Madame Meow writes of desire of that abstract feeling, and asks if we are truly complete.
[The following is intended to be an attempt in spoken word poetry, and should be read like that, without pauses]
I am complete.
I was not born half, in that funny sort of way that people in films talk about, waiting to find my twin soul, trying to catch wind between fingers, trying to hold sand between my eyelashes on a moonlight night with the hope that I find you, on that one star beam, that I am not even sure shone through 500 million light years of vacuum.
I am strong.
I was not born feeling blue on Sundays. Complaining about not having hands to hold when eating ice-cream, when making lone footsteps on snow-covered slopes waiting for that sledge that I am sure left these marks, and just went around the slope with all the warmth that I held between my forefinger and my thumb, till they crumbled along with my eyes and my teeth.
I am sensible.
I was not born smiling like a retarded cockatoo, on Sundays and Mondays, and between Chemistry classes, where chemistry meant hopes of receiving a smile one day from between bottles, or through bookshelves, or over coffee mugs, from someone – who blew me senseless like rain showers in Pune, or the Indian Railway schedule.
I am wise.
I was not born gambling my heart way to wild strangers because I liked the length of their eyelashes on Wednesday afternoons when they laughed with me by lakes. Lakes that were filled in tears of crying mermaids who know what it is to sing, to love, to give with all their heart, and receive nothing but roughened fingers, uncouth lips, and dying interest.
I was born to survive, grow up, attend English classes and change the world with meaningful commas placed between stories of global change. Yet I use my paining fingers to write of nothing but my heart’s endless, senseless, useless melancholy, that moons upon childful folly, and forgets her womanning.
Her womanning in which she is complete, and strong, and sensible, and wise.
And she survives.
Unlike her little heart that knows not what it craves for – whom it craves for,
Whom it waits for, why it waits for, how long it waits for,
When shall it smile, say yes, hear no, and
Crumble, wither, die quietly inside.
I am ambitious.
I was not born craving abstraction that feels like cinnamon and tastes like sunshine, and cannot be described but by fingertips tracing pathways down bare backs in alleyways forbidden to innocent youth that desires corruption. Are my cravings corrupted into desire?
But what do my dry bones desire in this winter heat?
Love? Sex? Acceptance?
A buddy for Gola on Marine? A person to call at 4 am? An editor? A friend? A shoulder? A hugger? A companion to Art galleries? A co-shopper for biscuits, spinach, and narial pani?
Am I complete? Do I have an answer to this sweet murmur, that is rising, rising, rising, rising, rising, rising in my own head in my own company?
Am I smart, and sensible, and brave? Are my ambitions along paths of career?
Or am I deluded –
A letter without stamp, alone.
looking for destination
From another stamped letter, Posted lately.