Solitude

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The Mountain Scene

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Cliffette's Picture Journal

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Fleetingly, my camera caught the glimpse of a tiny little cottage, probably meant to stay hidden from view, along the mountainous highway. Down below is the valley of Dehradun, and up here, surrounded by the heavy monsoon mist, this cottage reminded me of those sweltering afternoons in the city, with those tempestuous daydreams. I have always wanted a house like this, tiny, but more than what one needs, really, and exactly at a place like this. like a minuscule niche hidden from the world with fog and trees, looking down, I could’ve stared at life and death everyday. This is all I need.

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Protected woods of Delhi North

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Cliffette's Picture Journal

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Kamala Nehru Ridge, or the Northern Ridge, of North Delhi is one of first real woods I got to explore on my own. It is a reserved forest, but in the desperate need for recluse, and a desire to get lost in nature, I found these woods fulfilled the main purpose in its very essence.

As it is William Blake, the great illustrative English poet of the Romantic league of genius writers, said,

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And Eternity in an hour.

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Captured and written on May 13th, 2015…

Sometimes you have to get lost to find your way.
But, if, where I get lost is so beautiful, I won’t ever want to be found. Just know I’m happy and I’m feeling inspired.

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The Fall Setting – Part II

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From Imaginia

Cliffette's Picture Journal

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Captured at 5.20 am, July 11.

Found this beautiful little flower, entirely drenched in rainwater from the showers of the night, right at dawn. Sights as these are everything I wake up each dawn for. Walking, barefoot, wiggling my toes at the moist grass, feeling the tiny water droplets nestled on the blades of grass, doesn’t it work better than pedicures? Of course it does and I love it.

That’s all for now, folks!! Enjoy.

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verse

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the nostrils flared, the eyes quelled

the darkness creeps in when the shadows have all melt

it’s a hell, my soul, where my cold demons dwell.

but I know, it’s my heart, that’s still beating

against all reason, still, still feeling, still breaking.

underneath the skin, vomiting, shuddering,

a tiny little adorable cell of love is awakening,

soon to grow up to kill me like a cancer.

RED

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Gone Red! =D

Finally after a lot of speculations, I agreed on getting my hair dyed red. It’s looking absolutely hideous on me. But yeah, in an alternate universe where I don’t age, I love my hair!

This is the time of the year that actually makes me want to write. Spring, oh yes, it’s the approach of spring. While writing and reading stuff, sitting on my terrace facing the wind blowing wild through the wild red flowers blooming outside on those lofty branches of the trees in the park, I wish I could just lie down alone in a slowly blossoming winter’s meadow, with the wind sweeping the sweet dead red flowers through my hair, glistening in the brisk sunlight and make love to myself amidst such profound beauty. I need to heal myself from last winter.

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I didn’t Choose

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This is something I’m doing merely of instinct, probably half in derelict hope to be proved wrong, in order to retain my belief in love, which still in a few ways is my only chance at redemption. I don’t know, I’m lost like a stolen sword, valueless and perilous in the hands of the vulnerable peasant, who might hurt himself with it in his ignorance. But I definitely had to write about it. It’s been so long since I wrote last, and caught in the whirlwind of business and my indulgence in my manic ecstatic flights unto a heaven shining and clean and dizzying leaps into hell, dull and desolate, I haven’t even cared to write to smother my soul, and unburden her from my weights.

I’ve been reading a lot of Freud (Sigmund Freud) and watching movies containing abstractly oriented sexual content (mostly incest and lesbianism) in relation to D.H. Lawrence’s twentieth century colliery novel, Sons and Lovers; and then I got to read Virginia Woolf in Mrs Dalloway, which give a rather quiet image of the twentieth century British upper class society with its chinks and show, where the reader who falls in the same category as me gathers her inspiration to speak out right from what moment they may be living, to speak their thoughts, because it is the flow, ‘The Stream of Consciousness’ to be exact, which builds up to the story of the future, to narrate, which may also be a tale of the past recollected through thought from the moment.

It’s horrible to be studying all this together, in the span of less than three years (as if writing ‘3’ in letters would make it any longer than it actually was) and I feel the insanity rattling loose inside of me. I am not like the others who are just studying for the degree, who can’t wait to begin writing criticism themselves with the authority they wish from more and more qualification they want from educators like these, having learnt nothing real in fact, or those who want to look artsy enough to be wedded with large gold dumplings and crates of joyful liquor into classy society of non residential kings and in exotic palace destinations. In these three years, all the things they made us read, in order to pass out of this torture, is not something I can unread, since it would require time turning magic, which sadly I do not possess. Like they would push the disastrous semester fiasco into old registers to forget, I can’t get out of it anyway.

I was looking for hope in the wrong place. I don’t know, now standing at the end of college, carrying the weight of the implications left hanging in the work of all the mighty writers and poets I’ve just read, or in the fear of fatigue, left untouched. I thought I was ready to read, but I found, in the most brutal way that I am not.

I found an old notebook, where I begun taking notes from the very recent (and creepy) novel, A Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and in my dark mood, I ended up scribbling all their names on a page from it. I didn’t like how almost subconsciously I penned down their names, I hated how I let them all become a part of my life. I hated myself for loving so much, and obsessing with all the little things, and holding onto their essence as a presence in my life, even so long after they had severed all their ties with me. I hated me in the moment.

I tore the page, folded it in quarter, and then with some trouble stuffed it into my cup of ashen waste. Here’s what I did – I lit it, and watched the flame die many times, but I kept burning it, until it was done for. I don’t know what pleasure I got out of it, and what made me decide to write it…but here, I definitely like it by now, I’ve been writing about it for quite sometime now, and it isn’t a choice from my past that I don’t regret. Not just yet.

Desolation is death.

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I know when I love,

I know when I don’t.

You know, I loved you.

I know you loved me too…

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You won’t have asked me my opinion, otherwise,

I know, it was because you felt it too.

I didn’t want to use my words to tell you,

You’d have said I’m just good with words.

I wanted to show you, unlike anyone has ever done—

Wishing to give you something, to which you could hold on.

I knew, like I do when a time is right.

Our time, love, just wasn’t right.

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You know, I’ve dreamt of you,

You know, here, I cannot lie.

I’ve dreamt of you, all the while

Through those dusty, empty playgrounds,

Wandering and wishing to cry like the others,

Hurting my knee I wanted to smell of spirit,

To try and bleed, to laugh and run and be a kid.

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I was never meant to be the observer, like you.

But to leap and fall and fly.

I loved you not for your wisdom, I know you’re not.

You’re the very special kind of same like me—

A human child, who never really got to grow up.

I loved you, you know, walking a different tangent

Not many others like me usually take.

A lonely, stealthy way, through the dark underworld

Of unholy instincts and the rampant traditional beasts.

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You thought I loved you, but really, do you know love?

Yes, I loved you in my own way, that you aren’t supposed to know

You would’ve slowly learnt, had you let me run the show.

You would’ve made me yours, to never let me go.

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But instead, I died in the underworld.

I am not sure of the love, and what happened in the cold.

I am a creature of the underworld, I will rise again.

But the question is will you remember me, even once?

And if you, do, will you ever arrive within yourself to question,

Who to blame and who, of bailing out of mere chance?

Random verses all written in a day.

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When separate eyes meet in a crowded city square,

Over exploits of their humanity, and time, once and again–

They know they were meant to stay together,

Because they were met by a chance of eternity,

To be lost again, and again.

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I walk through a dark corridor,

The air hungover with muck and gloom.

The door of the forbidden room stands tall

Like the brooding death of innocence.

I’ve arrived the point where it appears clear,

I’m just trying to kill a love I’ve given up believing.

But the stark darkness stuns the virginity in me,

Which is eager, very eager to take me,

Someplace else…

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Those roads will be difficult to walk on, now alone.

The sand pebbles and germs, and the whirlpools of air

Which like separate worlds, have flourished to life

From the touch of our feet last trodden.

Preserving our childhoods, and pearls of sweet labor lost-

How dare I violate the sacred order of the worlds,

Which, if, might be conspiring to bring our feet together?

Which, if not, how can I disturb the ghost world,

Where in spirals of dust, our ghost selves would dance?

You will apologize to me, I know, you will. One day.

You know, I deserve one, for what I will have to go through…

The trauma of never being at home, while at home.

 

Giving Chances

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Why do you hide under a veil?

When all you could be doing is soaring on your wings?

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Why do you reach for stars,

When all you could know is you have it in you to shine?

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Why age them in just peering through,

Those eyes, yours, shy like a virgin, which want to learn…

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The veil, that poor see through thing,

Are you letting it, or is it really caging you, against your will?

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Have they tied anklets around your feet,

In gold and silver that gleam but clang like cowbells?

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Tell me of your childhood, your real one.

Did you have a ‘gudda’* then, you loved to fondle around all day?

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You did, didn’t you? You loved him.

Then everything changed, when your childhood was taken from you.

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You were just told, what was right and wrong,

You just winked once and your lovebirds took off into the blue.

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Never you got to see them ever again,

Those mad birds, soaring high, higher than ever you’d flown your kite.

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Those disobedient little creatures,

But why aren’t you happy, that they’ve left you…?

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You must wonder where now they live,

Have they gone away far enough to live in some other world…?

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Those two eyes, two tiny little birds,

Must be wandering among all beautiful things, which you won’t know…

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Those obstinate, selfish birds, that live in dreams,

Ever wondered how they bless humanity every night? They hope for us.

 

 

 

 

 

Strangle Me Softly

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Resting on his shoulder, listening to the sound of our strange hearts beating softly, I exhaled my worries out for the last time. I tried to recall the words he’d spoken before and a few other things, but eventually I found that I couldn’t keep up with the side of me that was insulting me with the humongous issues that I’d so violated by thus lying there with him like that. I was aware, wholly aware of all of them, and yet there was no guilt.

I looked at his sleeping face, feeling his strange breath on my mouth. Only now I was finally getting to understand how very different we were physically. He’d warned me about it many times and yet neither of us seemed to have paid any heed to it. Our closeness now attested to the choice that we’d both made, a decision that we were meant for each other and neither of us would have it in any other way. I knew the future of this would be a difficult one, but we would have each other to take care of together. One last breath and I would wake him up and we’d pick up on what we’d left off before, and that I was sure of.

He would kill me. I knew it, that very first time I laid my eyes on him. I also knew I wanted him to. If I can’t have him, I’d rather be his memory, a delicious thought, a fantasy he would live with forever. But now I have him and he has me. It wasn’t just any situation, it was a simple, satisfying love that brought us together, in a way that I knew there was no other I would rather be happy with, than with him, in this way.

He was once my best friend, and I loved him then. I love him now, in a different way, which is all the same. Falling for him had always been easy. It could be explained to be as simple as a child’s stubbornness of not parting with her favorite toy even though it’s broken. She keeps trying to fix it, often failing, never caring that it doesn’t quite work in the same way. She just learns to love it in her own new ways, and it doesn’t matter to her – because for her, it never broke. She loves it, she’ll love it.

It was the same with Dusk. His internal world was just as complicated as mine, and maybe that’s why it makes it all too easy to just love him. He isn’t my prize, I didn’t win him. Again it was just love, the plain old kind that brought us together. Watching him sleep now, I can’t help letting go of any remnant guilt, and just breathe, and feel like suddenly we were just two kids finally happy of having won their prize.

Tids and bits

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What you’ve found in me,

Think you hit the gold core?

<Oh, honey it isn’t what you think!>

You’ve got to get low and dirty to sink,

If you wanna win the heart!

What you’ve found in me,

Throw it out. You don’t know me.

<Not even close>

Tell me do you believe in magic, oh come on,

 I promise I won’t put you under my spell.

Spells don’t work the way you’d want.

But if you wanna win the heart, oh you’ll have to ring the bells.

If you wanna love me, you’ll have ask me.

Come to me, I’ll take you deeper into my empty room

I’ll let a flood of my thought hit you.

Until you’re intoxicated by my essence.

 

What you found in me, you thought was gold?

Oh, honey, I’d rather wager you with the universe.

Dig a little deeper, you’re an immortal, and so am I.