A Voice in the Dark | Shubhodeep Pal

And the tears came. They ebbed and flowed like a seasonal flood. But this wasn't a seasonal occurrence. He hadn't cried in ages. It seemed as if he was crying from memory. Memories of a past he didn't want. Memories from a past that had broken him. But he wept all the same, shedding all shame and fear. He wept like never before. And those painful, watery utterances kept flowing. Almost like a deep wound. Perhaps it was a wound. But he didn't know. He couldn't think. He couldn't stop. He cried silently in the deep night. He let the tears stain his face. He wanted them to stain his face. He wanted the tears to purge his unholiness. And as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. They stopped with the speed of thought. But he wasn't thinking anymore. And finally he came to his senses. The paper he had been writing on was soaked. The ink had spread and smudged. Instead of coherent words, flimsy remnants of his thoughts remained. It's true, he thought

There were tears in her eyes. She held him tightly for the last time. Pain closed in on them. In the background someone was playing on a guitar with painful languor. For once she brushed her tears back with the back of her hand. He let his tears trickle to the floor for the first time in ages... Finally, as it always does, reality came thudding through their stairs of thought. And they laughed. They laughed with a carefully cultivated falseness. And the tears were gone. And they were sane again. Because sanity and insanity are measured by laughter: tears just don't count. They parted with smiles they had constructed years ago. Follow @diaporesis

Black tears trickle into nothingness. I've nothing to say. Let me be me.

People change in a flash.  People change, painfully. I knew someone yesterday. Today I don't. The emptiness scalds me. The blanks in my life haunt me. Someone was mine yesterday. Today no more. Today she has the world, I have just myself and my misery. But it's love, they say. And I, (no, not we) shall overcome.

And the cycle continues. Till when, we may not know.  But till then, we still have hope.

Random utterances on a random day: 1984. The unbearable lightness of being. Random thoughts about random books by random authors. Where is stability? - where is randomness? Rashomon. Aparajita. Visuals. Heartbreaks. Differences. Where are the appendages? Where are the disjunctions? Lost in randomness, swirling in apathy. And hence, I remain, abruptly yours, The Random Interruptor.

Sometimes it's enough that you're alive, and that you can think without the need to put everything on paper. Sometimes everything's enough, yet insufficient: because somethings, however scratchy, cannot be etched with words.

Stuck between two steps: the one before and the grey one following it...

A strange silence drowned her nights and burned her days. It was a silence she had never heard before, touched before. It smelt almost like fear, but not quite so musty. This made her fear it even more than fear. She sat still in the darkest corner because it was the most obvious thing to do. Moreover, it was the only thing she could do. Darkness shrouded her like wasted memory. She wallowed in it with the pleasure of a person who’s sure to die. Then, all of a sudden, she did something she had never done before— she started thinking. It’s something normal people never do until they’re alone. She was normal, so she had never considered thinking for herself. That was partly because it’s never polite to think in company; one must always let the company think for everyone. The other part of the reason she did not know. But she knew that it existed. So now that she was alone, she could think; and so she did. She thought because she had nothing better to do. No parties to attend, no se

The boy jumps up the stairs, Two at a time, intent on Getting to the roof in less then Five seconds—the remaining Fifty-five to be used 'constructively'... He reaches the roof in record time— Just over four seconds! Panting ever so slightly, Puts his kite on the granular floor, attaches the new, super-sharp kite-string— a wealth acquired for a little less than five rupees. Satisfied with the strength of The string, having Determined the flow of The breeze, he jumps to his feet And puts the kite in the air-- applying just the right amount of Jerks required to catch the wind. Now an expert, having learnt This ‘art’ last summer, Having practiced dexterously In all kinds of winds, Now manages to fly Even in still air. He maneuvers the kite proficiently, Changing its trajectory deftly, At the least sign of ‘danger’… He brings down thirteen kites before losing his own in a hard-fought battle with the fourteenth. This ritual is repeated Ardently over the next few Weeks, till Rakhi app