Day 78: Time of Day

I sometime admire the idea of knowing where to draw the line between times of the day, at what does the afternoon turn into an evening and the evening into night. At what time lines does the day know that we must change our moods and do we really change based on that anyways. Are we programmed to be more mellow over the evening and grumpier over the morning? Are we designed to love the morning air sometimes, and yet hate to get up without the coffee? This fascination about the time of day amuses me sometimes as I see different sides of people at different times. In the randomness of it all, I find warm hearts at all odd hours and more of life I listen to the more I want to hear.

Time of day
It was the beginning somewhere, somewhere along the start of it all,
When the tea is brewing quietly and the whole world for once has been put on hold.
When the weary eyes, holds me back the morning dream reminds me of things,
Of the reason I get out of bed, when the day ahead still lies in my dreams

The time of days that shuffles around, plays games of card that only a few know,
They are hidden in plane sight, they are undisclosed they are cards which they do not show
I am reminded of transition often times, of winnings we take home and our losses too,
Why we live with expectations still, why there's something something exciting to see things through.

We will find a reason to painfully sublime, we will all wrap ourselves in phases of the day,
From time to time when we are most of ourselves and yet we seem to move away
The admiration of the few must come and go, like hours we count into the night or evening still,
I find myself like the half empty wine bottle waiting for a drink, for a glass to be filled

Pour me a day, it has sweetened & aged, it is time we taste what is unknown,
I have too little to be gained, to much to loose and yet I would rather have the story unfold
Paint me a picture with lines that don't connect, write me a story with faint meaning someway,
Why we count our many hours, why we write to transitions and our times of the day. 

Day 77: Window Side

What would you like to do? She asked from the other side of the table.
I don't know , maybe just find the cafe I first went to, sit by the window and stare outside. Maybe just roam around in the hallways the same way as I used to , maybe learn how to dance for a change when no one is looking. She smiled back, I would just like to be able to do simple things again, find my way back home when I want to and reason with no one but myself.
           "We can all see, that which surrounds us, we feel that which changes us and we are sometimes lost in the familiar more than anything else"

Window Side
I will sit by the same place, the same seat the same cafe,
Where the smell of coffee fills the room, but it would still be okay
Where I could borrow a napkin and write to no one,
But yet smile every time, I would think out loud & when my writing is done.

I will still sit by the window side, the colors of the day change from time to time,
The hours pass like music that plays in a watch, the minutes they play at a constant rhyme
I write letters back and emails too, I think of the ways in which I talk back,
But my saved seat by my window side, gives me endless things to write along.

I trade stories with you, the ones you decide to tell, the ones I get to write,
The ones we both listen to, we follow along, the ones we feel as we laugh and sometimes cry
I sometimes feel the whole world wants a peaceful, a dream shared between between me and you,
And though we may not remember what they have been, at least some of us would wish it true

I will still sit by the same window pane, I will scribble without notice somehow,
I will learn how to dance, how to sing, how to play, even if only in my mind for now.
I find quiet writings that ties me down, sometimes more close to reality,
And in wherever you may think my words may fit, for now they are the best of me.

Day 76: Shadows in the Sun

It was a cold winter morning mid January, it was a little heavier to breathe as I walked from my home . There are moments in the walk where I feel; having done this over and over again has let my brain think of other random things. I don't need to worry about the walk itself. The music track changed in my ears to a slow and subtle piano piece called "one morning". I walked past the parking lot, the restaurants in the way and the familiar places that I don't visit anymore. I have fewer reasons to do so in the first place. I have dressed up just the same, been ready for things in just the same ways and yet the day was a different one.  I looked at the shadows in between places where the day wasn't bright enough and neither warm.

Shadows in the Sun
Can you tell me if I write to fiction or reality tonight?
Can you separate the two, the fear, the anxious me, the part of me that chooses to fight?
Can you remind me of every time you felt the characters were so alive,
That you stopped and figured what if they made it though, was the story as much yours as mine?

Who can tell me that we are living in reality or simply a larger story in part?
We are playing improv, our lines were unwritten , we were told to just choose a place to start
The shadows in the sun outside, are places where you will sometimes find,
Those who have learned to write their stories somewhere, and yet refuse to draw within the lines

I am an actor in my own play, my lines , my writings are sometimes real to me,
And for whatever part that we must play, what I write to you is just a part that wants to be free.
Oh meaning in between the lines, Oh words that frame themselves from time to time,
You are often read back again & again, like memories that I hold & some that are on constant rewind.

The stories of the night, feel so real to me , I refuse to separate my thoughts for a while,
I am the hero in my head, the villain too, and all the roles wherever I get to play a part.
Can you find the real me, as I look for you, do you think we have changed over and over again,
We have become like words, like poetry, just a character we live and sometimes play.

Day 75: The Part of Me

The part of me is essentially about writing to the bits and pieces that you recollect about yourselves, sometimes when you at the passenger seat on a long drive, when you are listening loudly to music as though the world is on mute, when you stare outside the glass window watching the sun go down or simply when you are walking down memory lane in your head over and over again. Though whatever you recollect may be different, I wish to share what I feel is a shared experience and hence this is my shared writing as always, hope you find the part of you

The Part of Me

The loud hearted part of me, that doesn't care for the world,
That sings out a song, hums like a child and runs about untied , restless for a while

The part of me that looks for just a bit of solitude,

Is on a long break for now, it needed a break from being quite from me and you

It's 3.00 Am said the Simon and Garfunkel  record, it only moved to my iPod somehow,

It is still the same lyrics, the cover, the album art, there's nothing different just the time has changed for now

And the nitty gritties of the day, the silent workers of the night,

Who have all but remembered to live whatever way, who have simply picked up a fight

The part of me that is unburdened at days end, still writes to beginnings some days,

It believes that in whatever permanency of the night, it can still find it's way back home someway

The hours of the night seems to stretch and stroll, it walks back home with you,

It remembers the minutes that went by somewhere and yet it can't seem to let them go

The part of me that lies uneventful at time, 

   listening to music, writing to no one & everyone just the same,

It has found that the real reason we worry about,

   because we all find happiness even when you think things have changed

The loud hearted me, the brave soul for the week, the tepid waters on my bathroom floor,

Reminds me of warm hugs and a walk down memory lane to places where I have been before.

Day 74: Day Time Writing

I often wondered how things would change if I would write in the middle of the day, somewhere around noon when things are least expected to begin or end I would find a prelude. And with a lit bit of inspiration I should be able to convert that into a writing. It is already mid January and as we walk outside the apartment for a while,the rain warms the cold winter air, we rejoice in the momentary warmth that fills us. For all that matters right now is that lazy or not so lazy Sunday afternoon that is always better spent somewhere else. And hence this one is to the mid day musings of the day

Day Time Writing
It was just bright enough to start my day,
I am just asleep enough to know I am awake
When I am lying lazy on a Sunday morning in bed,
With songs playing out loud and with no dreams in my head

I have been passive for a while, dreaming in and out,
I have been reminding myself of those dreams, the ones that are covered with a shroud
My tinkering with the books that lay beside on my bed,
The edges, the spline and the smell of pages that sometimes wakes me up instead.

When I was a little child, I was told reading myself to bed kept the words in my head,
But as I grew up, I learned it is called memory and that there are some which I would unlearn instead
I lay onto a side , I stared at the bleak sunlight outside my window pane,
There was just enough sanity left in my head, to put the pieces together in a world so insane

My day time writing hence starts just a bit late, but lingers around in my head,
They are reasons that I kept to myself, the ones that have helped me get out of bed
Be brave this day my dear, you have dreamed of too much to let go,
You have written some of those down somewhere, and some are too special for even yourself to know

Be patient, be kind, be thoughtful for a while, to the little things & musings of the day,
Whatever reasons catches your fancy somehow, just find yourself a reason to be okay.

Day 73: Men of words

I have been pondering on this idea since I last wrote and in between conversations with friends and colleagues alike. The idea that there comes a time when you realize that your persona is allowing you to live multiple lives in the ways you communicate. You are someone comforting on the phone when you listen to people for hours and yet busier than ever in real life, you are someone else who is always quick to reply to every text message and is yet forgetful of conversations you had , you are a voice on the other side of the phone , who can sing and talk and yet in reality you love the idea of fading out in the crowd. For whatever be the reason, I wanted to write to these men, I call them Men of Words so aptly for they exist but in ways I cannot hold. In time I have seen people falling in love with this different bits and pieces, maybe the part of me which writes poetry, the part that sketches and sometimes simply me. For now the loss of the lovable self seems worth expressing, for now I am simply a man of words to you.

Men of Words
There were often times of realization, but it took me a while,
That people have kept their daily lists of things to, and their polished smile
They have fallen for bits and pieces of me, not me as a whole
That they have been familiar only with the part of me that they hold

The pieces of the puzzle still, a dreamer, a singer, a writer unbound,
I am lost in between the many of me, and among the anguish that no is looking for "me" to be found
My identity but often blends into thin air, I become whatever you want me to be,
A friend, a listener, a confidant, I am molded by nothing more than your own free will.

Hope you find solace in your heart, these Men of Words will come and go,
And then there will be some who will care and yet these are the ones who will never show
They are wherever you want them to be, they are in the places in between, & in spaces in your mind,
In between phone calls on your cellphone, in scribbled poetry on your desk, and in whatever place that you could find

These Men of Words work late at night, they come and go,
They are almost like fiction of the many worlds, they all exist but as a whole they lie unknown.
There are some night like today, when my tired soul finds itself unbound,
And in my poetry tonight, these men of words come alive; like reality that is written but no where to be found

I wish I could take a bow from time to time, though I fear the world may think I only perform,
I come to you as real as I can be, just the whole of me for now shall remain unknown
I would write to these Men of words sometimes, they have done a good job from time to time,
They have created a world to live in imagination still, and yet they are forgotten pieces of mine. 

Day 72: Dream awake

There is a moment just before waking up, just before the start of things when the perfect sleep must end. The tired eye lids lies on the beds waiting to comprehend more, and though there is an incessant need to know, we still enjoy the mystery before the new day. Imagine driving on a long and distant road all night knowing the hours are changing like chords on a piece of music you wrote long ago. The music is loud and yet peaceful in its own way. Here's to dreaming awake, the day dreamers and dream makers, keep writing.

Dream Awake
I thought I will write again, on places in my head,
The dusty walls that have gone cold without footsteps.
The crumbled remnants of what used to be
The places in need of constant repair, the places we still keep.

The long drive down memory lane, sitting by & staring at the lights outside,
The music plays for a bit, and fades in the night sky, you steal a glimpse with whoever is by your side
The engine rumbles past the city limits, the clear night and the bright headlight ahead,
You have come too far to drive back home, I wish we could just keep the night instead.

Do you sometimes think of the moment in your sleep, when the dream talks on your behalf,
When restless eyes keep moving by, your best version of you is more surreal than the dream you have
The countless times I tell myself, that stories must be written in reality still,
But we draw from memories that are sometimes left behind, we find moments for the spaces to fill.

I dream awake from time to time, I think of the next day as we write it side by side,
We are risk takers, we are thinkers, we are makers and most of all we are ourselves at times.
So I yearn for the new, my restless heart seeks the music on the radio the world plays,
Here's hoping I get to learn from it, and here's hoping I get to change the station someday.

Day 71: Calendar Days

A conversation today with a friend of mine, kept rotating about this subject of finding our lives defined by these colorful calendars and appointment books. The idea that we have adapted so well to this, that we often look for a the ratio of free versus blocked out times, that we have learned to become acquainted with slots and segments of the day. And it is often in between these busier and not so busy slots we reminisce the idea of looking at a day as a whole, we romanticize summaries of the week in our heads and ways in which we wish to plan out our year. I write to our love for chaos in between order, in between slots of calendar days and the hope we keep writing & dreaming just the same, "anyways"

Calendar Days
I wonder between the red and blue, the empty spaces that are filled by appointments too,
The calendar days at the start of the year, the running around and finding things to do.
The to do lists are close, they are set in motion from time to time,
When the beginnings are between spaces in the sign up sheet, the empty ones that you can find.

The hard work, the summaries, the accomplishments in time,
And between moments of self doubt that surrounded you , and some that freed your mind.
The times that have let you be, and those where you bounced in between,
The calendar days that are earmarked for you, and the absent days that lay unseen.

We are somehow surrounded by a structure we feel, the chaos no longer makes sense anymore,
We are creatures of habits and spaces and places, and familiarity like ever before.
We are broken at times, we fall from high ground and yet we manage to dust ourselves,
We are defined somehow by appointment books, and the reasons we have a calendar which we share now.

Find time in between my daydreamer, my friends, my travelers of a span within the hours of a day,
You are written by so much more than colors on the walls, you are meant to dream your way.
For many who will find this year tougher at times, we all hit our walls from time to time,
But it is just important to know that at the beginning and the end, we get to choose the walls we climb.

Day 70: In Between

I often feel it is the fallacy of human nature to end up sometimes in between situations, in between places, in between people and relationships and sometimes in between the times we wish we didn't lose. The beauty I feel though is often finding which way to go when you are making that transition, and sometimes in knowing that you do not get to make that choice. It is in conversations with so many that I have learned about these transitions in human nature, it is slow and unexpected. We are biased towards choosing , we are more biased towards making some choices our own. For now I wrote to that in between feeling, person or reason we have, in shared destiny let me dwell for a bit

In Between
We are often written as in story books, we are travelling places and sometimes we are in between,
We are part of the pages that you haven't read, the places in your mind that you have not yet seen
In  between the looking glass; I find glances by the coffee table that I share,
In between warm, fires by the chimneys, wrapped in a blanket and among the things that I care.

We are often found like travelers, packed away in our mind and our heart,
We are waiting for endings , because we fell in love with the new, we fell for the "start"
We are driven by the very few, we are driven far, we are driven to places unknown,
And yet we seem to live in between the memories, that are never gone.

A new day must start with the old, the summaries must come from those who love to unlearn,
Who have erased but themselves in bit and pieces, who have unsolved the puzzle & spent the winnings they had earned
It is to the brave ones I write, those who know themselves and keep discovering still,
Who are lying in between the places and phases, and yet who are alive in between their own free will

The lengthy chatter of the night we talk, and I let my dream come from time to time,
Even if I fail to recollect them all, what I bring to you is still the best of me and always mine
In between places, is where you will find me, I have walked many a miles for just the same,
For now I get to keep my day, so that you can keep your night as our stories change.

Day 69: Skybound

Over the past couple of weeks and months I have traveled and flown a lot many miles, and sometimes I feel I have an addiction to write on those long flights when you have nothing better to do except stare outside from time to time. And it is often staring outside when the plane flies close to the ground that you can see these endless array of houses with blinking lights, the glittering windows of homes that remain warm even though there lies a cover snow outside. It is at times when I am bound in a flight, that I experience what people refer to as a flight of the mind, and so I write to this one on my way from Miami, I hope you find your own trip, your own flight of the might moment, for now I am skybound in my mind

Skybound
I stare outside my dark window, the evening skies are with you somewhere in the houses below,
Are you unheard of, untold of, or simply too loud, for silence to sometime follow
If finding myself with wings, was all that kept me from trying,
I would still be skybound, hurling in the sky, and you will still find me flying

They tell us we are cruising through, we breathe recycled air & drink from cans,
Slightly basked in the evening sky, slightly lost in the light, in between what I can and can't
Why doesn't the addiction of flight simply like all things just fades away,
Why does it still feel like freedom, every time I am skybound on my way

Of places I write sometimes and others which I call home,
And some that are incoherent this high above & like memories that are long gone
Plan the night, the bitter cold but surrounds my feet,
And yet something warm, my thoughts in my head, keeps me warm in my seat

Skybound my soul, my mind writes with almost no restraints,
I am used to the roaring engine sounds, and the long flight times no longer bear constraints.
Unbound my poetry, somewhere high above,
To everything we must write to, but here's only to the things we love

Day 68: Often Unrest that Surrounds Me

The flight to Miami was a long one and though the quiet flights don't always give you time to do anything but stare outside to through the windows and the setting sun, they do provide the perfect feel of being in between the clouds as the day switches over to the night. The napkins becomes my friend when I am done drinking my drink and I feel I simply need to write. This writing was written when I got here two days back and when I remember the need to summarize the unrest that surrounds on these longer journeys and shorter ones alike, the anxious selves get to move from one point to the other and yet our mind writes of things that lie back home, of fights that are yet to be fought. And hence I write to unrest that surrounds me. Though this is a recap this is the poem I wrote that night on the napkin I had tucked away and the unrest I feel often surrounds all of us from time to time, I hope we all find our places to stay

Often Unrest that Surrounds Me
It is often unrest that surrounds me,
As the day falls into the arms of the night,
When all to say is said, to do is done,
When I can hang the boxing gloves, when I know I have won the fight

The cheers of the day, the mellow evening skies today,
Are carried on shoulders of the ones who chose to stay.
And the few who have walked in mere disbelief,
Who have lost their will to stay and yet haven't found a reason to leave.

There is often unrest that surrounds me,
An impending anxious self, sways from day to day,
I start with so many who feel just the same,
And yet they make excuses why they found a better place, a reason they cannot stay

The winnings of the nights are collected in my heart,
They are found in between the summaries I write,
They are in between my thoughts and scribbles tonight,
And in between the reasons , why we even began this fight

Day 67: Being Nice

I have often been told that being nice comes with the good and the bad, the balancing act of being nice and something being "too nice". And though I do not know how we achieve comparative degrees to these niceties, we must adapt , we must learn. The simple things , the simplest form of illusion must come from something that is right in front of you, and so must some of the simple realities as we write about them. In the years to come as I play this balancing act, I would have learned to live with degrees and conditions that defines people, I would have learned to be real among the fiction I will write, and if you spot the difference make sure you point it out, for now let me simply be nice

Being Nice
I often wonder about the problems with being nice,
The moment when even giving it all, if too little to suffice.
When the gentle footsteps on the floor, retreat their way home,
They are walking to places where they rest, and places where they belong.

The problem with being too nice must come with no regrets,
No challenges that held you back, no dream you couldn't dream instead
I was simply the best of me, among the very best of you,
But the story ended too soon, and the play was misunderstood too

I hear violin in the warmer winter night; so quiet as it speaks,
It speaks in tunes and hymns alike , and yet finds no reason to repeat.
Your restless nights when you can't find sleep, hear my voice, my lullaby,
Let me keep company to the night, as you find a dream under the night sky

The nicer days, the niceties, even the little pieces I will write sometimes,
Folds up upon that which is overlooked, the little things we often keep aside
We are nothing if not stories in our own book, we are just not written by ourselves,
And the nicer endings, the stories of our life, and the questions that we all must dwell

Like the last solo piece on the violin, the endings are stronger; they leave something behind,
For now the strumming, the picking and the play; are the music I leave you with, in your mind.

Day 66: And in Warm Companies

Early in the year , the bindings of the day would be challenged by few, the writers of the night light, who wither their thoughts onto the paper, the dreamers who are wide awake when they write. Early in the year the little mellowed thoughts would be easier to comprehend as the days slip away and endless counters of days hits restart. It is easier to catch up with friends and families and sometimes with some who are molded as both, the easier pathways that leads us away from home and brings us closer to places we now call our own. It was a quiet night at Indianapolis and yet in between the late night fancy dinners and the outings of the evening sky, I found a warm company just as refreshing as the early morning dew. For now as they sleep and I type away with a warm glow from my computer there seems to be thoughts that roam the hallways of my mind. And so I write to warm companies

And in Warm Companies
And then when the night drew to a close, at whatever day you may want it to be,
At whatever moment the mind chooses to put itself to bed, at whatever time that it sets itself free
You will figure out the things you no longer say, to those who are still all around,
Those who speak so loud to you, when the world seems so quiet in between all the sound

There are those of us who have lived so much, who have learned from those around us at times,
Who have learned to never give up on the past, and yet we give credit to the things we often find
The human spirit but breaks and falls, it fixes itself at its very best,
And it relives and changes itself; at the broken places, and it leaves itself no time to rest

In warm companies some night, in between the movies in a dimly lit room,
Lies the reason we choose to find friends, the reason we call them family whenever we could.
Some who read in between the lines, must find the puzzling theme too hard to believe.
That we are who we have always been, and the best of us still lies in warm companies

We are but coffee beans slowly brewed in time, the flavors that sometimes comes so late,
But there are often things that you choose to give precious time and even more that are worth the wait
And in warm companies tonight, as the whole world sleeps so must I and so must you,
We will keep writing many stories to come, many pages to fill ,and many stories that our heart holds true.

Day 65: To the New Year Resolves

It is towards the very end, when we summarize bits and pieces of years , that we tend to draw lines between what was good and bad. The things that we know were meant to be completed, and some where we were glad that life left it incomplete. It is hard to know what that little tendency tells you very often, whether we collect the times we had a good laugh with friends, or about regrets that haunts you from time to time. For whatever be the reason, the resolves are often a part of what we hope or wish, or rather want to be, what we want to change about our lives, and sometimes even though rarely to hold constant something great in your life. And hence on the last day and first days alike of the year, on the fallen and the risen that stays with you, I write to the new year resolves, the aspirations of time, and the first writing of my year.

To the New Year Resolves
Do you like the feeling of a new book? A new chapter to read , a new page to turn?
An idea that lets you grow, lets you live life at its best, and lets you learn.
The chapters we get to write, the excitement of all but a beautiful resolve,
The puzzles in our head for once if they must, are the easy one, the ones we could all solve

We have summarized this year for long, in time frames, and posts and messages alike,
In decisions that we have taken, and in changes that we have brought on some nights,
We are a little bit of what we used to be, we haven't changed much in the past,
We have learned to grow up just for a while, we are looking for a way to make things last

The delicate paddles of time that ticks away, the endless traveler it bothers for no one,
It doesn't keep a track of itself, it doesn't count its steps , it knows not where it has begun.
For those who find warmth in their heart, on a cold winter day is all that it counts,
No promises made but the one to yourself, and the songs you could sing to yourself out aloud

To the new year resolves  I write today, the beauty of keeping something to yourself,
In knowing that it has all been planned, and in your own will you keep a wish to dwell
There are many a times this year, that I will write to no one but all of you,
But this year couldn't be without a farewell to the old,and hoping for the new

In yesteryear and in the landscapes of my mind,
Let me keep writing to you, let me give you a reason to read me again & to stay behind