Rya Ray

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Rya Ray (The Broken Clock)

I write sentences.

www.facebook.com/TheBrokenClockBlog

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Rya Ray
I haven't written well in the past few months. I haven't written at all. I don't mind that. I just miss the feeling of that last full stop, that last metaphorical sign off. Maybe I do mind not writing after all. There's so much I'm running away from. So much I need to do. So many people I haven't responded to. So many songs that I've put off for later to a point where they remind me of how incapable I am of ping off the task of something as simple as hitting the 'play' button. Maybe this is the new 'All work and no play'. I'm scared I won't be able to write a decent poem ever again. I feel each poem I don't write bleed into the next one not written. I don't like ice cream any more. Or chocolates. But I have them anyway. I pull myself out of bed anyway. Why wake up when you'll have to go back to bed? Every time I don't cry when I watch the news these days, I feel I become a little bit more of stone; a little more relieved about how sleep is a constant. It stays. One day it stays long enough.

What is long enough, really?

13 AUG AT 22:46

Rya Ray
I have come to believe beautiful things are beautiful even when we don't understand them. Especially then. Light is caught somewhere between a particle and a wave, yet we trust it enough and say "Lights will guide you home."

Art with science.

5 AUG AT 21:56

Rya Ray
I'll hide songs in the breeze for you to find, to make sure there are undying things I leave behind.

Keep looking, okay?

16 JUL AT 15:40

Rya Ray
It feels like it's been ages since I woke up this morning. The day stretched itself like a distasteful bubblegum, that you chew despite. I spent the day sleeping, as much as I could, praying that I wake up only to my mother's embrace or my father's concern. I didn't want it to rain while I was outside with my father for a scooty ride. But it did. I sat firmly on our white Activa while father went to buy homeopathic medicine and watched the rain stain the concrete of the road with angry raindrops, like a ruthless bout of chickenpox that grips a sulking teenager. Soon, the rain had claimed everything and the roads couldn't fight back. Here I am, on a Saturday night, having accomplished next to nothing throughout the day, looking at my hands. I wonder difficult it is to make our hands do different things. You know, like how you can't draw circles with one and rectangles with another. And then I think of you. We both are hands of the same God. That's why I think I like to know what you're doing, so I can too, douse myself in something like that.

Ambidextrous?

8 JUL AT 20:35

Rya Ray
It feels like trying to get my favorite song out of my head and convincing myself I've not been humming it, while I've been humming it all day. Trouble is it's not even close to my favorite song. It's not a song. It's not music. It's the noise silence makes and still manages to have notes both high and low.

Kis se haar rahe hain, pata bhi to chale.

29 JUN AT 22:28

Rya Ray
I haven't written in a long time. I've come to realize that even sadness is a healthy sign sometimes. That's not that this is about. Or so I'm hoping. There is going to be a time when all the beautiful things and people in your life will run out. One day, you'll not get up to mow the lawn or you won't get out of bed to make your husband some tea. The grass will grow to wild lengths. Your man will learn to make tea again. Youth is fleeting. You already know that. Our most favorite people are transient. You know that as well. Just that, in this moment, you're alive in a time with the people you love. You've already lost a few. But if you're 24, you've probably met 5-6 people you want to call before you go. Maybe less. But that's not important. This entire thing is pointless. Maybe it's a fucked up way to tell somebody you love them. By telling them you'd like to call them before you go away for good. But isn't the worst kind of sadness unlanguageable? Maybe that's why I've lost my touch with words. It's crap anyway. But at least I can sing you a song. "Your lips, my lips. Apocalypse."

Apocalypse.

25 JUN AT 0:02

Rya Ray
You're somebody I can be my best with, during the worst of my times.

Best case-worst case scenario.

19 JUN AT 10:31

Rya Ray
Time around us hears us go silent.

गवाही।

22 MAY AT 21:43

Rya Ray
Your hands knead my breasts like water kneads lumps of soil during a violent rain and it smells like petrichor on your hands after you touch my anxious parts and both sigh out each others' names like clouds sigh out thunder.

It's raining in Bangalore.

21 MAY AT 0:18

Rya Ray
You make my dust settle.

Well.

7 MAY AT 15:27