Rushed goodbyes

Farewell parties are given so that they are remembered;
fond memories where one makes up for lost time, lost friendships, recalls beautiful moments, laughs over misadventures– all of these with the realization that one may not meet these people, these beloved friends ever again (if one does, things won't ever be the same).
They are not. They never are. Over the years, we've all had different kinds of farewells- some pleasant, some unpleasant- but all memorable.
The mementos we get are a couple of crazy photographs we may show to our other friends in the future and laugh over them- and lo and behold! some of these photographs are what grandparent tales are made of! 
But I digress. The point is farewells are seen as essential rites of passage before entering each new stage in life: it involves closure( which is impossible to achieve) and obfuscating bad memories( except in moments of intense nostalgia, this doesn't happen). 
Is there really any way to describe extremely intense experiences one is passionately invested in?

Anyway, these questions won't end.

I'd just like to say I love you to all those who made my life worth living these two years; those who pampered me, taught me, loved me, cried and laughed with me, got angry with me, "suffered into truth" with me. What we share is something irreplaceable.
Therein lies the crux of the matter: I love you, with all my heart. Thank you for entering my life.
AND please! let the sentiness begin somewhere!

© Geetakshi Arora, April 27, 2013

Consolations... Or Not

In searching for words,

I found illusions;

In searching for love,

I found none;

In capturing fireflies,

I forgot they were mortal;

Butterflies can also suffocate and die.

In loving nature, I forgot what I use to write;

In dreaming,  I forgot fantasies in life;

In searching for Truth,  I found aporias instead;

In simplistic binaries,

I found gray shades.

Scaling walls so high,

I forgot to look at the view from the top

The cool wind makes my hair cover my face,

In pushing them away, i pushed you back

Come back- I wait now,

Come to me, I seek nothing anymore;

In seeking that dream,

I forgot my life;

In death, then,

Let us embrace;

Let me feel what it is to die;

Let me not hope for an afterlife

© Geetakshi Arora, April 26, 2013

Despair, do we? Not today

After deleting and reinvoking,
this arises out of the blankness of this e-page:

A multi-hued darkness,
blobs of colour pass by pretentiously
that is the code we all live by,
one way or the other,
there's no need to deny,
(this rhyming goes on too fast,
needs to be slowed with a blind dart);
it begins again,tripping over the page
while unpopular fingers try to stop them in vain;
non-sense rhyme, of meaningful words,
ideas that play all night long,
(only in the night, when all is mystified)
in the dark, no one sees the blinding white light
from the moonbeams coming through the green apple tree
in which lies the scent of black grapes;
that tiny scar is ample proof
of knee scrapes that were flaunted as trophies of war.
Words change their meanings now,
an apple is not a fruit with a shiny red skin–
it means something unreachable;
A grape is not what it was–
it is a transformative elixir;
Tears begin as childhood returns
with all its aches

Who would want to go back to those fruit cakes 
chocolate cookies, and plucked mangoes?
those lemonades after play,
cribbing about homework undone?

There's always more to be said
but there is no need;
a turbulent wind has changed everything
And yet, these fragments remain

© Geetakshi Arora, April 24, 2013

Beginning( of a kind)

Somewhere between commitment and sheer laziness lies life.

Epigrams seem to fit perfectly into this world, which sees itself as isolated; with isolated people in their lonely bubbles of colourful (or colourless) happy existence. 

And then came life, tumbling along

pricking those thoughtless bubbles

of ignorance, with one of those ideals,

we all seem to cling to:

Experience

Sometimes, it comes easy. Sometimes, it does not come at all.

At all times, it needs a creation- with or without creators.

dabe paon aati hai zindagi,

tehelti hui, jaise, sair kar rahi ho,

jaise woh pehli os ki boond,

kore kagaz pe ik laute shabd ki tarha

Before philosophy becomes the reigning quality of these impressions:

Consider this as one more chapter, perhaps a passing phrase to be paused at. A passing fancy, a permanent movement

© Geetakshi Arora, April 23, 2013