Resolve

Normal, like most things, is a subjective standard. The whole notion of a thing being normal or not is based on conformity to a certain benchmark thought process which the majority comes to identify as being the usual order of things. Normal, hence, is not one standard benchmark that everybody can, or should, follow. For each person, it is something that depends on his/her perception, on experience, on habit, and on more than anything else, desire and the ability to reason and being true to oneself.

new letters in red ribbons...

and she sat there, unaware,
as he moved around,
nonchalantly with his eyes.
Her lips, twitched.
His words stuttered out.
Abruptly.
Absurdly.
Sense, lacking;
rhythm missing completely.

His eyes did finally deceive.
Then,
it hit her.

He cannot, not love her…

Notes to myself # 3

On the penultimate floor of her skyscraper
curled up on the window sill, she sits,
knees pulled back to her chest,
staring out, contemplating…
Tossing a coin off the window,
waiting for it to shatter the silence of the desolate street beneath,
clogging her ears,
she bursts out, screaming…
Moments later,
with the coin tingling restlessly still,
a blind rag picker comes in wandering,
poking his stick around,
he steps casually on the coin,
and walks past the building…
The coin, feeling restive, now lies lifeless on the path,
just to be stalked by her, thoroughly…

Notes to myself #2

He stood at the edge of the cliff,

feet sliding through

whistle at the rear

He puffed, he panted

as he ran down the dimly lit road

bent at the end

the end ran faster than him

He held on

as raindrops fell

on his forehead

rippling emotions surged past

masking the agony in his smile

as alms and coins he compiled

he gathered

fragments of a smile from within

and tossed it into her empty heart

unpacking the burden of hers

old letters in red ribbons...

Draining half burnt pages in ink,

an old, broken pen he held

in his trembling fingers drenched in black,

sifting through scores of sheets,

overwriting letters repeatedly,

agitatedly forming those words

irrelevant in their meaning,

sentences intended to create a design then,

losing relevance with each passing stroke,

emotions transcended through

the nerves in his spine

to the tip of his left hand,

as the middle finger of his right

dripped profusely of red,

and finally he lay there in peace

for he had lived those memories

through the moments they were the best…