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.

Day 29: At Work Somedays

I despise the idea that there can be irrational truth, that truth can be in forms that don't make sense and don't fit any logical explanation of what we believe to be true and yet the world never fails to surprise me. The world never sits aside and conspires and yet creates these places that live only in our mind. Whether it is staring at colleagues behind dimly lit computer screens, to humming a tune when we hope no one is watching or no one cares. We can all find pieces of ourselves in the places we work sometimes, the places we give most of our lives to, in between subtle comedy that we look forth in the people who surround us. There is something inherent about shared laughter, it doesn't originate from just the element of comedy, it originates from the experience , from the actors and members present and for a minute minute from the design of it all. So I write this one to my lab, to my friends and colleagues , to my memories and the ones that stay.

At Work Somedays

Oh sprinkle me along even if I am long gone,

Hum my tune like you are singing my favorite song

Remind me of old times, of story tales we shared at our chairs,

Of the times we could do something simply for a dare.

The tall building doors, the alarm codes, the warmth of the chair reminds me of home,

Or does it sound too desolate, like the story that was never heard, the ones that wasn't told

They are in between the crackles of the day, they are between silent glances,

They are between the times I feared most, and of times that reminded me of missed chances

Oh carry me along, when you wander away, 

Like the leaves that fall off this time of year, I refuse to stay

Oh old story tales my love, come find me home,

Come sit by my, with me in and in the places you think, I no longer belong

Day 28: Pieces Redefined

When all of the pieces are defined, we will find a way to complete the puzzle, we will find the perfect answer even if there is none to find. I walked home late last night, like many others mumbling bits and pieces of poetry to myself instead of being numbed by the earphones that generally covers my ears. I was walking back as I thought about all of the things I heard today, including the name of a friend which means both alone and the learned one, and how we giggled whether they were both complimentary to one another. The most honest reality about yourself, is often kept for you alone to discover. And in between the late night walk back, between stopping for a stranger to make a phone call using my phone, and between waking up at 4 in the morning to realize sleep becomes rarity at times all felt like a story to me.  So I write to the pieces we all define

Pieces Redefined
Let me draw from the beginning, from the places in time,
   When all of the pieces were laid out, and every one of them defined
Like the last piece of art that refuses to stay in the gallery,
   We are kept like priceless bits , locked away but in our memories

We are both learned and kind, we are both lost and found,
   We are both locked away in eternity in thoughts, and we are free at moments we are unbound,
We are wicked beyond our own beliefs, we don't complain of days anymore,
   Any by now you are wondering, why I say we are "both" like ever before

The both of us includes me and you,
   From writing to the edge of a page and for you  to read through,
I fear sometimes if my search for symmetry,
   Leads me no where more simple, than coming back to simplicity

We are but pieces redefined, we piece together from time to time,
   And then when the world gets hauntingly still, we are often often pressing rewind
For now the night lights are still bright from my window pane,
   For now my picture in words is all I have to draw, for now they are all that remains

Day 27: A Missing Read

I find great comfort in knowing the day gets over sometimes, because for me it just transitions further from one phase into the other. The night gets a little deeper and it gets quieter outside. And the things we missed out on, the plans for the day get crunched towards the end. There is a lot that goes lost as the day translates to the night. My friend from my lab suggested I needed 10 more hours to get all the work done in a day, though he suggested he would get 10 extra hours to sleep in that case. I somehow feel his idea sounded better. For me I know I missed out on writing to you, and most importantly I missed out on reading when necessary. So I decided to write to those missed reads the things we wish we had moments to reread and comprehend.

A Missing Read
    We are often about translations to the day, about transitions when at night,
We are our own reasons to start and sometimes give up on fights
    We are impatient at times and sometimes we wait till the day ends ,
We follow the rules like we are meant to and then there are some which we bend.

    We hold a missing read too dear, the words I didn't get to comprehend,
The stories that lay bare on the couch, the ones we put on repeat, the ones that never end
    We are but short of a few extra hours, to sleep or work our way,
Or to do whatever pleases us at times, and anything to get us through the day

    Of short writings I write tonight, a few line short of what you would call true,
Of dreams and pauses and realities , and in my words that I leave for you.
    A missed reading comes calling back, it rocks back and forth in the pages to be tamed,
In between the hours that keeps me awake at night, I find a moment which is never the same.