Visual Artist & Photographer
How is your heart? How are you navigating this life? This time? Strange. Frightening. Unpredictable.
We sit behind laptop screens and scroll through feeds, reading about more deaths, charting stats of insufficient beds. The world we live in has always had problems, always had people suffering. This one puts everybody in rooms with doors locked and windows shut. Some of the suffering do not have windows or doors. They walk on foot.
See moreLove isn’t blind.
Love is a deep reflection
of who we are.
And how much or how little
we know ourselves.
Whom we choose to love,
Says a lot about how we see ourselves.
Hence when we change,
many a times,
whom and how we love changes.
As we uncover more of ourselves,
we get to know ourselves.
And the self love we cultivate
or the lack of it,
becomes a reflection
of the love we seek.
Don’t starve yourself
Don’t starve yourself of yourself
Not your mind to feelings
Not your bones to nourishment
Not your will to do
Not your willingness to prove
Don’t starve your curiosity to grow
Or your ability to do more
Not your skin to love
Not your fingertips to touch
Not your laughter to the truth
Not your tears to the proof
Don’t starve yourself of yourself
And don’t starve.
Grew up browner than the rest.
Browner as we swam.
Browner as we ran.
Browner by the day.
Lives lived. Days past. Clothes wrung.
Hung.
Soiled.
On repeat.
I wrote a poem.
I wrote till my hands bled and my mind wept.
I wrote between murmurs and silence.
I wrote till my heart could be traced between words
Methodically penned.
I poured within context and rambled without
Vomited pages, not a moment of doubt.
I shed not a tear, inflicted not a tear
I hid from the world
This strange despair.
Two sheets became ten
I wrote a poem.
Homes of pink and green,
Of brick, of lego.
Of children and their screams,
Of curtains letting go.
Indulging in between
Scents familiar behind doors,
Burying faces deep
Into clothes no longer worn.
We breed mediocrity.
Celebrations, aplomb, pedestals,
All exist to tell you where to go.
Just how far you may go.
They blind your vision
To what could be beyond.
Curtains to veiled ambitions
Limited aspirations.
“Dream, but only this much.”
Beyond this is unfathomable
Beyond this cannot be dreamt
It doesn’t exist, it mustn’t.
Does this land call your name? Where you measured your height against a mango tree in the backyard. Carving your progress as seasons and years passed. You watched the same skies from the same window change as the earth rotated yet again. You counted the stars. You ran in the rain as the smell of soil and dust settled for the first time. You spun under the clouds and later flew amidst them. You held every hand under the sun. Skin as skin all as one.
What would you change? What would you grow from your finger nails and pores and toes? What would elevate your being to think louder, talk clearer? Would your goosebumps trace your dreams? Would your feet carry on like machines? Would you spread a faltering wing, one flap after another, until feathers sprout and tear? What would your mind look like in a pool of colour, circled by fish, enveloped in seaweed, submerged underwater? What would colour look like? What would your tongue darting outside its confines taste? Would sun rays burn holes in the softness of your flesh till the weakness of your bones screamed? Would you believe? Would you change a thousand minds to reach an empty shore? What shape would your footsteps leave behind as you press ahead into the unknown?
