Partly Filled Glasses

The water in the glass awaits,
And you long to fully define it,
You ask but the eternal question:
Half empty or half full?

Your efforts vanish in vain,
And you cannot help but stare
At how this meaningless muse
Can cause you such nightmares.

All day, you sit and wonder,
Never to once break through.
You think and you think until
You question your very question.

Still, as much as you do try,
The truth, each time, eludes you.
The answer, after all, must depend
On which way the water should go.

In or out, or up or down?
Without whispers and hints,
Or mystic writers’ insights,
This, you may never know.

So you sit and you wonder,
Staring with unbroken confidence,
At a muse that only reflects you,
And now perhaps, you finally see.

Maybe the water was never there,
And the glass, but your vessel.
Maybe you only saw what you wanted,
Yet your shadow never found the light.

There was wonder in not knowing, you see,
More pure than any truth you sought.
And you realise that the nightmare here
Was not the question, but only thought.

Paradox in hand and halfway content,
You somehow vanish into the crowds.
The glass is both empty and full now,
And Schrödinger would be proud.

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Herr Humility

He stands tall like a pillar,
Shoulders above the rest,
The most silent of foundations,
With happy burdens on his chest.

He stands strong like a stone,
Just as hard as he is soft,
And vows to never give in,
Come what may and what may not.

He stands high like a mountain,
Always covering those below,
Yet he never tries to question,
Stooping like a loyal willow.

He stands proud like a saviour,
For he must carry this torch,
And he disregards his own irony
Of a watchman, unwatched.

The Great Perhaps

I looked out into the summer sun,
Wishing for some truth in my words,
But the truth was unwanted,
The dark, the cold, it was haunting.
I looked out and saw but snow,
Ignoring the beauty it tried to show,
Past the constant desire for warmth,
Blindness offered a lonely home.
I looked out and wondered, yet,
Of the good old days when friends were spent,
In the warm mornings of the summer,
And of the warmer memories it brought along.
I looked out and pondered how
It would feel to be there now,
If only this, and if not that –
Nostalgia, by definition, was a bittersweet witch.
I looked out, and saw the truth,
And comforted myself with acceptance,
I thought of all that the truth lacks,
Pondering alone in the Great Perhaps.

Silence in the Din

Doors open. People rush in.
It takes a minute,
A loud crowd slowly forms.
People are numbers. Numbers overwhelm.

Doors ajar, they don’t stop,
As if there were the space.
Arms rub, anger builds
Heat. Friction. Sweat.

Doors close, kinematic silence,
Opened mouths blabbering on.
People, they talk too much.
Noise. Painful but waning noise.

Doors closed now, to the world,
I build a void and escape.
Noise, only behind my doors.
There is silence in the din.

Sixty Nine Years a Free Country

One billion people, one single phrase,
Today’s the day of independence.
Yes, on this day we were freed
From the oppression of overlords.

Sixty nine years later,
Is it independence we celebrate?
Far from the idea of a utopia,
We dismiss wrongdoings to fate.

A handful’s twisted opinions
Decide the fate of millions’ plight,
But should they ask for freedom of expression,
They’re jailed for demanding their right.

We tell our girls to stay at home,
As it’s their duty to not provoke.
Thieves broke into my house last night,
I blame my locker for going broke.

Rape is a heinous crime for the law,

But PDA is perhaps worse to society,
All that is desired is all that is banned,
This is the modern India, they tell me.

Where are those minds that wandered

In the ideals of true freedom?
Are we but victims of this country
Of daily scams to banish boredom?

The path to true equality for all

Is as straight as our Parliament building.
That is quite a pity, you see,
For not being straight isn’t a legal thing.

We tell ourselves India can’t change,

But that’s the thought that renders it so.
We blame it on the Indian mentality.
Ironic, because that is the Indian mentality.

We’re all big hypocrites really,

Forcing our opinions on others,
And later cursing their lack of sense.
Is Indian culture an excuse from our Mother?

We’re offended as much as we offend,

But of course, it’s never our goal,
We could walk a mile in others’ shoes,
But only to bitch about their painful soles.

Perhaps one day we will be free,

But today is not that day.
Until then, I hope you’ll like
To watch our country sway.

One billion people saying

One phrase all day long.
I welcome you to the modern India,
Happy Independence Day to you all.

The Tragic Countdown

Ten. It starts, as do I.
I run, faster than the wind.
A sprint against time is perhaps
A marathon against myself.

Nine. Philosophy flees.
Adrenaline kicks in.
The tasks at hand
Tend to occupy the mind.

Eight. Faster now,
The stakes are always high,
My mind races ahead,
Only quick limbs won’t do.

Seven. Prediction.
This is going to be close.
A strategic mind
Needs execution after all.

Six. Five. Four.
Time flies by as I think.
Wasting the clock,
Regret suddenly forms.

Three. Denial.
How could this be?
A problem without answer,
The perpetual paradox.

Two. Terror.
It happens, fears come alive.
Nothing I can do.
Powerlessly out of time.

One. Poof. Gone.
It’s almost history now.
A bitter transition
From fear back to guilt.

Oblivion.
It’s over, I fall hands down.
What is lost is also forgotten,
History’s challenger dies within.

Impatient Time

Time. Who gave it wings?
It flies and runs, moves along too quick,
Why won’t it wait?
Time waits for none, they say,
Patience is the key,
Why do they not understand?
Patience will make it flee.
No two ways about it,
Time, unlike its measurer,
Does not go both ways.
But how can I accept
This inequality between
The clock and its maker,
The maker is deemed impatient
As the made begins to flee,
But it is time – won’t you say?
That should wait for me.

Madness

In this world of normalcy,
A mad man lurks around,
Differentiated from the normal, he,
By society, shall not be bound.

The man was never a loon,
‘Til we decreed him so,
Responsible was never the moon,
It is we who landed the blow.

A dull colour in our palette,
In many a way he is bright,
With hard luck, struck with society’s mallet,
‘Tis we who don’t see the light.

Mad are we to destroy his fate,
In this madness, the truth we miss,
That he is the one who thinks straight,
That he is the one who lives in a bliss.

If Only

If only he’d come back
and never leave again,
If only he’d overcome
the need to satisfy his yen,
If only he’d dig deeper
to find his own true being,
If only he’d value
the life that he’s fleeing,
If only he’d realise
the pain that he inflicts,
If only he’d accept
the psyche that he restricts,
If only he’d understand
what every time he puts us through,
If only he’d try
not to just ponder but to do,
If only he’d see
he’s not all that strange,
If only he’d believe
that he too can change.

Come Sit By Me

Come sit by me,
I need another story,
Something to keep me here,
An adventure, a road trip,
or maybe just an evening by the fire,
Something to not let me leave,
Something… anything.
For it is time, time to live,
And live, I will,
If not here, then elsewhere,
Anywhere worth going,
With people worth knowing.
Isn’t that what life is about?
Maybe the twists of life will turn for me,
Or maybe I’ll sway in them,
Either way, I will bathe in fun.
And as for the tale, well sometimes,
Telling a story can be a story in itself.
So come sit by me,
Tell this stranger a secret,
And who knows, maybe I’ll tell you one of mine,
It all falls in place for the story, you see,
Come sit by me, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll be.