Fire

File:Candle flame (1).jpg

Photo by Jon Sullivan (Wikimedia Commons)

The wait is endless.

The outcome no nearer in sight.

But the fears have fallen

On the way in the quest to get.

 

I stand impatiently

On the branching pathways.

Each road better and worse.

Each way beckoning and repelling.

 

I see broken shadows

Of desires; pent-up and hidden,

A lifetime of unspoken wishes

On the path that I’ve come from.

 

But I’ve come a long way

And the past is now

Nothing but that; past.

I look forward, restive.

 

The fierce fire burns within

The wake of passion

Has shaken off

The strings of vulnerability.

 

I am no longer afraid.

Unabashed, I am free to be.

As the fears have fallen

On the way in the quest to get.

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The Notebook Of Dreams

Hello! It’s Day #4 of Blogtember.

Friday, September 6: A story about a time you were very afraid.

Now this is a difficult one. I’m presenting it in a poem.

 

The Notebook of Dreams

I opened the notebook at night.

I wrote of all my dreams,

Adding each colour, each flavour.

I described each mood lovingly,

Each moment of the time when

Those dreams would be fulfilled.

 

People came, they wondered.

“Isn’t your dream brown?”

I looked confusedly at my notebook.

It looked violet to me.

“Your dream is brown, how wonderful!”

They persisted.

 

The more I looked

The more the violet faded

The more the brown emerged.

“My dream is brown” I said.

And went about working

Striving for success in the brown.

 

Strangely, my plans didn’t account

For any of the brown.

Frustrated, I strained myself

Trying to search it in the sea of violet.

But, no! There wasn’t any violet, was there?

I had been convinced of it.

 

The brown kept eluding me.

And finally, the stark fear came to front.

That paralyzing fear of failure.

“I can’t be successful in brown! I cried.

“All my dreams are shattered!”

I broke down then.

 

Time passed, and the broken pieces

Glued themselves together.

New colours were formed.

The eyes, which had grown

Used to the dreary dark

Started recognizing the hues and shades.

 

And one day, finally

I gathered the courage

To search for the notebook.

Dust had settled on it,

But it was there in front of me all this while.

I opened the notebook again.

 

The dreams were all violet!

Surprised, I turned the pages

With furious intensity.

Violet! All violet!

“My dreams are violet!” I smiled ruefully.

And let a silent tear escape my eyes.

 

I know I haven’t disclosed much. But I think that people can relate to fear no matter what situation caused it.

Fear is not real

Photo via Pinterest

The Other Life

Then she woke up.

She didn’t want to. She really didn’t. For a few minutes, she tried putting herself back to sleep, tried to dream the same dreams that she had been having. But alas, that wasn’t to happen. Sighing, she got out of bed to make herself a cup of tea.

As the tea brewed, she sank back into the chair, closed her eyes and relived those dreams that had left eyes minutes ago.

Girl on chair

Photo via Pinterest

The girl was six. It is strange how in dreams you just know these things; age, feelings. She was sitting on a swing, laughing, while her parents looked at her lovingly. What was surprising that nobody told the girl to get down and let her brother sit. Nobody told her not to laugh so loudly. Dreams were so abstract sometimes, she mused. It was as if it didn’t matter that she was a girl.

The dream changed the scenes suddenly, as dreams usually do. One moment she was giggling on the swing, a mere child, the next moment, she was twelve. She wasn’t really afraid of the stain that she had found on her bed sheet that morning, just curious. Her mother was smiling at her, carefully explaining her the red, but she didn’t say anything about keeping away from others. She didn’t say that for five days every month, she would be untouchable. She didn’t say that her childhood was suddenly, brutally over. Dreams glossed over the truths of everyday life.

Time passed so quickly in dreams; it was the one quality that dreams shared with reality. The dream began to gather speed now. She saw quick frames of her school, her university, the scholarships, her office. Dreams had an uncanny habit of concentrating too much on the minute details while breezing through the major happenings. She saw her home, her own home, with cream curtains and bookshelves that scaled entire walls.

Only, it was a lie. All of it, the school, the university, everything. She never went to school after she got her period. She helped around the house, minded her younger brother. One evening, she was told to wear that new sari that she had got on her birthday. Some guests were coming. Six days later, she was married.

The dream didn’t show those initial days after marriage, nor the subsequent years of abuse that followed. It didn’t show that endless wait for something; anything; the wait for life to happen. She was still stuck in the same heartless, loveless, bourgeois marriage. It was strange; all she saw was an alternate life, the life that she could have had, but didn’t.

For five whole minutes, she allowed herself to go over each minuscule detail of that other life. She roamed about her house. Lovingly, she browsed through her books. She felt the smooth silk curtains in her hands. She admired the artwork on the walls.

Then the tea was made.

The husband woke up then. He came to the kitchen and grunted for tea. She poured him the cup and started brewing some for herself again. Her husband wasn’t an evil man. He just never knew any other way to live. She looked at him for a long moment before turning away with regret and helplessness.

She went to the window sill to feed the pigeons. Then suddenly, she gave a wry smile. At least she had her cream curtains.