life has finally reclaimed some silence, after 2 weeks of hustle. 1 year has passed me by.

i remember i set 'control' as a target. to find control over my life by imposing rules and principles none would even bother to recall they exist. true, yet cant say i passed this year without any friction.

looking back it was too unreal, somehow i stumbled my way into medical school after a long long slumber, only to find that somehow i assumed the role of a type A personality medical student, and can you believe that i was as ambiguous as wishing I was HepB+ to give myself a U-turn?

art has left me, or more honestly i've left art, the mindset, the world, the individualistic words and even the thought of venturing into it is too tiring. yet in return i felt its arrogation of my humanity and empathy.

thoughts of these use to encumber the boy and teenager I was, and now with their absence, can I assume that i'm not foolishly ignorant i.e finally a grown-up?

inflection

3 times had the issue found a way to vitiate our lives and the fourth has seen its worst.

and they can never be too petty nor critical. when it comes to arguments we lay helpless in the tumult of words, as I would imagine how double-edged swords would scar each other equally, or not.

if life were to be a series of trial-and-error, I hope you do know some point in between a choice has to be made, a turn has to be taken, even if that shall farewell our memories and careen into a lifetime of regrets.

sometime we'll wake, and when we do we choose to remember or not the sojourn in childhood.

people do not make wrong choices, it simply was the better among 2 trails imposed somewhere along the journey. and even if thereafter he shall bear the indignity of a scoundrel, perhaps that could still spare him some pain of being shapeless.

and I pray my dear, that you would awake to your deeds,

for dices tossed into the roulette of fate shall spin and spin,

for the silence between us shall scar and scrape,

until we grow too old to know it's too late.

over

as I lay down these words against this white background, I realize that's how this year has passed me by.

I slept a long, long year. cradled in the dreams of an artist, a composer, a poet, and to wander between interdigitating pages of fantasy and reality.

wake up.
when one september morning had found me laying in a room of quiescent blue.
wakeup.
when the places I found calmness in finally dissapeared.

"If fate has its means to urge you move on, shall I then regard these happenstances as a reson to take on the transition? "
Looking back, countless times had these questions manifested along the year, and up to this very moment still am I not sure when.
When did I finally say:"It's time to leave"

It's time to take on a responsibility.
it's time to believe.
it's time to belong.

When his image surfaced on the newspaper no more different as how a bubble do, it almost became too painful to stare into it.

Grief is not the end of life, of pain, of losses. It might tinge the subsequent mornings grey, dusk grey but one day I'll awake to realize that the sky has always been of this color, no more different.

For

I shall always remember the forgotten,

sorrows as deep as the vast ocean,

waiting, for a dreamboat to tear the frozen facade.

Fly, you with the broken wings, and

may you then land, by fate, or by chance, to an ocean as

vast as my memories.

I remember, after the longest slumber I woke up to a song, Human by the Killers. And from then I promised,

I promised I'll be good.

ending

He could barely breath upon reaching the final steps, up 40 levels of stairs in a midnight's time, the final step felt as illusionary as though he was about to fall.

But then the door which he had visualized it to be hermetic tight, now, ajar with the slightest tinge of golden sun piercing into the pitch black darkness, through him, through his past, through the one he had left, on all the wrongs he had done.

He hobbled forward, breaths as deep as his sunken heart, placed his hands on the knob, then the city was awakening in front, its cerulean blue well hidden behind the tan clouds, and he finally rested his weight upon the veranda. He had ventured far more further than 40 levels of height into someone, he had allowed himself to believe that love is much more than a midnight's dream, he had allow himself a love that is much more than a dream, and he knew they will all be gone upon acquainting the first rays of the sun, yet he finally had chosen a bigger part of him, a part, where he knows he'll find his catharsis.

Somewhere in the city, his father pushed open the rimy doors, after a midnight's storm the first fall of snow had met him, he had had a midnight dream to himself, that it could somehow had turned out a better way. Sometime in between the dream, he knew she had left the seat beside him, she had printed her steps on this snow-laden path he dithered to follow, then a rainstorm landed, abruptly washing these streets where they both had grown up together. And the first rays of the sun shone on a path that he had to go, home.

Departure

Imagine an old-fashion departure in a copperish train station, I wonder If I'm able to afford such romance:

Thereupon a horizon shall extend between us, but if you can believe it's too short a departure, they'll only be far as the steps I took to reach you.



That's all, just felt emotional.
Oh my god, I cant believe I'm so maudlin at times, parasympathetic over-activity maybe.

Through

Niveous rain fogged an eventide,
I limped a frail man the storms could rip.

Trust not the criticise,
they dont see the frail in me.
Trust not the sympathy,
they dont see the limping out me.

The steep slants endlessly skywards,
before the arrival of a night
none can depict starry-
before I tell.



Scribbled during my times of lost, as a defence to the 'criticise', well at least it got me to you guys and this.

Hush in a grey winter.

love, is the hush in a grey winter.

He touched these ashen lips
before they sounded.
Before they sounded,
three words that would shatter this rimy bleak.

We give, only the same we asked-
an evanescent warmth
between two chiaroscuro skins.
Between two chiaroscuro skins
we ask, only the same we gave.

I long not the monochrome
beyond his black-
where I left no shoes.
Where I left no shoes,
on the rose red steps.


Ps: In writing we play roles, so, dont characterize the 'he', it might be an imaginary one.
It's not an imagery advocacy of high-risk behaviors... Written during my times of lost as well, was trying to depict the hollow emptiness through 'an evanescent romance'.

First of all, thanks for a "squalid' Icebreaker skirmish.(Cant stop giggling....)

This quietude manifested as I washed the night off me, then as hollow a returned soldier as I was, searching for remembrances to reflect on.

Months ago I was hesitating about commiting into Medicine, somehow I'm not as passionate as one who:
Anonymous: Hey dude, your life ends by today.
Fanatic: What? I'm going to hug the medical journals and die in the IMU library ...
But 2 hours ago we were this bunch of loons drenching in puddles, yearning for the craziest fun the night could offer as if it was the last. And this clincher struck me when we were smiling at each other's grubby face:
'It might be the end only because a new life is dawning ahead.'

And only to the most cherished moments you feel, how nearly they might not even have the prospect to be missed.
I might have missed patting a groupmate's back, I might have missed my dirtiest, I might have missed the loudest cheers, I might have missed the orientation, I might have missed group 13, I might have missed the medical school.

And someday after the orientation ends we're going to hug our Senior OOs, before we give the firmest pat on each other's back, and move on.
Then there'll be dirtier body fluids, there might be despondences when we find neither hugs nor pats on our backs.

But this mutual moment will be an anchorage, a beginning that says: there's no ending to life in this journey of which we're all willing to search for much more than life itself could give.

Silhouetted against the moribund sun,
we become the condemned.

Senescence,
banal as counting the hours before-


death at the end of this peregrination,
makes a midnight claim.