Clueless 20s

As I sit here eating my midnight bread

And wondering what life might be like five years down the line,

I am clueless.

I can’t even make a proper fluffy pancake, or write a properly punctuated article yet, and I am supposed to be shaping my life right now? I mean whatever decisions I take, they are going to decide almost how my life is going to be like when I am older. 

But I guess my incongruity is pretty much vivid before me at this moment as I decided to write this instead of studying for my final exams. I am going to be a graduate. Hah. That really does not mean anything. That is not even going to get me a decent job. It would only mean that I have read a pile of books, essays, and pages, some I have hated and some I have loved. But Comparative Literature, my discipline, gave me a lot of things, and one of them is a different perspective in life and new lenses to look through and see this world of ours. How snobbish we are, claiming this world as "ours", whereas we are just a little part of it and might just disappear in time.

I should go back to study instead of typing this. Really.

For her.

She walked down the lane
with sorrow dripping from her hair
that flew against the wind like
a rebel child of broken love and
she grew older with each passing moment
as her face became accumulation of mismatched fabric patches
of uncountable days that she lived in the truest sense
of a life she fathomed to be real and absurd together
and felt it like the desert earth feels each drop of first rain of seasons.

I don't know what I was thinking

I wanted to love you like the beautiful paintbrush

That I stole from my mother in my young days

Of colours and weirdest thoughts;

And the brush had a little crack at the end,    

And it became my favourite thing,

Even at times when the lines and colours

Betrayed my imagination and I spilled everything around

Like a completely disoriented mad woman.

There’s a rupture in my reality.

I saw it first when the brush died;

The pests of the old house ate the bristles, I guess.

And then there were deaths and lies and smiles

That I forgot in time.

Then came you, and I thought I could love

You who come with the messiness of the palette

In the middle of a painting on a lazy afternoon.

But I have forgotten how it felt to hold my brush,

And now I’ve forgotten how it felt to hold you!

Well I don’t know how to love,

‘Cause I don’t know what love is.

But today is the first rainy day

Punctuating the end of our winter.

Won’t you wait till spring, before you leave?