like the crumpled dollar sign, or is your memory aged like a sweet wine
For me; my days are about warm homes and cooking for those who care, in strangeness I find my family,
For whatever maybe the reason behind,  I have found too many and then too few to set myself free.

Day 31: To the Start of Days

Every morning one of the first few things I get to do is visit the department office, check my mail and chat, about the start of my days with our grad secretary and though it may seem to be one of those mundane things of the day,  it has meaning. I would often hear her tell me about how the mood shifts between Mondays to Fridays almost as though following a perfect bell curve with ever so many kinks and changes in between. And though we don't give it enough credit I feel our start of days are the defining moments , they will often set the curve , they will either keep you warm or will drive you insane just the same. Oh, how I wish I knew the dynamics of it all, the changes we wish we didn't face some days and then of some that we keep coming back to. Many of us today will go about without thinking about the start, but I am hoping to write to it none the less.

To the Start of Days
Here's to the many start of days,
The moment when all has been wiped clean and the whiteboard stays,
The times we have hit reset and hoped to start a new,
Here's to those who have taken chances, the very few.

There are times that I often write, to motions of the day,
Between 15 minute intervals, and between reminders that sway,
The ones who sit at their office window, who would steal a peek outside,
Then then are those who would work in closed doors and among artificial light

My notebook fills with notes some days, some days I find it hard to scribble along,
Not everyday resets even if we want it to, some days are just about find the right song.
Don't leave with the earphones on, sing for a minute, even if you have to go out of your way,
For whatever maybe the start, read with me, write with me , and hit pause some days

Day 30: I'm Still Here

When I started writing this blog, my purpose was to write for others, to eliminate the need to think about a purpose to write but to write to the world. It is easy when you don't know your audience, to be able to communicate with no sense of having someone write back. But in the past and in between moments I felt as if I was communicating my version of what you wanted me to write, it is impossible to eliminate the whole of me from my writing. There's a lot of people, including some who mattered most to me who would think writing came so naturally to me that it isn't anything special when I write, but for me it was still amusing that I could write. I did not have an agenda when I first started a month back, for a brief period of time it was my way of talking when I thought no one wanted to listen, but in my own way I am glad people read. In writing this piece I want to recollect the bit of us we feel we lose someday and the pieces we gain from time to time. We are not normal, atleast I am not and probably never will be, and in looking for normalcy, just know I'm Still Here

I'm Still Here
I am still here my early sunshine, my shelter from rain,
From the places I often go to in my mind and the ones I escape
I am still here my silent road, my inspiration,
Among the ones less traveled , even in plight , in simple desperation

Pick up the broken pieces my friend, we are too brittle to be left behind,
You are the puzzle I keep putting back in place, but you change just a little bit every time
Can you play the old record in your head, can you hear music we no longer make,
Does the world still sway on Friday nights, among the days you wish you could take a break

I'm still here in writing, in the things you think; don't come as special to me,
In between the times you visit your inbox, among the little pieces I wrote to set us free
I'm still here my morning retreat, my wishes from a place far far away,
Unlike the magic kingdoms and fairy tales, the ones we loved to read but couldn't create

We are nothing if not just poetry, we started out and so we must end,
We don't get to choose the meaning at times, just get to be real, we don't have to pretend,
My month draws close , my writing fades from times to time,
But this one is a gentle reminder, that I'm still here even if the "here" is no longer mine.