Day 26: Sandbox love

A friend of mine told me about her heart break yesterday, which was both meaningful and yet has lost meaning in its own way. As I conversed for a long period of time, she told me how it felt so unreal or for lack of a better word "pseudo". We have all felt the idea of losing something becoming gradually less dramatic as we proceed with our lives,and though many will argue that this is a part of growing up, I believe this is our mind compensating for things we cannot handle well. Hence, during this conversation I proposed an idea to this friend of mine which comes from computer science called "Sandbox" which essentially allows us to test codes and run experiments in an isolated manner not letting it affect the system(the system being "us" in this case). I drew an analogy as to how we learn how to sandbox love in a way where we test it out first, in bits and pieces as we go about life, and though it seems counter-intuitive it works well in most cases. Do you remember the little child that sat in front of his sandbox, building castles that stood tall, he would break them and mar them and rebuild again, for as a kid; repetition was not a bad thing, it was merely learning to get better at something. For now my friend I hope you heal in time, as I write to our discussion, the idea of Sandbox love

Sandbox love

She would dream of the mystery, the ones that were only packed up in her mind,

   That would be imperfect, that would be broken still and yet the only words she could find

She was lonely in her sandbox still, she would play with her heart,

   She would build castles out of thin air, when her world fell apart

She would tread along the pathways,those where she wouldn't want to walk,

   She would learn how to be quiet at times, when the whole world would want her to talk

She would find a cheer, she would find the sandbox, she would build again from scratch,

   She would aggregate, she would recollect the memoirs that she had

She would find beauty in nostalgia, in the past that is so thinly veiled,

In the moments of beauty that lies beneath her feet, in the times she prevailed.

Oh sandbox love, so scratch spaces in notebooks still, keep building from nothing still,

You have landscapes to create that don't come from memories, but are yours to fill.

She would cry, she would laugh, she would in time forgive and forget,

She would be herself for the best of her, she would no longer have regrets

Day 25: Creating Nostalgia

There are times when people will tell you memories are converted to nostalgia over a period of time. That most nights are about recollecting memories, summarizing them subconsciously and hoping that something about it sticks. And then there are things we can't forget , they are a part of the nostalgia we didn't create, the parts we didn't get to edit out, retouch, change or even complete from time to time. But then you don't get to choose your recollections, and as I sat here with my friends for a festival I am attending, I feel both crowded and free, both silent and loud between the chitter chatter of the day, between the magic shows with children, in between sharing of food and live performances. My friend told me this, "...create new memories Sam, always worth it" and though I couldn't agree more I still find shaping them hard and so I write tonight to the idea of creating nostalgia itself, what if we could choose what to remember and what to forget, what to make special and the things we want to forget.

Creating Nostalgia
What reminds you of past time, of places and faces alike,
       Of warm chocolate on a cold winter day, and a drink to share on a desolate night.
Who knocks at your room , who talks to you from the other side of the door?
       Whose shadow finds a place, even if you are not standing there any more?

Do I create nostalgia out of thin air, do I play the song I have written in my head,
      Or would you like me to whisper to you, would you like me to read it out to you instead.
I keep the memories neatly placed, bookmarked to be slept upon, to be thought about in time,
      To recollect, reassess and in between, can I claim them as mine?

I wander across the star laden sky, I stand on the balcony at the edge of my room,
      I write to the new memories I would choose to create, and miserably fail,
What ever we are; remains in the past, remains in times I start sentences with "how it used to be"
      How I retrace my steps, through the unresolved, through my own trails

I create new memories tonight, I pull out my cards and show life my hand,
      In between that which is tasteful, the tasteless and the things I taste as bland,
The planned, unplanned bits of my life comes together, I stitch my stories for now,
     I create a time for me , in between those who are around I create nostalgia somehow.

Day 24: Fridays my friend my foe

Most often if not always, the whole world comes to a tiny wee bit of celebration as the week closes, the routine ends and for once their colorful calendar no longer shows up as constant reminders on the phone. The IMU remains relatively empty and though you still find some restless souls wander across the halls and pathways, there is a sense of life simply pausing for a while. In between these moments as the week welcomes the weekend I find a sense of restless with this stationarity, and lack of routine. I find with people who can't comprehend Fridays as any different . Though I feel that short pauses are important in life, something about them doesn't seem to fall into place anymore. In between the chaos, the parties , the people my mind still finds a way to drift away. I write to you my Fridays , to the world you are a friend and for now you seem to be foe as friends keep reminding me of its presence.

Fridays my friend my foe
Do I change with the world outside, let go of restrains just for a while,
             Choose to be different and indifferent still and absorb the week that I leave behind
Fridays my friend my foe, my challenge, my remnants of the week,
        My absolution , in between times that I work, and the pauses you bring by the ones you seek

Talk to me from the edge of the table still, tell me tall tales of things that are no longer behind,
        Share a drink with me, walk with me, tell me things I don't want to listen to in time.
Find me in moments , I keep coming back over and over again,
        Till the definition of expecting something different, truly drives me insane

We are tethered often by events of the day, the week or simply time,
         For now I collect my belongings, and search between the remnants and pieces that are mine.
Weary eyed friend of mine, my foe from time to time,
         Why do you change names everyday of the week? when I need it , you are but so hard to find

Day 23: In Transitions

I attended a lecture late evening yesterday, it was about the life style of people living on transitionary landscapes, that shift, that move and the definition of what they call existence in an ever changing scenario. I sat there trying to reconcile and understand fact from fiction, truth from hearsay and perception from reality. As the lecture ended and I walked back after sharing insightful conversations with both the author and those in the room, the thought of being transitionary shifters who travel not in space but rather are reborn again and again in time stuck with me. There are moments you feel that the simplicity in explanation,   should be self evolutionary, it should be so obvious that it has you under its grasp the very first time you hear it. However more often than not; I have realized that simplicity is not only, not always evident but is also deeply rooted in the perception of processes and the reality we "like" to believe. These conversations and thought processes alike led me to ponder and write about this concept of transitions as we move in time

In Transitions
I move from time to time,
    In between spaces, in between phases in between the world I call mine
I move from the reason to unreasonable days
    Do I write of truth as it is, or do I write fiction in every possible way

In transition lies my definition still, my reality is reborn from time to time,
      My passive self keeps pushing me around, and yet sits tight lipped as though left behind
Do I question when I move between spaces and places, between landscapes of my mind,
      Between paragraphs and poetry I still write to myself, and parts of my life that are unkind

I often believe in simplicity, in finding symmetry where there is none,
      Where the reasons are long out the window, and I fear time has played it pun,
Oh fear not my traveler, as you shift and move around,
       We were meant to be defined by the transitions, that keep us free; whenever we feel found

My shape shifters, my soul benders, the ones who I fear and love,
      Who have written to me, using not even a single word, but I write to you with my words above.

Day 22: No home for the weary

When does your day end? Does it end when the clock hits 5? Does it end when the whole world around you decides to pack up and leave? Is it when the sun fades into a restless skies, when the stars create the randomness that is but constant on the night sky. Does it end when the last walk home seems inevitable? Does it ever get easier to walk back? do we ever truly know when our day ends? For me sometimes, going back home is about deciding on a time when you know you are tired, and yet your mind lies wherever it is. There is no home for the weary, there is only a different flight, a different fight . I would often ask myself this question when I lock the lab late in the night, in between keystrokes and brightly lit screens, there are moments I can't simply decide to go home. For me the restless soul isn't tired enough, it keeps circling my definition , and hence I decide to write to what a lot of the late night souls feels, the ones who have decided to have no home for their weary presence

No home for the weary 
I have been looking for a song for the quiet times,
      The times I can find speak without saying a word, where the only sound in quiet
I have been packing up, for a long long time,
      Getting ready to leave, getting ready to grow, for now I am learning to survive

There's no home for the weary,
       The tired soul refuses to grow old at this time,
I have found things to write about, questions I ask about I query
      And yet the ones that creeps up in the corners of the mind

There's still hope for the restless ones, the night owls of a long day,
      The ones who question every time whether they should leave or they should stay
There's no home for the weary still , no places he calls his own,
       The ones he believes changes forever , is the reason he's long gone.

Do I write like the tired night? or simply out of my free will,
     Do I question the places in my mind? do I reason with the reasons still?
Find home my tired friend, find a place to lay your head,
     For tonight the weary soul finds no place he calls home, but finds a resting place instead.

Day 21: Chaos in a Coffee Shop

Though this may not sound peculiar to most people, but I think my mind had a type of sleep phobia that I fail to understand. It feels that no matter what happens after the 6 hour time limit, it needs me to wake up and stare at computer screens again. In any case there are benefits of waking up at random times because the mood in which I write keeps changing with that. For my third week or Day 21 of writing I was looking through some old suggestions that friends had passed on to me over a period of time, some wisdom in the little things they have written, told me about or suggested. Though I couldn't remember a whole lot, I did remember small acts of kindness that they have shown me from time to time. And in between the crazy weeks and the 6 hours that my mind lets me drift off, I decided to write to chaos in a coffee shop. The type we are all familiar with, the silhouettes of the people walking by when we read or wait for our coffee, the little glimpses of new people and sometimes the never ending line of coffee cups with names.

Chaos in a Coffee Shop
I waited there for a while, staring at the board,
     The specials, the not so special, the Tall, the Grande the Venti of the day,
Choices was the last thing on my mind, something to get onboard,
     The Starbucks card, the swipe at the counter top, the lines that kept coming all day

The named cups to top it all, the instructions by the side,
    I followed on into hurried paths from the counter tops to the waiting line,
There was something among chaos that comforts me, the randomness of it all,
   That reminds me of simpler things , among the laughter as I wait my coffee "tall"

The little groups that form and disperse, places where old friends meet and wait,
    Where there is no reason to share a smile, and yet there are moments we all create
I read between the lines sometimes, I often wait for two strangers to share a drink,
     Knowing well about the chances of a story coming true, about things that change with a blink.

Would the chaos in a coffee shop, follow me home,
     Would it lead me to write stories, even if the strangers never met,
Never shared a coffee together, do we still get to keep the hope,
     For me now, the chaos is comforting, the randomness I keep going back to, & that of loud words that remain unsaid

Day 20: Writing Letters

Sometimes writing letters seems to be the hardest thing to do. About being honest without the complexity of words, without the facade of rhymes and meaning hidden in lines and yet being down to earth in the approach. I don't generally write letters but I remember starting an experiment that I would try, I would often leave letters, phrases and poetry behind bills of restaurants and bars I would visit. Over time I would never check back on them, I would not wait for a response from the person who would find it or even if they would ever find it scribbled on the back but it was and still is a fun way to communicate with the world similar to why I write everyday. I realized that the approach isn't dated from a friend a few days back who suggested it and though I never understood the reason behind why some letters are read aloud and some are kept secret I honor the idea that relevance is subjective and we often find our own version of it everyday. And hence I write today to writing letters,

Writing Letters
Here's why and if and when I write to you,
    Through the myriads of the day, as I navigate and find my way through
Here's why I bend the rules, why I spend time on saving that which is old to some,
     Those are the little pockets of nostalgia, things I don't forget things that are never gone.

The frosted window from a cold room to the warmth outside,
      Lies the reason I even stare, the reason I love to play when the world puts me aside,
I never reboot from time to time, I only sleep I hit rewind and make up for lost time,
      I figure out things the hard way, the things that aren't explained but are for me to find.

Writing letters to you, writing letters to the world,
      Writing simple things at simple times must never be easy,
Among the first day of autumn, among the reasons we stand tall,
       Among the times I have wrapped my mind around words and still not found poetry

There are days I am stuck as well, days I forget how to write , if at all in time,
       Days I struggle back to the little pieces of the day, and yet nothing fits in the puzzle I hold as mine
Forever building on days on days, forever writings letters in my own way,
      Do you read them all, from time to time, do you revisit them even in small moments some days

Day 19: Of Stories

On Friday night, I went for a movie, "The Grand Budapest Hotel", to be fairly honest it was drawn on a side of comedy which almost all should find hilarious despite the obvious dark nature of it sometimes. And as I sat there in the dark seating theater of the IMU trying to read the subtitle from time to time, I was moved by the central character of the story. The way he offers to tell a story and then couldn't decide if it was his story or it was the story of those whom who he is talking about. At the first glance it would be obvious that there is absolutely no difference between the two. After all how do you separate the story teller who is a part of the story from those  who are more central to the story themselves. It is their version over his? is there a more true version to the story? or is it always challenged and interpreted alike in the minds of those who are telling it vs. those who are listening to it? I pondered for a bit about these questions, I know that was the last thing we need after a late night movie but the mind find strange things sitting in the crowd among the dark halls and filled up seats. And hence this longer narration to a poem about stories and "of stories"

Of Stories
Of stories many of us write, the ones that are bound but not only in story books,
    That run around free, in the imagination of the mind,
That are often interpreted, read again and chances are that they are overlooked,
     Among the places that are but found only in pages, and yet there are some which we fail to find

We write between the lines if you will, we write to the meaning to words that are bound,
      We write to the night and days, and times you pick up the book to be read in your mind aloud
Among the fair, the unfair times the reasons you just read even if without a sound
       We put on repeat that which fancies us, the poems the phrases and feelings that never drown

Of stories I write to , the unconventional ones, the ones we couldn't end on a happier note,
       But then what were we to do? we were simply writing day by day, our only reasons was that we simply wrote
Do you question the motives of those who write? do they portray the world unlike yours and mine?
        Do they see more beauty in the bright sunny day? do they find something calmer than the starry sky?

I yield to you, my question lies in vain, who are we to decide the fate of words on pages?
        Are we are merely but those who interpret, like the music we listen to and yet something that never ages
Of the times we spend spellbound and about,
        We are more than narrators in quotes we "quote", and in phrases we read out loud,
     
"Here's to the story tellers in all of us, to those who like to read and be a part of it often, as you listen to the book you live it, and as you learn you will always be a part of it all"

Day 18: The simplicity charm

Sometimes the best of magic is the one with the lack of complexity, it is the simple magic that will leave an impact on people forever. The idea of being able to touch them with the simplicity of an act is charming. I started my day with a magic show, and the message was simple in terms of being simple, it was magic that works like a charm. There are times I feel that this is extendable to real life when I see the most important thing that touches us or makes us  feel special are the simple ones. The ones that doesn't involve gifts , and presents but simply timing and the need. Over the weekend I have learned to be grateful for these little things from time to time, sometimes for the simple reason that they are there. And hence I decided to write about the simplicity charm that binds us when needed

The simplicity charm
When I write a story, as I will,
    Among my faults and flaws and in between my freewill
Between bitter and sweet reminders of stories alike,
    We have learned how to be charmed with simplicity tonight

We have learned to believe when things go wrong,
    Times when the books are still read by their cover
When I find myself waiting, even if not for long
    For moments of strength, and times when I recover.

The simplicity charm, as I call it so, the magic we all so wish were true,
    That played out in coffee houses, in labs and classes and everywhere you needed to
There are those who will tell you otherwise, who will say the tricks were mere illusions of the night,
     Then why do I find myself wanting to believe , that is always a fighting chance and somewhere a little fight

When I write a story today, some that are written in letter only by you,
     That are never posted or read aloud, they are kept somewhere for a reference if you will,
That are both trapped and free in words, they are charmed,
      They are musings of the day, charming(s) of the night and even parts of your spirit which the writing holds still.

Day 17: For a better plan

For the past two days I have been sleeping early and waking up at wee hours like this in the morning. Though there is no benefit of doing this, it has become the norm for now and I am trying my best to re-normalize as we often do from time to time. Writing at these times are easier for some reason, music sounds better, the little things makes more sense and even the smallest of things keeps resonating loud.  For tonight I decided on a topic I find a little misplaces among the writings, it's about being unplanned and how it is one of the best thing there is when there is a lot to take in. It probably sounds counter intuitive but in someways it still makes sense from time to time.

For a better plan
I would tell myself for a long time,
   To be unplanned about life, to be impulsive before we have to pretend,
About the little things, and big things and the things you already planned for,
    But the little things we knew we gave up, the ones that wouldn't end.

We connect the dots, we draw sketches and we redraw,
     And even in our own simplicity we find faults among the flaw,
We pretend the little things are often there,
     And so we plan for "not planning" and pretend we never cared

We wrote to each other from time to time,
   Tell each other tales that are close, but couldn't keep the truth from the lies
For a better plan we often wait, we chose to look the other way,
    For everything that would come in a flash,  and then there were those that wouldn't stay

We plan to fail and fail to plan,
             And yet we work in ways I fail to understand
We cheer for reasons that are both right and wrong,
          Because we often fail to cheer for the ones that matter most, among the ones we belong

Day 16: Of Missing Days

There are those who we will tell we chase days, till they run out on us. Till the next one begins or the promise of a next day gives you solace at night. A long ride home and sometimes finding the quiet in the back seat of the car as you stare outside for a long time. The city lights flicker and glimmer between the edges of the building as you make your way between the street blocks. The cold fall wind talks to you about a day that disappears without knowing sometimes, a day that disappears and while coming back from the lab a bunch of people randomly playing music at the Sample gates reminded me of how we challenge the passing of time. What is ephemeral is who we are at any given moment, and yet who we are is one of the important things we hold dear. So here's to the missing days, the ones that are logged and written about in places in your mind. Who's collecting ? Who's keeping track?

Of Missing Days
And then there are days that have but come and gone,
   And written about like old rhymes at the end of the day.
That have stayed on only for a while if they can,
   And refused to give up on the places that makes them this way.

The definition, the faults and follies that falls through the cracks of time,
   When no one keeps tracks, no mistakes are kept for review.
The tired and weary walk to the doors we unlock,
   Where the world is on the other side, and for now stays out of view.

Of missing days we write, we sample a lit of life and carry it along,
   We take what was the best of us, and sometimes even we can't carry it on.
We pack our bags light at times, we fold and unfold what we take,
    Like the little bit of sunset, a little bit of smile and a little warmth this fall.

Day 15: Of the things we find

Early in the morning today, a friend of mine sent me a poem about loss by Mordechai Geldman it was centered on the idea of him losing something which he is unaware of and yet he feels that he has lost something to begin with. That notion that we can lose without knowing, I find the first few lines fascinating

"Something in me repeats in an obsessive beat
that I may have lost something
or left it behind
in the café or the bookstore
where I’d been"

I questioned the idea of this loss we are unaware of and I wondered if by symmetry there are also things we find that we must be unaware of and hence I write today "Of the things we find"

Of the things we find

Sometimes in the world we look around,

   We walk around with no concern or regrets,

We are often not guided of our fears and neither promises we carry on or worry about winning a bet

We find solid ground in the words we read,

  We still visit the cafe and bookstores with no fear of what is lost,

Even if that which is not found , remains unknown maybe only the "absence" is our loss

Of things we often find in between sips of the coffee, sitting by the edge reading to yourself,

   Is a warm heart so indulged in poetry it find no retreat better no solitude to confide

He keeps the kindled spirit and the gentle heart, in pages that are dog eared in time

What you find, is it necessarily yours? a reason to read, to find, to question, to define,

  To breathe in the open , to live a dream with open eyes, to paint to no one and to look at the sky?

Then why question the loss if what is found by you, you keep,

   Your loss was never truly yours, it was a moment in time and till the next moment you seek

 

 

Day 14: Writing shades of blue

I decided to go off the usual approach to writing today, I guess I decided to write not when the time was right but rather when the need arose. In deciding on today's topic I picked up on the bright sky outside, mixed with the notion of attaching colors to emotions and how the same colors have different meaning to different people. I was looking at a painting once at an Art Museum in Chicago as I stared into a piece which the painter had named on war, I found he painted the end of the war, the sky was faded into the central theme and even though the name suggested something different there was a calming sensation about that piece. I have spoken to a few friends over the past few days, some who have almost lost touch and some who have always been there as constant reminders like the shades of blue in our lives and hence I chose this topic, and the presence of randomness you should find in my writing today

Writing shades of blue
No I wasn't born black nor white, neither grey,
Neither made of stardust, neither forged out of clay
Neither dreamed out in the azure of the mind, neither sung in songs,
I was only a shade of blue, I was in between the many who knew only this shade as their own

No I didn't dream to write of fairy tales, of fictions that fills then mind and the heart,
Neither of races that men dream to win, while I sit comfortably refusing to even start
Veering on between blue eyes and the sky, between the many of blues that defines,
That have but spoken of many a stories, some that are kept secret and some that are hard to find

To shades of blue I write, to the gestures, and grand symphonies that are no longer compiled,
And yet I wait for the touch of those who transform, the simple things in not so simple times
No I wasn't conjured out of a dream, neither built nor shaped nor painted on the walls,
I was the opening of the summer breeze and the winds that blow past you as you welcome the fall

"I am glad to see people posting and writing back to me, I hope I can keep up with the need to write and communicate back, and I hope I still have something to give back, something to talk about in poetry that I write for you"

Day 13: Lonely in a crowd

The idea was simple to spend time among people, and more people and new people. Some who were random and some who had a touch of familiarity, moving from the unknown to known and vice versa was always welcome. Even though a crowd excites us at times, because of the simple fact that you can go unnoticed in one, it also interests us because of the very same idea. The fact that you can be surrounded by enough people to be lost to the world and then it is often true that you yourself can feel lost and lonely even in a crowd. I had a friend who wrote to me about this feeling and though I myself was at a house warming party with people I knew and then those I didn't , I wasn't unfamiliar with the idea of feeling lonely in a crowd and as people left one by one, the idea of a place slowly losing touch with people rather than people losing touch with the place kept coming back to me. So I decided to write to this , the idea of being lonely in a crowd

Lonely in a crowd
Yes we all were known to each other,
                  And yet we were lonely in a crowd,
Among those who have come and gone to the places I know,
                  And then there are those who never exist even in the memories that shroud.

Do I call upon the many places,
                  Do I only find those who have come and gone,
Do I feel the distant walks, the fast returns and the paces,
                  The places where getting used to was always knew, no matter when you begun

The loud noises that surrounds me,
                  The silhouette of those who come and go,
That things I often write about when the mind is free,
                   The corners of my mind and my heart, the places I travel and the ones I don't know

Come walk with me my stranger, my friend,
                    Come write to me in my the places where you feel lost and found,
Where the whole world comes to you as chaos at times,
                    And yet these are the places where you live, where you breath and are often unbound.

"I was told I don't advertise the fact that people have to send me the topics to write about very well, :) and so to those who find the time reaching till the end of the post, I hope you will post words to write about and more things to keep me awake at 3 in the night, for now let me write, let me simply write"

Day 12: Grounded Still

Fridays are often the hardest days, because it brings with it the idea of a weekend and the promise of something different among the something familiar. The day was calmer than usual though, I came back to the lab after the happy hours , the building was more empty than usual. There are times when you can tell that the whole world wants to be out in the open, and Friday's are one of them. I sat there in the lab for the bit in the quiet hours of the tired day, finishing up some work and mostly wrapping up the loose ends of things that needed to be done. The street lights outside had just come up, as the faint glow of the sky edged towards a mellow evening, the groups of people that couldn't be seen generally flocked outside and roamed the streets. The company of people and the human sentiment of being surrounded, being grounded among the ever changing. So I decided to write on the topic of being grounded still, as I spoke to my friends and I hope it relates to the few who enjoy the read

Grounded Still
There were times that kept me grounded still, that kept my feet on firmly the ground,
That kept me going with shackles of the day, and as the night grew older when the day wasn't around
We kept playing games at times, we would often find solace in the things we didn't know,
The simple things we couldn't simply say, and the simply things that were the hardest to show

The empty halls were silent at times, the weary souls were set free to go home,
To be among the familiarity, among the many things  that kept them young among the places they have grown
I found thinking  of times, that were undefined among the ones we couldn't find,
We could wrap the day in candy wraps, and yet refuse to keep the pieces of the day, the ones we refuse to hide

Grounded still my feet to my ground, I refuse to fly away but I often take my flight,
I often find myself among those who haven't given up on things, the ones that are worth keeping and some which are worth the fight
In old things and new things, and among the things we find have hardly changed,
The ones who have kept telling the stories still, of rhymes and tales and life as it remains.

"Day 12 comes a lot late than usual but then Friday really is a hard day to write about, and yet I hope you will find  a way to relate to it as I look and hunt for more to write about. Keep sending the words and comments, feel free to find the next poem written just for you"
 



  

Day 11: Running Late

Today was a day wrapped in chaos, filled with meetings and conversations alike and everything in between. And then in between the chaos there was synchronicity, there were moments of clear thoughts and actions and an eerie feeling that somehow it still made sense. We have all had such moments when we simply know about the things that must have slowed down but sped up instead, of times when something must have made sense and it failed anyways. Here's to such chaotic times, the times we have felt the restlessness get the best of us and yet in the end we find meaning even if we are running late. Thank you for suggesting this topic and coincidentally this matched most of what my day was today, so here's to the feeling

Running Late
Here's to the slight delays,
Among the fast changing pace of things, and the world that never stays

Among the times we think we have gotten away with a day,
We have held on to something so long, that we think it will forever stay

Here's to the little routines, the panic buttons the stories of the night,
The reasons we come home late, the reasons we often put up a fight

The times I find the traveler come home, to the same places in his room,
And not knowing what may change his day, what should have been and what could

In between times, I get up to write it all down, at the end of the day,
And then there are some I know I keeping coming back just a little lost, and a little late

Fear not my friend, my foe, the world learns to forget, the world learns to forgive,
And for now the world keeps a log, for the days it loses, the ones like today that it refuses to keep.

"Even if I am running late, at times I wish for more things to write about. Day 12 , the next day and so on for you. Send me a thing that you want me to write about, let me write for you, even if just for today"

Day 10: Lightning Strikes

It was a warm and windy walk from the lab back, aerial flood warning popped up on the phone and fortunately it had not yet begun to rain though. I stood there for a while as I exited the door, lightning had started a while back and because they were far away they seemed to be the silent kind. The ones your never hear but see, the flashes that seem to touch the ground and then there are some that brighten up the sky like an old flash photography session going on. The idea of being stuck to the ground often haunts me at these times when I see the restlessness in the surrounding, the freedom I feel in the air and the insurmountable music that nature creates out of thin air. Some studies show that lightning strikes the earth a 100 times a second every single day, and for tonight I just knew it struck a reason I wanted to write about.

Lightning Strikes
And then there are times, I see the flashes, the brightness of the clouds the thunder in the sky,
A moment that flickers past me , as I see the world change just a little bit as I feel the lightning strike,

Stuck to the ground my heart my soul, my wandering my amusements that lay,
Among the things that haunts me is the things that forever remain the same, the ones that refuses to change

It was cold and warm when the wind blew past the night, my tired soul said it needed a home,
Among the dusty winds and silent routine, among the place it rests it eyes, among some places that are long gone

I am often struck by lightning too, in some ways touched by the glow that is silent but talks to a few,
That reminds of a story I keep writing from scratch, Page 1, Day 1 and the one that I must always renew

I smiles that changes the day, in the warm hearts that are captured in only sunshine,
Why does the lightning talk to you, among all that is set free in the world it still survive

I yearn to look at this, to think of the times when something strikes to your core,
When something tells you to be absolutely nothing but who you are, the part of you that simply you adore.

"Day 10 tonight everyone, I find meaning in the little things around me. In people and in conversations sometimes and I reach out, I write till I can. I hope you will send me suggestions to write about, stories that touches you someway. And I will write, but only for you. ."

Day 9: Farewell

I always believe that there are some who will leave impression on you for a long time, who have walked beside you and have seen you grown and those who have let you be who you are when needed. The world is filled with those who say giving space is more important than being personal, knowing how to behave and learn is more important that being yourself and I like to think they are wrong. I like to think no matter how much we are conditioned we have always been and always will be different things to different people. I was suggested "leaving" as the topic for today and I wanted to write it as a farewell, I hope you enjoy the read. The picture today is from a friend leaving for home at Vermont this Summer.

Farewell

Farewell my friend, my days are ending here, the night draws close on a chilly fall day,

The reasons we have lived as we could have lived, we have to be free in our own way

We have learned to walk , we have all fallen and learned to stand again,

And in between all that matters and the things that didn't matter, we never chose to see things differently, we were happily insane

There are times I ask myself, is this really farewell?

Is this a long story that is being written somewhere by someone, a story that no one is ready to tell

We often move to new chapters that we write, and then there are some that are written for us instead,

When the moon outside and the wind through the tress talks in silent whispers by the side of my bed.

It isn't leaving home, even if; you can be far away,

It isn't reason enough that we don't get a say.

Far out in the places we call home, we have but lived in the best of company,

And for those who are just too far away, home is where you find the places with the best of "we"

Farewell my friend and here's to a start to life, let me write to the pieces of life you still read back,

When you lay down on the chair, with the tired day, with no regrets and no reasons that you lack

I wait with my bags, they weigh the world, they carry my memories; the ones I get to keep,

And the ones that are still somewhere left behind, and the ones I find; before I put myself to sleep

"There is a lot about leaving and farewell that can we written, so I hope to come back to this topic again someday and see how things have changed. For now I look for more words and stories to write about, send me a nudge, tell me you are reading"   

Day 8: Trips

It was a day filled with planning, buying tickets and advancing on from the day, and though I had tabs open in the browser and in between all of this, it almost seemed like I was travelling tomorrow. The idea is that the long trips, the ones that reminds you of leaving home and the ones you are on to be missed upon is all but necessary. The truth is all about changes, the changes that have happened over the years the changes we are on sometimes and then there are some changes we are in life. Here's hoping good luck to the some of us who travel, and for everyone else who listens as we do, the world is better with the trips.

Trips
Here's to the ones we take, the ones we refuse to miss and yet the ones we often make,
The planned response to places still, the reasons we keep going at times
Till the places we have been, are among all that we could be ,
And yet we look to destinations still , to spaces only in my mind and to a place where I am free

Do we often live in only the mind, are we simply made of memories?
Among the places we often visit, where revisiting was always free
Are we scared of the new things, the things that call for us and yet changes everyday?
The trips we have all often dreaded at times, and yet the ones we could retake

In trips we find new meanings in time, in between the packing, and in between it all,
There are those who have gone ahead with choices still, in not knowing how to stand and in being ok to fall,
Here's to those who take the little risk, who venture knowing but just a little bit,
Who have traveled still with opened hearts, and who have lived at the edges of the places we start

Come find me when you need me, where you need me to be,
In between the planners, and logs and in between every diary entry.
I am if not nothing but a traveler, I have traveled a many miles,
And yet the shortest one, are the ones that keep me close, and the ones I am have been on for a while.

"Here's hoping I can keep writing , keep exploring new words and themes and suggestions from all of you. Let me write you day 9? Leave me a word, a thought, or maybe a memory in time?"

Day 7: Colors of the sunset

I went to the parking today, the topmost floor that is free and open to see how the sky changes when the sun fades. How the cold hue of the due becomes warmer till it fades into the cold evening, the cool moonlit sky that grazes and touches upon everything around you. In a word the transition was beautiful, have you gone up to the roof yet, have you seen the sun go down yet. Have you seen the colors change, and that's why I write with the friend and the sunset and everything else that must hold meaning at the end of this week.


Colors of the Sunset
In the restlessness of it all, the tired heart finds comfort in the crazy things,
     In the craziness of time itself, the reason your eyes can't find sleep, the reason it can no longer dream
The yesterday between locked pages of the heart, the scribbles that seem to be all but true,
   When sitting down to write was something that held strong , something that held through

Colors of the sunset hue, the sky changes in paces , in moments, in time,
   In poetry that it writes for me , the one that needs no reason the one that needs no rhyme
In awe and wonder that surrounds the moment, the drunken nature of the evening sky,
  Is is still waiting for you to keep coming back , or is it waiting for you to say goodbye

Forever more I find myself among those who have come and the strangers at heart,
   Among the chapters I have just started to write, and then there are those I have yet to start.
Find in me in the colors  of the sunset, in the cup of life, and in the air we breathe,
  Find me like the paintings of the sky, the one that keeps changing and the one you wish to keep.

"Thank you for Day 7, thank you for being a part of my writing, write to me, send me your words and let me write for you, till the time I can , till the time I can " 

Day 6: Middle of the night

This weekend was about taking pictures when you wake up in the middle of the night, going out for a stroll when it is quiet outside and then sleeping again when you have to knowing routine was out the window. And hence today's topic as suggested is about Middle of the night, the little moments that come in small bits and pieces to us and that let us construct our days and as I post this quite literally around the middle of the night :)

Middle of the night
It is often what hasn't been around,
                     that reminds you of things long gone, that are but no where to be found
In dreams that encircle the thoughts in your head
                    would you change what of dream about or would you stick to it instead?

The middle of the night, the morning blues,
                     the night lights fading away and in between the morning hues
Between the trance of a silent sleep, between the complains of the day,
                    the things that have remained with me, in the those that couldn't stay

The night reminds of a fresh start that rises,
                    Of the indecisiveness between the day and night, between poured glasses and promises
Oh better friends we all wish to be, to those around and to chose who care,
                    Yet for now I only take pictures in the night, the silent roads and places that lay bare

The middle of the night is when I write to you,
                  When I wish simple words would speak , and someway come through.

"Thanks for Day 6 everyone, I look forward to suggestions for Day 7, make the end of the week your poem, let me write only for you, look forward to hearing from you" 

Day 5: In smiles that hide

The week ended with a warm Friday and the tired souls poured into cold glasses of beer at the nearest pub. And why not, when the day calls for some down time. Among the groups of people that share a drink and among the smiles I see little moments of escape from the routine of things. Little pieces of amusement between munching on the popcorn and little plans in action , and it was all hidden in the randomness. So I decided to write about the hidden smiles as suggested by a friend, in between these times.

In smiles that hide
Are you going by like yesterday, like yesteryear, like the time that is but memories,
Like the pieces of crumbled papers that lay on the door, I scratched one out as I sat down to write,
I fought with words as they crowd in my mind, in meanings I reach for, and in the words I confide

Are you like the smile that hides, that reminds of me cartoons on a Sunday afternoon,
That tells of a time that is puzzling everyday, and yet of puzzles that builds itself behind,
Beyond the things that hides in secrets still, and in between the times that comes to you and for me that flies

In the little spaces of my heart, my mind still finds you in the corners of your face,
In between every walk that I walk to you, between the miles and in every pace
Oh fear not the unknown my friend, we learn to grow but in steps and stride,
And all that I know and trust for now, is that you will always have a smile; one that you could never hide.

"I want you to share small moments of your life, things you want to be written about, let me give back in someway, let me write for you, leave me a topic to write about"

Day 4: Just a scoop of ice cream

A friend of mine suggested an unusual topic today, he told me to write about ice cream (yes the dessert we so often like) and a veiled hint towards my love for ice cream. What followed inadvertently later in the day was a trip to the local ice cream parlor and slurping cold one in the warm summer. There is a level of simplicity that is never lost from life, something we keep visiting from time to time and though it may become a routine , these are the simple things that give us joy. So I write to the bitter sweet, to the ice cream

Just a scoop of ice cream
I often wonder what the world might have been,
If we had no fights, we had no emotion that lay unseen
If the honest ones who would write to you, would write with flavors that are bold,
Like the ice cream scoop, like the sugar cone, and like the simple times of which we are told.

We often grow up to amuse ourselves, we grow up, we grow out, we learn how to be,
Like the many flavors and taste of lives, we choose the ones we like, among the ones we see.
I implore you to be adventurous my friend, take a scoop from the the unventured side,
There is only so little to give up at times, and yet we fear of the things we leave aside

I often wander like a child on a summer day, someone who is not just on a sugar high,
Rather someone who expects just a little bit to change, someone who believes life can still surprise.

"Look forward to more suggestions my friends, leave me a comment, things you want me to write about, a word, a feeling, a thought, a meaning. For my heart , let me write but only to you "

Day 3: Fleeting love

I was happy to receive a word today, someone wanted me to write about love. Now, though it is a much visited topic I thought of writing about fleeting love, about that little moment when being sure about something is the hardest thing to do. To the person who requested this I wish you find it in no matter what form or kind

Fleeting love

I often think of summer rain, the warmth of the day when it's cold for a while,

When all that remains are the little transitions, the changes of the day and the fading sunlight

I often think of fleeting times, of times that are short and yet endless in their ways,

Like short stories and poetry and everything that you wish would rhyme someway.

About love we write , to love we write, like the warmth of a coffee cup as I grasp the handle so cold,

About the things we often wish were free, among the many things we let go, and among the ones we hold.

The fleeting choices often come and go, among the phrases that only a few may have known,

Among the times we must decide , even if the feelings were the last thing we choose to show.

I breathe the warm day into my lungs, the shades that cover my eyes, the summer breeze that grazes,

And yet the writing that writes itself, keeps going on , the ones that never erases.

"Write to me with your story, your situation, your words , and I will write to you and for you again, till Day 4 comes, thank you for reading. "

Day 2: But it rained

It was just like any other morning. The phone beeped with an areal flood warning notification. Off course they always overestimate these things but it did mean that it was raining outside. The slow patter of rain on the glass window was now pretty distinct like knocks on the door. I looked at the time , it was 6.30 am, there was still a little more sleep to catch up with I thought. So I chose to write to the rain today,

But it Rained
I hear you at my doorstep and my windows too,
Like footsteps that come slowly and stays by my side,
Among the many reasons you change the day with simply you,
Like a weary day , like a tired soul, like an old friend you pour out, you confide

Time and again when the windows are cloudy and when it rains outside,
When I know the cold wind that blows past the empty halls sings and rhymes,
I hear the thunder say no one's name, it calls to no one and yet it makes a sound,
And among the many things we often miss, it is no where to be found

Do you hear the pitter patter of the little feet, the streets that flow like endless streams?
Like the painted picture, like the mellow song, and the gloomy day that makes you dream.
I fear not that which washes away, I fear not the things that are left behind,
But it rained no matter what I would say, just open the window shades just raise your blinds.

Day 1: Strangers on a Train

I was out for a wonderful day today, filled with tours and history of the city I live in and a story about people helping absolute strangers. Strangers on a train and kindness in those random relationships. So here's my first poem for those strangers , and to those fellow travelers

Strangers on a Train
I will always recluse myself by the edge of the seat,
Among my thoughts, my wrinkled book and the times that I refuse to pay heed

Among strangers I meet everyday, among a friend I met on a train,
Among the kindness and open doors and among the things that always remained.

We sat right next to each others, we peeped into each other's books and eyes,
Beyond the names of the books and what it entailed, beyond a reason to be ever surprised.

I shared time with the traveler, the stranger I didn't know,
And yet for some reason we spoke till there the strangeness was no where to be shown

We often find meaning in those weary times, among those we have often never met,
Like the familiar smell, the familiar food and the familiar taste that lingers with you, the ones you never forget

I wish we all met more strangers too, and yet in the very end,
We were nothing if not two pages stuck together in my book, and I wish we all end up on a train and as always, with an unknown friend.