Laced up corset full of secrets.

Happiness never looked like a flowery edged plate,with it's unusual curves pushed out like actual petals.They  had always told me it would resemble a classic,circular disc of a standard dinner plate.I looked so much,but never found even a shadow of a suppressed smile in those.
They never mentioned how longing would be painted a rose gold,and not streaked blatant crimson.
And in a generation when every little tragedy and every pretty nuance of  whatnot could be romanticized into the glory of a love song that falls soft into ears,singing them to conscious sleep...
They never hinted that wild roses could outgrow their bushes,instead of being taken care of or tamed.
 Weed out,so persistent-till they are taken notice of and deemed "beautiful".
Never suggested that the nightsky could fit into a teacup or one's fist,with all it's constellations of dreamy stars and nebulous dreams and wishes.

I found out anyway,found out for myself,when I let my feet dangle graciously over the edge-swish and swoosh.
Here we go,they said.Discovering all the truths unsaid.

Annual Repertoire.

Your whole life has been a parallel line who's end point seems infinite,a dot you can't seem to plot down yet.
And you've been drawing misguided circles all your life,tracing back lines to your origins merging with your destinations.
Monotony is the law that rules your mindscape,if only every day came with a momentary snooze button.
You're making the grades,you've got everyone's graces,but you haven't go the precise appearance you wish for that day,you haven't been blessed with your own grace! What divine folly!
The cold surface of your open textbook pressing into your weary cheek,soothing,lulling,deceiving it to sleep,is the only pleasure you permit yourself.
You've been that person for too long-the last kid picked on the team,the pushover employee,the so-called school slut,the doormat,the self-sorry personality.Oh,the infamy.
And then,there's the occasional aroma of coffee in the early mornings,and those nostalgic lines of an old favourite song-always,always you seek shelter in these moments kind.But what are these dregs  of joy worth in the face of the adverse,mundane monsters?
But mostly,there is  no democracy.No,justice.Mere nooks and crannies for the way you've been  raised-
Straight back sincerity is a tested and failed  scheme,kid.
The ways will engulf your faith,your belief-And the truth about trust always draws closer to seem like the punchline of a joke,but this time,you're it's butt,and it's punching you with a low-blow in your stomach.
" Pack that upper cut,too,son.Yes,you go for it." says life ,watching from the stands.
And if and when you you are stickler for all that you have known to feel right,you will also feel the strong surge  of the world forcing itself against you,the friction of the weight being thrown at your face.
The initial sharp sting of reluctance,followed by the slow,more painful hurt of denial pulling away at your peace,as you give withdraw from your trials and tribulations completely,give way to the slacking slope of patience to overrule you.
Be cordial.Be nice.Smile.Shut up.Suck it up.Don't have an opinion.Respect everyone.Don't crib.Quit complaining and most importantly,amidst all of it,do not give up.Don't even let that forbidden idea be born.
Eat.Sleep.Repeat.

"That knits the ravelled sleeve of care."

Sweet lingering fragrance of commercially chemical chamomile shampoo drifts through the room,weaving subtly  into my  thoughts,each less relevant in connection to another.
Sunshine stands preserved among these walls washed white,clean of distraction,as if pickled in a glass bell jar,oh dear mellow old sunshine.
Mid-morning is always such a slow  dance,a lazy serenade,oh gentle sunshine.
And here rest my "penthouse lids",heavy with sleep,as Shakespeare once said,and many poets probably followed to use.
And like every day,I  fall in love,fall in love,once more.
Fall in love with my whims and fancies,because nothing as well as those defines me.
Fall in love me the muffled sounds of the world in motion,making revolutions towards discoveries that await me in full conscience,put away,stacked in a shoebox I bury only to dig out in a future unimagined.And the comforting breath of another world draws me in-
I fall in love with ideas I din't know I could summon,each new  one like a soapy bubble,fragile and exciting,
but gone too soon,before the next in a reverie-And nothing makes sense.And nothing needs to make sense.
Yes,I fall in love with sleep.

"Ye,Old Faithful."

Little,old men who dress well restore my faith in Humanity.(Not that I'm too close to losing it these days,but some people just make one question,you know.)
You know these men I speak of,you probably glance at them sideward while being very discreet,like the agility of young people allows them to be.Maybe you don't really notice them,they could be the background for all you care-the off-white undertones,all cream,beige,biscuit shades could probably been they're just camouflaging with the walls.
But there they stand,at that corner of the street,at the bend of the slope down your parking lot,very much there,but lost in the dreams of an old colour,in the ambling time of an old century.The Whitey Durhams from OTH,Cute old Carl from Upand the gold-rimmed bespectaled old gentleman from The Umbrella Man by Roald Dahl.
There they are,maybe looking at you discreetly,too-Maybe minding their own thought,taming them like old,faithful dogs.
They give you a whiff of old time charm-chivalry and gentler,mild mannered smiles and impeccable style of speech and letter-writing.Make you think of classic leather Moccasins ("You can always tell a gentleman from his shoes."~ Roald Dahl.) and leather bound journals,of a dozen fresh roses left on a lover's  doorstep,on polished or cobbled front step with a letter,every Tuesday,of being told to always dress well to dinner,and to raise your hat and bow for courtesy's sakes for ladies and gentle people.Of dog yeared yellowing maps,adventures growing cold and polished walking stick clicking in  rythm on the ground,like a wise king's spectre.
Something so neat,so crisp about these guys,so familiar and yet so fresh,like a childhood summer's first breath down one's neck.A cup of tea everyone always holds dear to their heart.

The Honeycomb of virtual bonds.

 

"Facebook,the very concept of it,is redundant." I remember an anti-social networking friend once said.
For a while,I took in the truth in that statement,but there was a force greater that wouldn't let it be the bold,embossed impression I have of social networking inside my head.
I'm not even going to bother elaborating on the textbook example of how it's just convenient connection for socially awkward people,in general and teenagers,in particular-I'll tell you something else,maybe.
Intially,there were times of newfound glory that facebook wallposts and likes would lighten up my world with,and then,there were way too many pitfalls,dark days when everyone's life seemed faster,brighter,happier than my very own.
Yes,basing the need for one's entire existence to please others or by conforming to the fads or by the number of likes being the measurement of acceptance,socially might be shallow and baseless,but one must not forget to mention that this only happens in cases where you center you life completely around social media,we all need balance in every aspect of life and it might weigh more towards one scale half of the time,and it's not as bad as its made out to be,not at all.So why,you tell me,should social networking be amplified as the root and sole cause for this distress that is nothing but the human tendency of imbalance in the struggle to strive?
Blaming a social network for ruining lives is as good as blaming a woman's existence for the occurance of atrocities against her.
And. what esentially matters is,I have grown because of and through this medium,a so-called waste of time.I met some of the most incredible people and have had some of the most outrageous verbal brawls.I've self-doubted and second-guessed myself way too much over something as silly as posting a status or a picture,but I have also grown out of the fear of revealing myself to the world.There are things I have learned about and awareness I have gained that trust me,no other medium can provide.Why,why can't social stimulation be a good medium of education and learning? Experience is learning,isn't it?
It is a personal growth,spanned over a timeline of thought,feeling,wit and insight.
In retrospect,It has made me stronger,merely by existing.I found love and hope and support where it should have been lost,and I should have been crying my sorrows out into a pillow had it not been for this miracle connect,a remedy a click away.
Queen bees have reigned and been forgotten,fashions have faded,lingos established.Cliques have shuffled,some destroyed like multitude of honeycombs set on fire.Friends left,people poured in like the first monsoon shower,things changed and things din't.People would get their popcorn,egging on fights and not
keeping their minds in their own beeswax and making plain old watery honey out to be royal jelly.
But Facebook,I'd like to believe,has seen me through and through,been the one constant of change.Maybe you'd call me disillusioned or half-mad,but it's the mere truth I'm stating,this medium has always been there and it's probably being too dependent on our part to be not able to imagine a world without networking,but so what?
It has safely sailed me across seas of sleeplessness and kept away the distress of distance,for good.I can vouch for the fact that something so virtual has got my back.
 Yes,I do have the Fear Of Missing Out,but who doesn't? And to an extent,can't it be considered healthy?
It has also revealed to me the age old truth that words are weapons,of mass  destruction or of massive change,completely depending simply on the way they are put forth.
Yes,doubtless is the fact that there have been wasted hours and questions of hindered academic performance,and diluted inter-personal relationships,but in the same thread of thought,there is also the reassurance that every eccentric can now find their own kind,every dreamer can now find an audience or a crowd to launch their beginnings at,and every unwanted goodbye can be now done away with.
A plethora of ill-effects aside,let me remind you,it's us, humans,who are the very cause of their problems.It's how you use it,not how it uses you.Use it to your freedom,discretion,disadvantage-all upto you.
Besides,the world wasn't meant to be perfect or built to please you,it owes you nothing,it's all upto you to create your universe and center it around what you deem ideal.
I admit to having a very skewed perspective in favour of facebook,but take it from someone who enjoys solitude,but has learned that surfing the crowds can sometimes be what's best for the soul,this bond of wireless concern,love and curiosity kills the idea that social networking doesn't fit in or should be ridiculed,done away with completely.
I might sound like I want to glorify and worship social media (Maybe I do.Well,I mostly live on the internet.) but I don't even want to have to defend it,we need to give it a chance,for real.
Apiaries are artificially tamed to yeild produce,and although the end might not be pretty,the disturbance our dependence of bees would completely disrupt the order and balance of nature.(If you've watched The Bee Movie.)
The threads we call virtual,sewing us together so tight,might not seem real or visible,but they cannot be dismissed as non-existent,either. Think about it.

"Beloved Sea."

Inspired by this wonderful person :

There was once a girl

who held the sea beloved,

For it reminded her of a boy,

who held her,his beloved.

And every fragment of her dreams,

scattered with the smell of him,

kissed tenderly by ocean spray,

was an image of endless blue.

Sprawled under the quiet stars,

drunk on this old tale of love,

The whispering hush of waves to sand-

The only witness of  silence divine.

And their footprints have  long gone,

carried awash by the tide  of time,

A swallowed secret of her beloved sea's belly,
An hour or two,she believed,an eternity,by the sea.

Rickrack rows of hours.

Since we were so little that we din't know we were little,
we've been shown another's dream of a brighter future,
An image of us as only half a being,because we weren't even the beginnings of a filament?
But who knew that flickering lightbulbs were what the days they called bright are,the waning light of monotony and routine existence.
Burning out and shining into our eyes,blinding fatigue.
On and on,like a bicycle wheel it goes,the full circle of life.
White as blank sheets of paper,buttery illusions of latticed lies.
Diaphanous dates,though,still come upon us,
when the brightness of light,the lightness of bright kills us with it's indulgence.