Why is it always speculative or imaginative ?
Till that also ends, like reality.
Will it ever end ?
There is no end to imagination
But reality has an end.
Imagination can also be killed.
She looked up from her note book , yes they issued search warrant for my imagination , used it against me. Did it work ?
There were so many reasons why I transferred what I felt and felt what I never felt. Similarities in suspecting me and suspecting me of every possible illness , a firm belief that abuse does not make a victim , instead a victim was always a victim because of a mental illness. Making me doubt my self , as though I was mentally ill. Reduplicating abuse , to make me say “No” or “Yes” ?
With out language everything is confusing.
I tried to make sense of it alone , but it reached nowhere.
It was abuse , it was violation of boundaries , however decently done.
Was I obsessed ? No. I gave up on trying to make sense.
I felt a prick in many curves
Searching for the needle
I saw your conscience
Stitching my torn dress
Then the lights went out
Darkness was warm
Finally I knew why women say
I walked away from that one man
who taught me to say “No”
I hurt you because
I did not heal
And I had the gall to see…..
I could not have pressed the
Benjamin button nor
Go to the Year of the cat
Turn back the time
And erase the Random Accessible Memory…
I could hug you over phone
You made that viral!
I wrote a poem to let you recover
You used it as evidence!
Sigh …or song none were spared……
All my strengths became vulnerabilities
I felt no lust for a man
For whom love was dispensable.
I frankly want to forget an affair
That never happened
Except in your head and
On my white dry paper…..
I have served the sentence
For writing poetry.
I am not that sort of person , nah just to show anger towards a man , I will not find another man. My love is never an expression of anger. Besides I get angry very intensely. I am like a volcano I burn the one who caused anger. I close that chapter. Not that there is blood shed or anything……. it is truly over. Then I live in that ruin. I wait to feel again. I am not an echo , I do not rebound. I am a whisper that you wish you had listened after you lose.
“What we truly see is what we are ”
There was a hermit staying in a hut outside a village, he spent all day in prayers, teaching disciples and counseling those who sought his wisdom. A prostitute stayed in a mansion built outside the village where she entertained her clients , she stayed opposite the hermit’s hut claimed that all souls were equal in the eyes of God. When they both died , hermit’s soul was in the cauldron of hell and prostitute had attained eternal bliss. Hermit asked the God of death , why such an injustice was done ? God smiled and said , recall your thoughts , recall your vision …You were constantly imagining the carnal pleasures that clients of the prostitute enjoyed , while she listened to your teaching and ardently prayed for me, even asked for death as a blessing. Hence she is with me and you are in hell……..
Moral – Intentions are more important than actions.
You made mistakes , you never knew how to handle the situation at all, I did not know my own self nor my value. In that suffocating bed I had to create a song,even if it was in the springs of the cot or wooden legs. I had to find an imaginary companion, it could not be a stony God. I tried even that. I searched with in, there were songs I had to suppress, dances I could not dance, I had to tie up my legs. Drama was so real.It was not drama at all. Why was I not enough? I had this expanding concept of loneliness, so I searched for a twin. You made it so sexual. I had to reaffirm that it was a mind. You made it so physical , I had to say it was not a body just a soul. Now, you lost my soul. It is in my poem.
Penetrating my mind with out consent
Penetrating my body with out consent
Mind during the day
Body during the night
Dictionary lost many pages
Experience no longer needed words
Atlas showed the way out
I went out of my body
I also went out of my mind
He calls it love
I call it rape
I am searching for my self
Can we judge a book by its cover? Especially if the cover is carrying comments by the “who is who” from various professional walks of life. Being a psychiatrist and a poet, I was enticed to read the book as the title refers to Eros as an overarching theme that takes within its fold the sub themes of desire, disease, delusion, dream and downpour. The five ‘D’s intrigued me and I kept returning to them as if they were the epicenter of an earthquake. And then there were the twin chairs of the cover photograph – perhaps a symbol of duality, of ‘Eros’ + ‘Text’? Truly, if life could write itself, this is how it may read, not bound by a specific structure, word count or rhyme or reason. Insights are graded along six parameters while we study psycho pathology, although Eros is where life originates and Thanatos is the force of death. Opposites contain each other and there are flashes of dying in the section of disease of the body, explored in skeleton, joints, temperature, fluids, breaths, and blood.
In ‘Magnetizing Dead Bones’, a disturbing portrayal of the Intensive Care Unit and the experience of what may remain even after death, just the clean bones? Interestingly it seems to refer to Magnetic Resonance Imaging, a sort of literal meaning ascribed to scientific jargon. Electrocardiography- “A person in the room can sense electricity, invisible photons”, again ‘ultra-sonography’ is mystified in fleeting allusions to sound waves. There is whispering vulnerability, “What can I create despite this urgency…Nothing really, certainly nothing that is worth any effort….” The body is minimized and life is trivialized: “They say imagination can conquer anything even the body. It isn’t true.” There is a relentless search for meaning even as the body suffers: “The lyrics, if they are meant to, will emerge at the vanishing point”. Humanizing the near death experience is a strong effort in this flash fiction. The words are profound as they equate creativity to something that lives after death. I was reminded of Bessel Vander Kolk’s book Body Keeps Its Own Scores in the reference to ash, bone ash and the abrupt escape into bone-drafts of metered text. Starch and the nurse trying to induce a lullaby, the power of breathing, and virility of ash are images foretelling life amidst death. The ecosystem of the hospital dominates the disease in this fiction, a hesitation to explore the disease or a story of hope- open ended, it lends itself to interpretations like a poem or a dream.