Shift + Delete.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Delete.Delete.Delete. Delete.

Delete the thousand grumpy pictures, and the thousand happy ones
Forget the promises, forget the one
Take off your thick framed glasses, come undone
Blurred visions- Trepidations –Twisted tongue
Concentrate. Don’t extrapolate.
The phone call, the mail, the messages – all yet to be erased
The pink perfume bottle - yet to be emptied
And the strawberry scent- yet to be wiped off.



Stop psychoanalysing everything!
Missed call – now it flashes in red
Now the anxiety! Now the dreading! What if the phone screams again?


I can pretend that it never existed, to lessen the pain
I can pretend to be an amateur at this game.


Pretend not to care, pretend that it’ll be alright, and pretend to be stone cold
But still shiver every time it touches my soul.
I pick up the phone, 15 seconds - I regret, I cherish, I love.


Connecting the dots again- the hugs and kisses, the laughter, the cheery gullible fool and the guilt!

Delete again. But it all goes down the memory chute!

It isn’t Shift + Delete after all.

Intermittently deleting equals permanently saving which equals memories which equals emotions.

Just what I was afraid of!

I wish I could do Shift + Delete – to some instance at least

The murky details, the goodbyes or the guilt

But it all goes down the memory chute, again and again.

A hush falls,

The choice is still the same – to pretend at this very fine game. 


Saturday, 11 March 2017

Certain words created a certain kind of silence. Certain innocuous sentences sometimes drove the conversation into a cul-de-sac, where there’s no way to carry the conversation forward and no way to rewind the conversation after it had run into that ditch. That much is the weight of those certain words. But as long as silence persists, even when there’s cessation of complete attention, that which is unspeakable still finds a way to be communicated.

All it needs is a sign.

A whole different world can be created in the ocean of silence, as long as it is left unexplained, because that is what makes it so unique, a different song for every set of ears, where different possibilities environ what may, sometimes, seem like the fact. 

Its incomprehensibility is fascinating. It's fascinating how revealing silence can be, how heavy some words can seem, so much so that you have to come to a halt and put yourself into a reverie so that you may have a few minutes to yourself, to get back in a time where the past now stood improbable then. And no amount of scintillating wit can outshine this kind of silence. It isn’t necessarily sad but it’s much more than that; it’s evocative. It's bittersweet. If you try to add another layer to it, it might be lethal.

This kind of silence is special. Not only to the person who's responsible for its inception, but also to the other person who tries to develop it into something comprehensible so that they could caper with its various possibilities. 

Most of the times, there’s no way to know what it’s trying to suppress or erase. So there’s a curiosity, an implacable need, to just know, to make the other person divulge to quench your own thirst. But it seldom happens, so you oddly stay connected to them. And that is what it creates. A connection.

What do they know, right? You probably know all that they try so hard not to show, but you can’t solicit for their validation because one can never be too sure about someone else’s feelings. They know that too. Here, all direct communication fails to hold the fort. This kind of silence is clever. 

But in your own mind, away from their thoughts or feelings, you’ve already created your patchy story which doesn't have an ending, and they're probably wondering how you're doing that. And you do too. So you might worry, that the picture you've painted might be too grotesque than what it really is, or too humdrum than how it really is. 

Sometimes you wonder if they really know that you know, and it is all that you search for in their eyes. A simple smile may reveal that they cherish it, a certain clairvoyant look may tell you how much they regret it; how much they wish to never have stumbled upon those words, how much they wish now that they could start the conversation all over again and feel a little less, how much they wish to learn to let go instead much they wish that they could talk to you about it. But will you be interested? What if it's too much for you? What if you get disappointed to hear that it was just a first world problem? What if it was "just nothing"? What if...

This kind of silence is a perpetual interval, it's an empty space. A pause. A time left unexplained. It's a hole in the history; for both of you. So, how do you bring someone back from such silence? 

Do you simply touch their hand and gently squeeze it?
Do you keep looking at them, placidly deciphering, and watching all the small movements of their body until after it's over?
Do you just keep listening for a sigh and then say "Anyway..."?
Do you just nod your head and then look down and then up again?
Do you smile or do you feel sorry?
Do you laugh or do you frown?
Do you never say anything, do you never do anything?

And without saying anything, how do you end the silence which has now become part of the conversation itself, the conversation which amalgamated into this silence so effortlessly?  

And without saying anything, or on having missed the sign,

How do you tell them...that you understand?

And how do you know, that they know that you understand...

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