Rya Ray

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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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time around us
hears us
go silent.

गवाही।

22 MAY AT 21:43

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

You
make
my
dust
settle.

Well.

7 MAY AT 15:27