Discomfort of a bizarre moment

It’s good to experience a pleasant connection to someone, at times. For a while, I went so long without being in a relation that I almost forgot how that is to be attracted to a girl. I kind of got alienated from that feeling and one day, after a long time, I saw someone new and all of a sudden I’m forced to revisit that kindred feeling for this complete stranger. 

It’s a bizarre moment, being scared, helpless and awfully underwent.It’ll be totally awkward if I tell her that I feel something. I’m risking to be exposed to utter shame or ridiculing judgments for everything I say or enact. I feel so terribly lost in this envelope of time.

Wish I had some sort of magical powers, so as to travel across hundreds of miles in any given second to meet her. Then again, I'm aware that I’m just an inferior human without a TARDIS in my real life. Else if I had the power of words, I could write a lovely poem to impress her. I would even trade time to convince her how much she is wanted. 

But then you realize it’s a dream everyone of us have – to owe someone a misplaced love, or to be virtually owned by someone totally mysterious. It could be a mirage in the desert, but it did certainly blaze up my passion for living. I hope this moment last longer than usual, more than that I hope I’m understood.

Melancholy of existence

One thing for sure I know about me is that I don't belong anywhere. My relations are so close, still so far. Sometimes I feel I outgrew my human emotions and sometimes I feel I'm an addict. I would say, I'm alone but not lonely, I'm unchained yet not so free; I'm the pleasant dream of one part of me which is locked behind the walls of harsh reality and the dilemma of another part which has been drifting through the wilderness of the complex illusions of a free world. Whatever it be, life is nothing less than a sunny day and nothing more than the melancholy of existence.

Dream of Neruda

I wish I had complete power over the words, as to manipulate them to make beautiful verses and people would call me Neruda. But with every word I wrote down, I got disillusioned from my dream and an unbearable pain outgrew the passion for living. I can't write no more, my craft went corrupted with the cowardice thoughts. 

Now my only hope is to get a second chance; another life or afterlife to start-over, being rich in languages and words, being the architect of my own dreams. I shall then be known as the sultan of literature.

Love at sixth sight

Excerpts from my scribble diary, nothing serious though. At times you write to express, some times to hide or forget. This might fall in the latter category.

I was at this conference in Seattle today morning when I first saw her, that too amid an embarrassing moment.Usually, I have a problem of not being able to leave an impression to someone at the first shot, but this time I was pretty sure I made a very bad start. How many times does that happen?

Oh come on, don’t be mean, I know it happens very often. You don’t have to say that.

Well, we kept on meeting that day, here and there. Sometimes a half smile, at times a glance, most of the times nothing. Every time I saw her, I was more attracted to her. Most of the times I'm attracted to a girl at first sight or maybe after knowing them too much, but it’s the first time I’m falling for a girl at sixth sight. Unsurprisingly enough, my heart failed to explain this affair.  Slowly, I started becoming nervous every time I saw her. Alike the Urdu word Wehshat, I was so insanely devoted to her that I withdrew to myself completely and stopped thinking about the existence of a world outside. Her mystic eyes became so intense inside me that at one point I could had sailed my boat in them and never returned to the shore thereafter. There was so much of lost love and poems her glances planted in me, that I became lovesick and transcended all boundaries of reason. From the cage of sanity, my mind frenzied out breaking open all the chains of life. 

Live & Die

Once I lost my life over heartbreak.I think its how the living in this world is. You die every now and then, paving way to a new and better self. Your past emotions are lost, rotten relations are forgotten, all for good. This game of life is beyond the concept of success or failure;it is about how much resilient your mental capacity is, to start afresh every time you die. Life is nothing special to be memorable, nothing precious to be looked after. The more you memorize or look after your life, the more you are tensed of losing it.

In a way life is like money. Sometimes you save it for your loved one, as in sacrifices. But mostly you spend it for your own happiness but just like money, life can’t get you everything. You earn life and hope to spend it on right people, but at every opportunity you waste it on wrong ones. But there are misers of life, who spend nothing and die  their final death miserably. No matter how less your life is, you should spend it entirely to become a pauper and then start over again finding means to earn it back. 

In a different aspect life is a journey, people being the destinations. You travel to the destinations, hoping to settle down there. Sometimes you stay and most of the times you travel away completely heartbroken, hoping for a new destination. There is no end to any travel though. At each failed destinations, you die and get reborn to a brand new travel. At every birth, the destinations are new and so are you. At times you revisit some of the old destinations, but you perceive them in a completely different aspect. All of a sudden, a lost life is a reason for joy, a reason to live, and a reason to move on with life.

The sleep

Why did she, the sleep, knocked my door?

din't she knew my nights belonged to you?

Why did she illustrated of beautiful dreams in her?

din't she knew my exotic dreams were you?

Why did she wanted to comfort me under the blanket?

wasn't she aware of your comforting embrace?

Was she so insane to wait for me, or was that me for your love?

Crazy Love

I thought penning a poem could help, to wipe away all your memories.

As I moved my pen, I realized what an insane-make I am.

Would anyone be so quixotic, to throw away buckets of water
from an ocean hoping to evacuate it?

My failure is not the erroneous act of anxiety, my dear,
but it is the unbounded amount of love I have for you,

which is to be the concern.

Dear lass, I’m so lost in the beautiful depth of yours
Oh you, the shining romantic moonlight of my life,
ardent thoughts I have on your remembrance,
and whatever things that constitute you,
drives me crazy.............