Songs of the not-so innocent

Letting go of the past is hard... & some of it is burned in, indelible even with the tide of time washing over it. This we have to accept. I've often wondered how hard is it to give up... flashes of inspiration or incandescently creative works that bind us to memories we're trying to let go of ? Some time ago, I wrote for a girl. Words that were forged in the fires of my desire, passion, apprehension & even anger. Poems... single sentences... free verses that laid bare my dreams & inked crimson by the earnest ferocity of feeling. When I read them, and I read them over & over... I was astounded. Astounded that I was capable of writing something so evocative for someone. By far my most intense work. Me in blue cursive. Life, being indifferent to the vagaries of human hearts, carried on. For the longest time, I kept those pages locked away... the only reason I can offer for doing so was because of the capability that seemed to course through them. Today, I unlocke

The sky. That's what you keep your eyes fixed upon while standing at the corner, waiting for the bus at 6:15 am. People tend to look uniformly expressionless at such god-awful hours & more so if all they have to look forward to is a 4 hour bus journey. Today is no different. You are struck by the passengers' resemblance to milling sheep & are about to smirk. Realization happens... you are part of the flock, in a way. The moment feels so grey. So your glance drifts towards the heavens. As you walk out of your house into the lane this morning, it seems as if clouds heavy with the promise of rain hovered over the world. You wonder if the saxophone case is waterproof, take the easy way out & pray that a downpour does not answer the question. Even as you trudge toward the highway, the case has irritatingly begun to assert it's weight. It feels like the morning light is introducing you to a new sky. It's not blue yet but it is no longer dark. Stragglers from last