Emotional Pastiche

the rhythm, that is,

the light, the sounds

the being.

and are you lonely?

after 3 and a half weeks in solitude.

maybe not if i wasn't proving a statement.

she proves herself.

draped drearily as the farmer.

empowered by a pair of footwear

that associates itself with 

showers. wetness. hurt.

the dread of leaving.

alone.

back to face the realities of linearity?

escapism.

the chill of the country air,

the chickens,

the blood stained fur of shy rabbit;

the scapegoat of the farm.

the new zealand that i see,

in glimpses.

the crashing 45 degree wave that is potent

with the heaviness of the moment.

the sadness.

distilled in smiles, and hands held.

the wetness.

the drips falling high paced

from the branches of wounded trees.

the cut logs.

the yurt.

the container.

the straw bales plastered

in a moment of shyness.

the squelch.

monsooned sadness.

the autumn of our feelings.

speeding past us 

i have not yet grasped;

but you have.

it is a thin spider web of power.

defeat.

deceit.

i must let go.

can you be strong?

i will have to be

is he sleeping on the couch?

thank you for the reminder.

i haven't moved.

refuge surrounded by people i no longer want to see

in moments of pressure to answer

the infinite questions of concern.

i am lonely,

but not lonely enough to answer your questions.

to assuage your guilt?

full round of feeling.

i have returned.

but healed.

i can let go of the academic world.

4 of us in a bath naked.

10 of us in the dark,

sardine like in space,

lustful in intent.

or maybe just overwhelmed?

have we ever struck such sincerity and emotional freeness before?

i am assimilating you all.

too much.

yes. too much.

'perhaps it's true that things can change in a day. that a few dozen hours can affect the outcomes of whole lifetimes. and that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house - the charred clock, the singed photograh, the scorched photograph- must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. preserved. accounted for. little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. imbued with ne meaning. suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story'.

--- arundhati roy (god of small things)'

what my bed has come to stand for?

is it escapism?

the colour of lust?

the silk of feeling,

the slippery, sad slope it descends henceforth.

i must stop.

and i thought it was it.

an item?

but young lovers,

one grappling with youngness

the other

syringed with lover-status.

the glory of lying basking in time and love.

the brisk turn from the door

the sweeping step across the room

just to kiss me.

the somersault onto the other side.

into no emotion.

fun for you,

sadness for me.

she rides a train across india,

and yet a few days ago i was a step behind her.

i sit in 4 layers

while she overheats in 46 degrees.

my heart is there,

hers is here.

x