Different dreams

Morning 4:40 AM. It was civil twilight, the sky was the bluest blue it ever was. Kristn was walking up the stairs of the stadium. That stadium where the concert was held last night. Soda cans and chips packets lay around. As he climbed up, the changing rooms and washrooms became visible. They spread out on either sides of the white wall that faced the stairs. Their black doors reminded Kristn of his piano keys. He stepped out of the stairs and stood facing the wall. He looked all around examining the whole area, left to right. There she was, dead. She laid motionless in the same black dress.

Kristn was a background piano player at the Deli city’s concert hall. He has been working for four years now. He had been the piano player for every Tchaikovsky concert. After his music course at college, Kristn signed up for this job, partly because he liked his music and partly because it afforded him that small studio apartment next to the city metro. He could go anywhere he would like to at very little cost. Also since most concert gigs were in the evening, he always had time to do other chores and gigs.

Last night, he was playing for that 12 year old Violin prodigy’s Mozart 39. Last night, he was also in love. Since the past few months, the feeling kept fading in and out. Specifically fading in every time Vadin walked in and fading out as time passed by. Vadin was the new recruit at the hall, she was the storekeeper and worked every Tuesday and Friday. She attended her music school on the remaining days. Vadin might have been Kristn’s 3 year junior at the school. She was learning the flute and had the air around her.

In Kristn’s life, she came as a respite from the monotony of life. He seldom found any life in all the pieces he played. That lively feeling that ever pervaded in his late teens at music school is now lost. The pieces repeated and the job lost its sheen. Life was otherwise mundane. Vadin on the other hand had been bustling with energy. Young energy. She’d always volunteer for all tasks beyond the storekeeper job. He only noticed her from a distance. He never mustered the courage to walk up to her and talk to her.

Maybe, he never felt the need to either. He wasn’t keen on establishing a friendship or relationship of any kind. But he adored her. Until last night, she was just a graffiti flower to him. Colourful and lively, though near, too far to interact with. And now, she’s gone. Consumed. Consumed by the darkness of the world. She consumed the pills. She took 30 pills, 3 strips of acedifenac, equivalent of drinking 60 cups of coffee minus the water. Bad death for an innocent soul. At least, that’s what Kristn felt. Kristn thought.

For Vadin though, it was a completely different story. Her parents were musicians. She was in music school by consequence, not by choice. Though she liked the flute, she never wanted it to be her career. Indeed, she wouldn’t have picked up the music school if it wasn’t zero tuition fees for her just because her mother was alumni of the college. She wanted to use music to make some pennies that she can spend on learning economics and finance. Those were her choices. But, finances of her father couldn’t buy her that dream.

She took up the job at concert hall recently, to save for her dream degree. She had been a great worker, dedicated employee and the ideal student all her life. She knew she drew Kristn’s attention at the concert hall. No one knew anything about her suicide. Not her parents, not her friends. She was a happy-go-lucky girl as far as everyone knew. And then she died, 30 pills in. While the why of death cleared, the how of such a decision remained undisclosed. As I woke up of my sleep wetting the pillow, the causations for such an attempt couldn’t be traced back for the dream’s portal is closed.

Regards.

Intoxicated

Dark,
Cold Wind,
Chilling winter,
Cold feet after ride,
Tiresome days working,
Winds howling by the door,
Lavender's aroma fills the room,
Hot showers clear the slumber,
I would like to be intoxicated,
And leave the idea of time,
For the warmth of love,
Selfless and warm,
Innocent love,
Young love,
Youth.

Hot,
Thirsty,
Dry throat,
Restless tongue,
Daydreaming lakes,
Visualising that waterfall, 
A glass of water on the table,
Wonder why water is the Nectar?
Gulp and feel your stomach.
Clear intoxicating water,
Clearing the mind,
The thought,
It's Water,
Love.

It is what it is

One more year ticks by,
not fun how these days fly,
No more tears left to cry,
neither is there a will to try.

Got speakers and headphones,
the one that audiophile adores,
Got a library that never bores,
no time to listen doing chores.

Got that kindle app on a tablet,
A cozy corner to sip the ginlet,
Khalid to Janet, Ikigai to Hamlet,
No patience to read a pamphlet.

Got that Honda, black and white,
Listed places with curves tight,
Got that Honda, grey and light,
Can’t get out and stay overnight.

Got that phone, clicks so clean,
Got that dumbbells, teenage dream,
Got a wardrobe, I wanna be seen,
Now I live in the monotonous realm.

Gave up on the leaves and fruit,
Gave up being the rowdy brute,
Gave up the cheat with the lute,
Now they smell my suit and boot.

Make me poor if that’s being rich,
Guide me to the reversing switch,
I’d rather be haunted by a witch,
than lose life clocking this glitch.

Red

How good were those times when we were stupid,

Those nights when we were intoxicated by Cupid,
One who calms down the fluttering morning dove,
One who kindles and elicits the feeling called love.

Cupid loved youth and spent time working on me,
Sending me into impromptu poetry with a glee.
Ahh, the good old days when he rekindled the fire,
Kept me warm throughout the day using his lyre.

The cold wind of adulthood tickled the flames,
Cupid had gone off to places with no names.
The fire was put out and white smoke ensued,
It died in the rain of instincts, primal and lewd.

Time passed by,
Ashes flew by,
Seasons of lust,
Memories’ dust.

A calm cold night under a clear sky, 
Amidst darkness that made light shy,
In the long lost ashes by the riverbed,
There was a faint glow in a tinge of red.

Men at the bar

A man’s strength is judged by his arm,
Stereotypical adherence is his charm,
Toxic are the leaders of the next gen,
Submissiveness conforms gentlemen.

We systematically strip him of emotions,
Softly materialize him in Greek notations,
We cast him away if he’s meek and mild,
And also complain if he starts being wild.

Every such man is never touched typically,
Physically, mentally and metaphorically.
Such lack of empathy moulds men today,
Enforcing them to keep their feelings at bay.

Such men resort to cheap thrills for recluse,
Feeding bodies on drugs their bodies refuse,
Wishing luck on bets crafted to make them lose,
Wasting able youth on marked up cruise and booze.

Goated is that man who can like a flower,
Greater is one who grows to be a gentle lover.
Nietzsche’s Superhuman is not a debacle,
It is him who breaks stereotypical shackle.

Hail!!! Men, who eternally loved this command,
Come, break that band, let us all rebrand,
The choice of who and how a man wants to be,
Let it be his choice, let him choose wild and free.