Castles , Closure , Catharsis and Clearing the Cache

It is rather peculiar how someone could have gone in a mere 7 months from building castles in the air with a Goan to building sand castles at Goa [the Goan having vanished into thin air]. Lofty dreams GROUNDED ? A capricious world indeed .

For a kid who prided himself on his logic and ability to reason out things , it was certainly unsettling to be fed purely on emotions . A pessimist-turned-optimist who turned cynical all over [ does the glass even exist ?!]. Where better a place for true perception to be attained than standing grounded , ankle deep in sand , looking out at the sea [Closure with a capital sea?! ;)].

The book lies shut under the glow of a table-lamp .It is only partially thumbed through ; I may never know what the rest of it reads . The cover of the leather tome still never fails to amaze me . I pause for a moment , run my fingertips across those familiar inscriptions on the cover , dreamily remembering the hours spent admiring it . I examine the once sturdy binding and nod my head in disappointment at some of the now loose leaves . Allowing myself a whiff of the delicate odour given off by the sheets , I lose myself in a reverie : a recapitulation of the preface and four-and-a-half chapters I had read . With heavy footsteps and a knot in my throat I carry it to the bookcase . Ascending the rungs of the ladder to the very top , I proceed to stand on tiptoe , stretch my arm out as far as can go and place the book on the highest shelf . A place of honour for a work I once cherished . The dust on the shelf is disturbed into a cloud . A violent cough is induced and my eyes turn moist and misty [surely brought on by the dust of course , cos as you know big boys don't cry! ;) ]  Steadying myself to avoid tipping right over, I then climb slowly down the ladder and walk away from the bookcase fighting the urge to take one last look at the volume with just one thought in my mind ,'' Well too bad for her , because there's this amazing book with(in) me too that she had begun to read, but shall never get to complete.''

Chagrin. Closure. A cenotaph . Carte Blanche.

''Shit happens'' , I once said to a pal . ''Don't worry soon enough someone will come around with a pooper scooper!'' , she replied. That was certainly the most amusing and perhaps even the most helpful line said to me over these tumultuous months. Hope is a funny thing with the power to destroy you at times , while at others it can piece you together like nothing else can . Pooper Scooper , oh Pooper Scooper where are ye ?! [waiting for you to come along and scoop me off my feet!]

While I await your arrival , this lil peasant boy shall try to fashion himself a suit of armour and shine it as bright as can be! I shall then practice the walk , shoulders held high , the gait of a noble knight . Through it all I'll just hope that knights-in-shining-armour haven't been completely sidelined [by vampires with sharp canines!]. Considering that times have changed , I'll proceed to sit back and wait for a damsel to come and rescue [or atleast inbox!] me.  *hint hint*  ;)  

Now , I'm off to build myself up from scratch . Wish me luck [or atleast the right array of circumstances!].

Construct. Change.

{ @ Calangute beach , Goa...built along with Amulya}

Garden of Blistering Sand

Sand in the eyes, Grit between the teeth,
Visibility’s dead, the Fury’s unleashed.
Out in the open stood preposterously foolish me.
What bade me to expose my soul, my being??
Out in the open, out at Their mercy:
out to be battered by Forces umpteen and Faces unseen.
What hope inspired this maniacal folly??
…the misplaced confidence of a foolhardy teen?
Whereforth came the impression that I’d come out unscathed and in whole??
...once everyone’s extracted their chunk of meat: their merciless toll.


Parched of spirit and in being; Parched, meek and withering
For I’m stranded in a lonely desert (nature’s very own guillotine).
As hope dries up in the blazing, shimmering Heat,
Every drop of rudimentary might drains out of my charring meat.
Trapped in a land where perhaps the sole luxury
Is a speedy funeral :a burial 6 feet beneath.
My own private graveyard. A Memorial, Ha, a Memorial for me?!
…What need for a tombstone for the forgettable and the unworthy??
Consigned to the grave in this abode of sand, I sense, I feel
The World’s burying its Blunder, its Folly: flawed spineless me.


As the elements suck out what’s left of this fleshy heap,
Blood’s running dry, there’s no tears to weep.
The consequence of trying to brave the World (raving ruthless).
Why chose I to battle the raging Tide,
One governed by ‘The Survival of the Shrewdest’.
Sand in the eyes, Grit between the teeth,
Visibility’s dead, the Fury’s unleashed.
Trapped in a land, a garden wherein can be sowed,
Solely the seeds of Sorrow and Misery.
An expansive garden of blistering sand entwining and devouring me.

Bled alive to nurture Their succulent leaves,
Fed upon by Them all, Preyed on without mercy.
Can They not just let a rotting cadaver Putrefy In Peace??