Into the Sea of Trees (Part-1)

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk”

He was right, Keats was right, if only I had the hemlock alongside by the journal, I could conquer my lost sense of direction. As if now, I only have his words, so I shall continue reading.

“Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards”

The viewless wings of Poesy. I do have them if Keats could escape so will I, with a poem. Out of the million traces of the words, I wish the words I write tonight shall transcend me as if a magical spell written on the pages from my wand and spoken out loud in the mind.

“From the far edges of my conscience, I dream,
A world surrounded by mystery,
From the far essence of a yearning place,
Take me away, from the pain.”

I kept the pen on the desk, could not continue the poem. One of those things that you think and feel worse because you can’t really escape. The next best thing would be a good sleep, a strong sleep, not just a few hours but for dreams.
I took out the envelope from the bag and immediately slapped the last nicotine patch. One is not enough, but my mind had Keats tonight, the subconscious would be powered up.

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10. Allegories

“I have missed you all” I felt alive resting my arms on the podium and looking at the young faces. Irfan was seated in the front row, in the company of the vibrant yet sleepy faces.

“I have been dreaming a lot, lately. Dreaming of Sophia and Vyasa, narrating poems and riddles, telling me that I am sick, well, who is not? And no, Sophia is not my girlfriend’s name she is the Greek Goddess who is known to hold the virtue of knowledge and philosophy. Lucid dreams. They are really fun, you know. Any experiences?”

Irfan raised his hand, surprisingly enough to his invert behaviour.

“I have been dreaming a series. Every night, I write before falling asleep and the dreams are always comprehensive to the writings. Last night, I wrote how I was missing home, and I dreamt about sitting next to my father and reading the Quran. The Quran because it was a school assignment once, back at my place.”

Poor boy had to vindicate reading a religious text for the sake of his sustenance. “Ah, interesting Aadesh. Maybe, you should write the dream and follow where a single thought takes you. If the magic is happening, use the ink and your wand wisely.”

A girl raised her hand from the extreme left corner of the class, a brunette wearing a plain black T-shirt. The sight of a new face trying to build the discussion had always been aesthetically pleasing.

“I never understood the concept, the sub-consciousness is frail and it never means anything practical. How does it even matter?”

Just the question I was waiting for, the class response is the usual, inspiring enough to answer my own queries.

“Well, I ask myself the same question, but then again poetry has taught me to look beyond and believe in abstract matter. So you tell me, the practical world? Is it all we have to comprehend? This classroom, a few more places to be and then the bed. I suppose we need to be reminded to imagine and flow out of the concrete life we live. The meaning might be obscured, but the dream will help your friend, Aadesh to write tonight.” I ended my explanation with a calm smile.

“Oh, sure, inspires us to be out of the box. But, the world rarely allows us the freedom, this is one class where we are taught to get out and the others preach discipline and concrete methods that shall never be questioned.”

“A bright mind burning there, I can see the vibrant proportion of your curiosity. Why don’t you, my friend, write us a piece that deals with this conflict. Dreams vs Reality? You can capture grades out of this, and some perception of your way to live. Let me know the name.”

“My name is Floressa, sir. It sounds fun.”

“Perfect. So there is this literal tool, called the allegory. Allegory dominated the ancient poetry. From Piers Plowman in the English to the Romance of the Rose in French, the poems engaged allegory via dreams. In Langland’s Piers Plowman, the protagonist dreams and meets characters like faith, vice and virtue. And well, his life is sorted once he wakes up. Catch the cues, Floressa. Although, I will be really happy if you record subjective stats. So, dreaming will help you, class. To write and understand the abstract of experiences that we read in literature. Well then, go home and dream, I guess?”

I picked up my register and felt my heart beat in a rhythm that has always been soothing. I am not sick, at least not here in the world of words and allegories. Rest, I shall wait for the universe to address me again.

*This is the last chapter that shall be uploaded to the blog. Hopefully, I will get the whole story public once threaded along in print. Also, here is more of a teaser, the next ten chapters will be under the account of Irfan’s narration.*

Quasar & Love

I am an astronaut, writing something after forty years, or maybe one, I can’t calculate. And I need to write this down, to confess what has happened to me, to hold on to my crisis. I was in love, and we were lost in the stars together, literally. I don’t know about her, don’t need to, for I was all in the oblivion of space.

The spaceship broke down. From Earth to Detroit, the planet where we were supposed to land for the research. The spaceship broke down and Manik died, he was not wearing the spacesuit. Alex was with me, fixing the oxygen supply,  we floated away from the explosion to unknown infinities.

There are certain ideas that float around in the darkness, the idea of love, of being lost, of being alone. I came to space, for there were fewer things on Earth to live for, but it seemed that space ironically did not hold the capacity to undertake emotions.

I was in love with Alex, and I suppose any two humans can fall in love when lost. I cant say that about the earth, but we were clearly in the space, lost. I was lost in love. We waited to die, the oxygen tanks were remunerated to synthesis oxygen. Oxygen could not kill us. She asked me to break her case, to push my head into the glass, so that she can be one with the universe, and not alone, lost in the darkness with me. But, I. I still had the faith of being sucked into the existential plane somehow, moreover, I loved her.

We floated in space for some time. You see, even time cannot exist in the dark. We don’t know about the day and the night, but the fact, that we are lost. She slept a couple of times, and I had to hold her suit, I could not afford to lose the sight of Alex. I did not sleep, I had a feeling she will drift away.

Soon, I passed out into my subconscious. Death? Yes, very close.

But I am writing this, sitting on an unknown planet, just like ours, but not ours. I don’t know where Alex is, I don’t know earth exists. Whether they exist. They say there is a black hole, names Quasar nearby the planet and I was sucked into the warm hole to land on a space station.

I wish I had died, I see her everywhere. She is gone, of course. Everything, one day or the other gets to be one with the universe, I will have my day.

But, one thing that suffocates me in the natural air of this alien land, is the fact, that I never really knew the women I loved. Those two times, she fell asleep, I could feel my heart beat, just looking at her alone in the void, all mine, yet gone.

She never felt that way for me, of course. She was a scientist, a practical head, she knew, we could not live, together, forever, in the darkness. She wanted to leave the darkness, once in for all. It is alright, she was humane in our insane quest to death.

You see, what kills me, is knowing that I never knew Alex and I still fell for her. She rarely spoke a few words in front of me, but I as the imaginary head created this whole story up for my diary entry.

I created the earth, space, Manik, Alex and my alien persona just to know that I never knew any girl I loved.

But this new world is greeting me well, I am imaginatively disturbed but well aware of the new place, where realisation hit me hard and I fall at times, yet the black hole that consumed my space-time for me to stay alive on this new planet was the saviour.

I was lost, therefore I loved.

For now, when I hit the rock bottom,

I am, confused.

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I am lost.

I am 19 years old, and I am lost.

I am lost for a purpose, I am aware about the aim, but, nonetheless, I am lost.

31h October, 2017.

Sagar Arora is a peaceful human being. Nothing in the world would ignite the anger inside him, for maybe there is none. As a child, he would vent out, but it had been years, since his own parents know what is going on in that head. But why should people wonder, he is always smiling? And well, they are people?

So words, words meant more to him. He was getting aid from is words. His love, his love was another extradition to peace. Peace, Peace? What was so disturbing about life, when everything was intact?

Nothing that shall concern him right now. He has everything, a loving family, decent financial status, words, a girl? Well, his smile was fake to himself, sometimes.

But, then, the universe has its way to envelop the darkness and unleash the bright sun onto the human eye which can barely take the strain. The girl left. Three years? Differences? Alright. This is not an issue, Sagar has bigger things to aim, rather his pain would rest poetry in the veins. Those few days, he would vent out verse with carbon dioxide, for, his teacher would say, “poetry is best with pain”.

With the flow of faith, words had slowed down over the drip of his mind and he would start to understand that he is sick.

He will try out to be exposed to the people. Started going out with another female again, hoping if not himself, someone will get to know about the sickness. No, of course.

A few good metaphors to fall in love.

A few practical allegories to escape out?

He would call himself a hopeless romantic and that is how everything explained itself. A hopeless, romantic. Post the poetry stalled upon for a while, he was asked to live a few days with determined humans, hopeful humans with hatred compelled into their nationalistic room of existence.

He would physically engage in exertion and forget hope, he would forget pain, would forget poetry.

Not long, till he visits back to his native town to listen to this parents talking trash to each other. Not enough?

Well, that night, Sagar Arora stood up and punched the wall for 5 times, until the hand go numb and the pain surface out in screams. Yes, everyone was around, no one knew what happened. Even you don’t know, right?

He cried for an hour, his heart started giving up each time, someone would try touching his head.

Sagar Arora is a peaceful human being in pain that he unknowingly addresses while writing poems. His parents never get along, there was hatred in his upbringing, love culminating over the head, but fear and hatred infecting the young mind. But, which couple lives peacefully? But, life is meant to drive people crazy in one way or the other. But, then? Where is he and why is he sick?

Because, we all are sick. Searching for people to cure our sickness, holding on hope to climb the allusive ladder to happiness?

Because, we all are poets. We were born to understand that we are sick, and if not understand, live through releasing an unknown expression that addresses the sickness and release the puss of hatred.

Punching the wall once,

Was one word in peace,

Holding the pain in grief,

Was blocking a tsunami to dream.

Sagar Arora is a peaceful human being, in pain, that vents out regularly.

If not regularly, stay away from the infection. My hatred might be your love and then, you might die along with each word that you now read and forget.

Why No Chill in Big Chill?

Eat, you will feel better.

Weekend Spills.

I’ve really sneered at people deliberately trying to portray me as strong and independent. At times when I let my thoughts breach the barriers and allow feelings to flow unobstructed, it’s mildly shocking how they cut me off forcefully typing me as a Robin Scherbatsky. Because I’m not. And weirdly people don’t see that. Blame it to the power of denial or the ease of slipping into a world where only you and your emotions exist because you’re deeply hurt about being rejected which pushes you further down the void. Maybe this is life, people huddled up inside their own bubbles which tend to only thicken with time. So please, I’m just as sane as you are.

In fact, I’m a high functioning emotional brat whose instability sometimes paves its way into her debit card. I’m a mess (even in physical terms) because I almost always have to rely on…

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Trip to Mussoorie

To the Indian Meadows.

perfectlyimperfect

How can anyone be in north and not be in this beautiful place, the view from this is magical. Mussorie is really a beautiful place, it is a hill station located 3hours

from Dehradun.

After long time travelling in a bus and the view along the way is a fabulous feeling, after living in a hectic city with all the noises and pollution, going to a hill station will make you be in peace ✌🏼 I know am going to a cold place around 19•C during july so i was wearing my most comfortable joggers with my favourite shirt, I didn’t want to be uncomfortable while I was travelling for 6 hours in bus so while travelling it’s best when you wear what makes you the most comfortable.

Here are few pictures of Mussorie and it’s beauty.

It was cold and raining so i took a denim jacket and chose…

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