The Beach Shack Café

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A Girl named Loony

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a child's face. a word, given. a dewy sunny morning. a water laden fresh pail. a soothing rhythm. a pink bow. a blooming glow. a white dress. a pot of flowers. a stack of books. a bowl of soup. a coveted movie. a ring of promise. a watered garden. the vast sky. the vapour pressed kurti. the daal my mother cooks. the cup of coveted morning tea. the diary of all my dreams. the evening walk by the sea. the ocassional deep sleep. the hours spent uninterruptedly reading. the smell of an essential oil. the warmth on a winter night. a picture of memories.

your name on my lips.

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There lies a picture portrait of me in the dusty corner of my old home, which can be mistaken to be a ghost house, now. It has cobwebs running to and fro. In the picture, a lady with disheveled but long hair beaded in locks, much like my present disposition if left unwashed for a week. She wears bright red lipstick and has sharp long nails painted red too. She wears a V-neck black gown and a single stone on her ring finger.

Her eyes, they are dewy. In longing more than in reminiscence.

She is the witch that turned the fire away.

She is the witch that got away.

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All of life is an act of
expressing love in
subtle ways and
not overstepping
any lines in the
process.

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There is a certain comfort in a journey, from one place to the other.

The path doesn't demand an ultimate sense; of direction, of decision, of position. There is a certain sense of wayward peace, a calm, a motion free stillness. A place, where the destination is known and the route is established. This time and place and space and sense, between the destination and the location is all there is. To catch a moment; of breath, of respite, of being, of existing. This space that is free; of judgements, of chaos, of haphazard decision making, of being, of the act.

There is a definite calm in the journey, between the destination to the location. It is a small space allotted. Just for me.

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'Message in a Letter'

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you became the pause,
in the mid sentences
of my half broken words.
you became the hues,
in my once left behind
sepia tinted dreams.
you became the tune,
in the noise of a room,
full of people in colored
gears. you became the
comfort, in my unease,
on a night of
a moonless sky.

so if tomorrow i nod
when you tell me you
are on your way out,
please know that deep
inside i am yelling and
beseeching you
to stay back,
one last time.

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A lone wolf,
I sailed through the ocean, under a sky full of stars. So close and yet apart. When a wave hit my boat, I prayed with all my might it crumbles, just like my heart.

The morning when I reached the shore, the skies burst open, balm to parched skin. My boat flew away, as if to look for its heart.

I knew then that nature was a friend. They found it equally exhilarating to meet. They found it equally distressing, to fall apart.

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The pills didn't work just enough.
Counselling felt like a waste
of time for it was too quiet;
before, after and meanwhile.
Clearing didn't make much
sense because
where do I keep the clutter?
Cleaning is a monolithic concept
without any layers to it.

Nothing,
Nothing is satiating enough.

I am not sure
if I am recovering
from the storm
or
if I miss it.

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