Unnamed avenues

Take a minute off of whatever you are doing and look back. Look back at everything you left behind. If everything that you carry on your back is hiding your vision and disquieting, in both positive and negative ways, then this writing is just for you. Lend all your senses to this rant.

I am just a traveller. I travel from one heart to another. I do not stay anywhere and I know with more effort, a little luck.. I might find a heart that comes close to giving me a feeling of ‘home‘. There I would stay. I could have missed it or I could be missing it right now. Leave that to me. I am a walker, never a runner. When I am inside your heart, there’s a possibility of me either walking slowly to stay a little longer or me strolling around unnamed avenues and wondering about the mystery that you are.

“The unnamed avenues of the heart are the places where people fall in love and fall in hurt, in no particular order. The unnamed avenues are the roads that your parents asked you to stay away from when you were a kid. They are the crimson boulevards that look beautiful during the autumn to everyone and during the winters only to a few who are okay with nurturing it when it has no leaves. They are the rues that smell of champagne and whiskey. You know who begins with the champagne and who ends up with a whiskey. They are the roads that have broken window panes. Window panes broken because of the crumpled papers thrown at them Not a stone, not a fist, a crumpled paper with an unfinished rant. Don’t tell me you were lucky to find the crumpled papers that belonged to a duffer!”

Do you think I can find a way through all these? Have I been a good guide? Let me know. Because it is with this blind hope against hope I am inside you now. Trying to walk through! I am not listening to your directions, I am listening to your songs. I am not waiting for your promises, I am waiting for your stories that are going to keep me awake.  Why do I want to be awake? Because I am not time-bound inside your heart. There’s no night and day. It’s thought-bound. I exist when you think about me and die when you don’t. And that’s one more reason a traveller like me believes that death is never the end and a million stabs can wound you but, never ground you.

I would like to make a toast to all the people, who might not be reading this now.

“All the ways I took lead me out of your heart. Do you still think I was lost? And does that qualify as a reason for everything?

…”

Thanks for lending me your senses, fellow travellers!
Auf Wiedersehen.
(Signed)
just barath.

Advertisements

A white paper needed ink

 

My words shall be dark
Dark enough to brave shadows.

 

Let the soul that reads find light,
Let the soul of the works light up lives.

For the pen of the writer
Saw nothing but a white paper that needed
a darkness that exudes deeper than black ink.
For the pen of the writer
was filled with tears and not ink.

Let his tears not be seen.
Let his papers never have a word.

For his words could tell the truth about love.
The truth that was little too real.

Let him cry in solitude.
Let him die in between the first few lines.
Let his poetry be the moon on a moonless night
Let it never shine.
Let him be.

For he is walking back his path,
He is looking at traces of his own shoe marks,
For he is cursed with memory for the worst of all things.
For the muses of many greats,
 All Cry, Chant, Sing, Plead, Command,
Beg for him to write a happy word.

But he the man felt absurd.
For he could not write lies.

Sometimes,
The muses of the darkest days prayed,
For him to be blessed with death.

He could write,
but a sad word.
He could confess his love for love.
He could teach some lessons to the writers.
The writers of happy verses,
“Thy words should never stop.
Thy lies runneth the world.
Thy lies keep the sand inside the clocks.
Thy lies in the name of gravity refuse to give man wings.
Thy lies ask a man to believe in Hope.
Thy lies are blessed.
Thy lies keep a person alive.
Thy lies are God?”

He had some other lessons,
He could tell to no one but himself.
Some things.

For he feared death.
Death that would stop a dark soul from writing the truth.
Here, the words,
“My words kill belief,
My words cause dearth,
My words be safest companions to loneliness,
My words maketh immortals and change world order,
My words which are due to the muse
be heard by too many, but understood only by few
Few from the early winter’s dew
My words be me in spite of the cups of tears filled”
He should be dead, Right?

Let the failed heart find some more tears to write.
Let the hope stabbed by him find heaven’s sweetest spot,
Let the writer in him search for more love.
Let his love be mere mortals in the next times.
Not a winged charm.
Let the love he finds not be an impostor of
Persephone, Diana or Aphrodite herself.
And let him find love, after love, after love.

The order of the world needs his love more than he needs it.
And his words need love in some tense.
The balance of the world for him was on Art’s lyre
and flowers that were born to decorate her crown

Let him find water of Styx around every corner,
but let his thirst never quench.

Let truth win.
Let him lie everywhere other than his paper.
Let him lie to escape from reality.
Let him lie as he is a human and then a poet.
Let love let a man live.
Let him have lesser pains in touching wounds.
Let him forgive every second.
Let him listen to the music that keeps secrets.
Let him dwell on every word and world.
Let the world feel sorry for his luck.
Let the world not laugh at his poetry of failed love.
Let the world love cliches.

Oh! Reasons that maketh pieces into puzzles!
Oh! Seasons that change for him!
Let him write one beautiful, smitten elegy
for every day that dies to get him closer to death.

-just Barath

To Crimson Boulevard

Hey! I’m lost. Lost with this particular Autumn Series. The idea grew out of nowhere and just got fixated. The name ‘Autumn‘ however came from the character in 500 days of Summer. She hit me straight through the feels.

To feel for each sentence in these verses has been hard. I’m a fresher dude in this type. I never foresaw. Autumn’s been sweet and cruel and I think, might never end in my case. The one part that cries inside me asks for the season to end. The other part that wants to write, embraces the tears. Also, tears apart. And has given me the happiest blog moments ever!*smiles*

(A part of the text, here that was related to the title was deleted by the writer.)

It’s in between. It’s hard to write now, or ramble(Oh! Yeah) now. Bear with me! I’m looking for suggestions and help to get through this. Comments welcome(are much needed).

A writer I once knew
Asked me to write ‘hearts-out’.
The concept was always new.
Just, self-doubt.

I knew I was lost.
I blamed it on the dark.
I should bear the cost.
It was me, who missed the mark.

This is supposed to be 
Poetry of emotional dearth.
Under this tree
Only Shadows sing about mirth.

Heart and darkness undergoing a bout
My words never saw the light of the day.
To liberate ‘Inside Words’ is hearts-out
Rusting, I figured out. Well, that’s the pay!

just barath,

To Maple

We felt fountains of darkness flow on our bodies.
A state of challenging coldness,
Not the brain, but the mind got hypothermic.
It was a moment when love was the Only Light,
Every other second, love was that first apple.

Immortality at grasp, words became pawns.
Infinity for few seconds, all our remaining years were compensated.
Intuition was all lucy’fied.

To cafune.
To caress.
To lock.
To still.
To get out.
To live.. we decided.

It was outside the unity of time.
An A minor and an F.
An Alleregretto was overlooked and stayed away from.

It never marched to the unity of place.
This bed could have been the other side, I promised to meet her, last time.

It did not heed to the unity of action
We don’t believe in anything completely, ever.
All lasted, until the second, her hand hovered over my shoulder.
I believed in the ambiguity she was.

Electric impulses started trotting,
It was by the usual route
But, slower.

And what followed was the world’s most beautiful cliche..

This abyss
stripped us of our doubts.
What I couldn’t tell in light,
I stammered through all night.

We were lying.
We weren’t lying.

The curtains and spreads still hold on to that dark night.
They still howl it to us through the winnowing winds.

just barath

To follow the other poems of the series:
To Miss.Autumn
To my fall
To my St.Martins Summer

To my St.Martins Summer

We were always ahead in time.

We were there in my dreams that I had after watching that movie.
A dream that I dont remember that much.
A dream where someone asked you “Who, he?

We talked to each other in our minds minutes before our eyes met.
A Random Sun rise.
Where love can never set.

We skywalked all the Roads of Frost,
The paper version and
Every signboard that asked for a Diversion.

We doubted us before the crisis even began.
We are nothing but a pair of Lunatics.
We should drop that book
Or set our thoughts on the silent brook.

We argued about oblivion when that leaf fell down.
Overlooking every single time..
Maybe, We should enjoy the moment and frown.

We drifted apart before that wave hit our sail.
Such shooting stars we were.

Momentary,
just for this galaxy.
Also Infinitive,
For we have not seen all the galaxies.

Ahead,
looking at the humane mess
Also lazy,
Two kisses instead of one
Could have saved us all the mess!

just Barath ©

P.s.- St Martin’s summer is
a period of unusually warm weather in the late autumn, especially early November.
Oh! Me and my muse are overlooking November by this month itself.

The next one-

To Maple

One, one person

image

“Chai, chai”, the dirty, uninteresting tea vendor was shouting by the Railway Station. But he was interesting to just one person in the entire crowd. One, one person. He checked his purse. Counted the last 2 rupee coin and it summed up to 17 rupees. He looked for the uninteresting tea vendor, who was long gone. Long gone into the crowd filled with many one persons, 17 rupees and black pens.

Little did his supporters realise that 17 rupees and unquenchable dreams are an irremovable part of him and his unique, impractical race.

They tried consoling him with words when only  shoulders and lies can save him. They tried giving him luncheons when only spiral notebooks and Writing softwares can save him and Yes! By law of nature he knows he will consider it stupid in a few days. They tried making him joyous by appreciating every little step he took when only he could see his skill rotting.

He remembers lots of things, even things which he wants to forget. And that gave him Words (Fortunate or Unfortunate, his readers will decide!), and then started a War between his Heart and Mind, a WALK OF SOLITUDE to fucking Neptune.

And still he decided to walk with his 60-year old lean shoes, catching his Branded Low-hip jeans from going down, holding his shoulders high to get hit by every crafted entrances of rooms towards death and also towards his home as he finally bought a cup of coffee from another uninteresting tea vendor with his Ticket Amount. He wanted to write when he reaches home with a pen that he had to shake well in-between 27 words to be precise,,,

-just barath
“©”(This is the funny bone’s work)

A person who writes

Yes. This post is going to be about me. I don’t know why! I have been not able to get my first word out. Will try to write more often henceforth.. Barath, called just Barath here mainly because I don’t have a second name and I am always asked online to tell my second name. Is this post going to be a stupid SWOT analysis? I can’t tell if it is going to be just that. This is going to be an important post for me, because it would always show me where I started later when I re-read it for the nth time. On a first look and if I am lucky your second gaze. I might be the super-coolest, careless, laziest and nerdish guy next door to you. But you got only 4/a googol. On a quest of concealing all my other already identified, awesome superpowers from the world, I am finding something else one after another in simple conversations itself.

And That’s not it. What am I actually doing with my life on this November 15, 2016, 9:o1 P.M., Hurrah! I am wasting it in always ways ever invented. But I am consoling myself telling to my heart that “Ok! All this is happening for a reason, for a greater good. Things will change.” Oh! How really philosophical I have changed myself into and I can’t find any reason.

And also this is happening nowadays. I have started writing some fictitious incidents (Seriously Fictitious) and people end up asking me “Don’t lie. When did this Happen?” “I was with you all the time, when the hell did this Happen?”

This is my explanation.
Only for this time. She WAS real, the scars ARE real, and there IS no pain. I have got lot of others things to feel happy about and some other serious things to worry about. And I am not facing it, neither am I running away from it. I am letting it grow undisturbed. This is my BEING MYSELF theory, procrastinating it. I smile, I laugh, I try to be un-sarcastic and I try to be me at all times. But, But, But… I dwell in a dual world, THE APPARENT and THE HIDDEN. The words, fortunately are from the HIDDEN, UNPERTURBED world. So you can believe in it after you get a clear picture of what I really tried to say.

I am clearly confusing you. If you are confused only a little. WELCOME TO MY WORLD, Old Sport. If you are a lot confused, don’t worry, there is always a next time. (This is my personal favorite line, an allusion to one of GVM’s recent Facebook Post).

The reason behind me wanting to write is.. I guess I have met a fair share of diverse people these days of my life. I might have met even different people before, but I started noticing the large scale difference, only after I started to write. And it feels so good (The other way around too!). Each person I remember meeting gave me a story. These stories are only for me, friend… not for you.

If you find a Human who thinks himself as A Jack of All Trades (But isn’t so), a writer, a sloth, a dreamer, a Rebel, the final piece to a Jigsaw puzzle that gets lost always, a Sarcastic’ist, whose soul animal might be a Panda or FANG, Hagrid’s pet dog in Harry Potter … he responds to the name Just Barath. Say Hi, and he gets a different story and he will try to write to you a lot too.

P.s. – Be wise. A person who writes, can live anyway he wants. He does not wear any masks. So you can believe him. But you have to decide if you actually want to listen to your mind’s voice reading his words. Remember, He can be a PETER VAN HOUTEN (A Character from Fault in our Stars. Do care to watch the movie or read the book if you haven’t). Its not an advise.

Cheers to an Imperfectly Beautiful Life ¡