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.