“Every decision made is a decision against something else.”
The multiverse theory is simply mesmerizing.
Whenever you are presented with a choice,
you create an alternate universe with an option you do not pick.
Do you catch the last train, or does your parallel version?
The delicate guillotines of options, aren’t they?
When does it start or end?
Do you choose to collect silences or words?
Do you make sure you touch the roses with or without the thorns?
Do you move out of the town or stay back?
Do you get out of your house and take a left,
Or do you walk straight and bump into a stranger?
A stranger who later becomes your best friend.
You are but accumulations of all these moments,
and yet you vividly mark as yours only a handful of them.
You are now and then.
A thread of forever and nothingness.
A puzzle of summers and raw winters.
You are holding time with both hands
but forgetting it in soft memories.
A thousand of ‘you’ are living your ‘what ifs’
at this very moment in the alternate universes.
Maybe our dreams are our memories from the worlds we don’t live in.
Month: October 2020
Elixir
It’s a Sunday afternoon.
The old forest is your latest hiding place.
You run deep into the woods,
where the riverbed smells like dreams, you don’t dare sharing.
The dreams that didn’t know where else to flow.
You wonder if forests know what their breathing does to your wounds,
or how often you turn to them.
How much you have already forgotten,
and how many years you would have gained,
if you were more like them – the big, old burly trees.
You like to think of forests as a poem written by you centuries ago.
Your favorite part is ‘a bird looking for a gentle tree to rest.’
And hers is ‘a tree quietly looking for lost birds who wish to be held.’
Stardust of memories
I’ve been dipping my words in hot coffee & purple ink,
Since I know you like to warm your heart into them.
I’ve been dragging my bones over the skin of these pages,
Because I wanted to write you poems like I was really there.
I wanted to touch the spines of books on your shelves,
And ask you if you could feel the shiver.
I was sifting what’s left of this stardust of memories,
and I can promise you my greatest work is yet to come.
It’s when the silver bones of my mind,
will be polished down to the silence of snow on paper.
It’s true,
When writers love, the planet does spin a bit slower.
It lends us time to turn all our quietness into words.
Crumpled Drafts 