Grey

A lot of time passed since I last wrote. This draft page looks different. So do my thoughts. I have a lot on my mind, but don’t know what to write. What should look good on my blog, that has been so much curated to appeal my readers. If I wrote freely, maybe someone would be taken aback. But it’s just a thought, to write freely. Somehow I feel very detached and attached to the world at the same time. In many poems I’ve mentioned raw, I realized many times raw is also equated to wild. Do people label unfamiliar sensations as wild? What do they call unfamiliar aspects of their own? When they comb their hair in the mirror and feel unfamiliar with the scalp they are brushing the comb across, do they feel serene or a slight discomfort? Do they disguise or confuse it for the tugging of hair?

People assign sensations to songs. Sensations with people. People to songs. And sit for hours with it, enjoying the flow of time. Then watch videos on productivity, to correct their wired mistakes. You can just forget. Or forcibly reassign. While you munch your food with your laptop in front of you, do you feel empty? Despite having a plate full and a whole hour of entertainment to satisfy the null? Your quotidian routine has become a cycle of devouring not because you need to, but because you are too afraid to stop and feel the null. Nobody chose null and dared to find what null really is. What if it is peaceful?

These days I see too much grey. In people, in between my hair, in the angry sky, and in the ashes of my burning thoughts. I happen to like grey because it does not care about its pride, like black and white and does not need to stand true to its color. It’s comfortable being itself.

Sometimes when I am washing dishes in the afternoon, I look up at the window. I see white clouds scattered through a bright blue sky, swaying branches and birds adjusting themselves on it. In some odd ways that space makes me feel nice. Not for very long, just a few moments.

Sukanya.

The first signs of an apocalypse.

Much of history has been part of headlines, but the news has never been personal enough to bring a significant change to my life. But when there is a sign of change, you can feel it seeping right through your bones. You see it in the eyes of the people, because that is the only feature you notice in mask covered faces. You listen to the empty roads and the bird-less skies. The birds quarantined in their nests too, thinking that something has gone wrong in this world. I always fancied the ending of the world, reading about it, dreaming about it. I feel it would bring end to all causes of chaos in humanity. It would be beautiful. Maybe it is time, maybe it is not. But as I walked in the strange summer, I suppressed the devastating feeling of seeing life as it is come to a halt. Because of course, the end of the world has been a fiction, and anyone looking forward to it would be a lunatic.

It felt naturally abrupt for me, or any other person around me to accept a global pandemic as a serious situation because until today, it was the problem of this country, or that country. Until one day we were asked to no longer commute to the office to work. We were unwilling to settle for a fact that any news could be so impacting that it would make us struggle for something so quotidian, for example hailing a taxi, or gathering for some lunch, served by mindless waiters who are time and again disrespected for the imperfect dishes. Dishes that if we cook, we would throughly appreciate, post it on Instagram and equate ourselves to master chefs. That something so fundamental to our 21st century life as social service could be denied to us.

On one of the early days of this unbelievable quarantine, I walked out to buy groceries. As I fixed my mask, the eeriness in the air seeped in from its cavity and I could breathe it. I wished my mask protected me the way it was designed. Five months have passed from that feeling, and it feels as if the order of the world has been reset. If this is the start, or the end, I won’t be startled. I will let it change what I have been accustomed to, so far and allow something unpredictable to accompany it as well. This is the beauty of life, and that we don’t govern nature, but nature governs us. We had forgotten that.

People, stubborn to survive, as they are wired to be, have found new ways to get through and bring back the glory of capitalism in a matter of days, by online deliveries and contactless services. Which also means people get to spend more time with themselves, and their purchases. We just couldn’t channel our habits of purchasing somewhere else because they are so intricately developed. And we were thinking, we are far away for fascism. We cannot even choose to be with ourselves in isolation. It has to be with our beloved objects. I wish people I love showed up, instead of these Amazon cartons. Everything is ready, handed over to us before we find the chance to reflect.

In these hundred something days I watched a myriad of movies, wrote numerous to do lists just to scrap them, and cut my hair because I needed change. I wish I knew cutting my hair was only going to change how I looked, for the worse. The better part after my irregular bangs blended into the rest of my mane, as it they were asking for forgiveness. I forgive you. Now let me retire to bed and dream of the world crumbling down.

Sukanya.

Raw

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Unknown Artist

 

 

 

Have you stayed raw lately
With your flesh still clinging to your soul
changing skins
For every excuse and rationalisation

Raw is denied, raw is abhorred
Raw is uncomplex, naked in all senses
From raw we escape
And raw we want to seek

And no, it’s not a necessity because
Sometimes you’ll pause and stare
For you’ll forget your real one
With all the masks you wore

You’ll often call the false one your own.

Until it will give an itch
And crawl up under your skin
Infect your heart
And murder your soul

You’ll realize you’re sick
Struck with a terminal disease
Life will become a nauseous ride
And plenty of time of endure

For I am raw.

 

 

Sukanya.

Work.

 

Alex Pillin.jpg
Artwork By Alex Pilin

 

The dark sheets are tangling,
and so is my spirit to keep myself awake
in the wee hours of the morning.

I have to work
and by work, I intend
lending my knowledge and substance
to thieves smiling in suits.

They call it called work.
The ultimatum of fifteen years
of dreaming with open eyes
of having the power to change.

I am being consciously robbed by society.
And my people are the accomplices
because of their worldly possessions
of talents and the ability to dream were snatched too

They want you to exchange
these treasured belongings of yours
like your gift of creating magic with sounds
or evoke feelings with mere words

for coloured paper with unmatched worth
they put a price tag on your ways of life
ask you to sell your worth

in replacement for attractive litter
calling commodities obligations of life.

You know, you know all.
Yet you prefer to blindfold your eyes
and enjoy the distress

Your real riches are validation
You celebrate sadness
Your value misery
And misery you chase to seek,
and recommend your loved ones too.

Like pills, society prescribes it
drugs themselves of ignorance.
My ancestors did it, and so will I.
I will go to work too.

 

 

Sukanya.
©reserved.