Whisper…try it once more. No need to be ashamed, no one is watching you. No one is reading you. Write…for yourself, try it… The last few posts were shams: screenshots of few posts featuring Bengali poems you could write once. You could do it…once…you knew how to write. Then, out of boredom, out of unwanted surveillance (which you craved for), because of those sheer overpowering thing called life you turned dumb. Words borne out of something resembling pain ceased to provide pleasure…to you and select few…
Recall…a year has passed…you rediscovered your personal god when the world was discovering him again too. Leonard Cohen whispered in your ears each night. You developed this habit of plugging your earphone and turn on a playlist and he sang, almost always ending in ‘Light as the Breeze’.
Nothing was light…she was always a storm.
You travelled distances each evening in a bus…you managed to find your seat by the window often, and you plugged in again. Pet Shop Boys it was – inevitably – each time in the roads. Either the song from which the title of this post is culled, or the one about homeless people in the streets. Or others.
That’s how it was – the Boys on the roads, the Man at home. They are different, I don’t how a single pair of ear bordering a single brain might like both, but I do. Probably because they write great sad songs. Sadness: it sticks to my skin like a burning molten rubber would. But I am at home with it the way I am at home in a city which I will never manage to map ever ever…
Words vanished within me like shit well-flushed down that gaping hole that’s my soul. Words. Music. Joan Baez: Dark Chords; Ennio Morricone. Zamfir: The Lonely Shepherd. Nothing came out.
Did murder roll beneath our sleeves? We forgave them all, they will kill themselves better anyhow. Everyone who thought we will be losers forever: we never noticed you were winning. You who are disgusted because I don’t behave like achievers you wish me to pretend: this ain’t a farthing of things we could have. Is her love the end of it all?
I always thought it will begin the ball.
Write…never pare your fingernails for the best lines, for applause. Testament of a burning life never waits for it. Deaf, it speaks…we have learned to read your lips when they are not moving. Show the marks where her nails scratched your shoulders, show your tongue which is still dry because every kiss is the first one which leaves no memories. Crave…for more; tell…you just need a bit than more. Say…you can never keep promises the way it should have been…but who said such successes are indices of love? I can never face the truth of myself but I always stare at the truth that is you.
Hunger. Burns. Words are ashes and the unspoken, unwritten, evaporated ones…smoke. You…my fellow-citizens who sleep well because we are still not armed…who hardly notice that we are burning with our dreams, deliriums, desires and droughts…sleep well, because that’s not a life when you wake up…your bills, your deadlines, your credit-cards, aphrodisiacs, pills…sleep well, sounds will be rumbling in, images will surface from depths you forgot had ever been. We…the hungry burning few, we who will be losers we assure you…will spare your flesh when we will devour.