Remember, remember.

Looking back on the years that have passed,

There are several memories scattered;

Some of euphoria, and some quite sour,

Yet all of them equally mattered,

In making the trip through the varied land;

At time lush green and teeming with life,

And later regions of barrenness like a desert

Representing all our successes and strife.

A mixed feeling engulfs when we think of the time,

We will separate to follow stars of our own;

Excitement in facing an unknown world ahead

And fear of leaving a comfortably numb zone.

But most of all to find that the days may be empty,

Of filled to the brim with things to do;

Either way there may no longer be company,

That will comfort and help you pull through.

The joy that we shared, the laughs that we had,

And the outrageous stories that raged;

Of people and events; some so unbelievable,

That it’s possible they were all staged.

Gossip and tips and all the knick-knacks,

On things that mattered, or didn’t;

Bring wide smiles, and probably sly grins,

For things we did, but quite shouldn’t.

Moments of truth, perhaps quite unpleasant,

That brought us to tears or frustration;

Yet we trudged on, like soldiers in fog,

Towards a road, either to success or perdition.

Times like these may never return,

Bottled and stored, fresh long after the present;

It seems like yesterday, we arrived at these gates,

Many years it has been, so short: as a moment.

Sreedevi

Stephen Fry 'twinterview'

Here's a transcript (of sorts) of the "twinterview" [interview via twitter] conducted by Johann Hari (johannhari101) with Mr. Stephen Fry (stephenfry), for the benefit of anyone who missed it.

As always, Mr. Fry, it has been a pleasure.

Please find the .pdf file here.

Let me know if anyone has any problems with it.

Regards,
Sreedevi.

Wanderers by moon

Darkness falls and shrouds our world,

And long slumbering beasts awaken;

With raised heads, and claws uncurled,

They wait with infinite patience,

For the moment they can, readily escape,

From shadows where light be forbidden;

And sniff the air for unconscious prey,

Within reach, unfortunate and unbidden.

Long they have hungered, and hoped in vain,

Till night o’er them hath befallen;

And with moon and stars, they rise again,

The beasts to beauty, wretched and forgotten.

By howl of wind and wolf alike,

Prepared to hunt, unencumbered;

For rules by day, are hidden and ground

Into stardust, till dawn be remembered.

Nothing remains, not bone nor decay

For nothing is left, worthy of remains;

Nothing is heard, or pretended be heard,

Screams of terror, lost forever in pain.

A hat, a coat, a scarf, that once belonged

Thievery struck, a beggar in want

No sign of a struggle, no need for a lie

For those who are lost, never survive.

Sreedevi Jagannath.

Dreams in the summer sky.

Its one thing that I wake in the morning to see that it’s a rainy day.

It’s entirely another to wake up most mornings and simply feel that way.

Most mornings I just wake up, admiring the way the light plays with the sky blue of my walls, blurring the edges of the walls into a generous summer sky, irrespective of the weather outside. I further the feeling by drawing curtains, the colour of a stormy sky; where the clouds are thickening, but not thick as to sport the grey uniforms of somber soldiers.

It lends a pattern to the summer sky around me, patches of golden interspersing the faultless expanse. In the quiet gloom of the morning hours, it gives my dream addled brain a little longer to hold on to the fantastical images that lend extraordinary depth to pre-dawn dreams.

And then the waking dream has to end, as all dreams must.

It is not the end I fear, but the dream itself. For if there is no dream then there will be nothing to end.

A quote for the Romantic

"Romance to the sensitive soul, is as water to the gentlest flower - nourished by enough, withered by too little and smothered in too much."

Sreedevi.

Of Fleeting Fancies

With what words shall I write to you?
Shall I use those precise and refined
So clean, so crisp and pure?
Or shall I let dignity go blind,
And utter words, no church can cure?
Tell me, how shall I write to you?

How shall I say the words?
Forming in my very soul, in tears
Failing and drowning inside,
Too adhered to pride and fears;
Till quivering lips make no sound,
Except for a breath expelled in clear
Resignation, acknowledging my cowardliness;
How shall I say the words?

How shall you hear the truth?
In halting, ambiguous sentences,
Or prose in high, crystal tone;
Half false, half untrue, full verses?
Or should I leave sight to converse alone,
In hope that the message gets through?
Pray, how shall you hear the truth?

How shall I confess to you?
That nights no longer hold sleep,
And days are fogged over in a haze,
While I contemplate a dream;
Thoughts follow lost paths in a maze,
Fretting over consequences
Of events that have not yet come to pass;
It is madness: I hear, I see, I do.
How shall I blame this madness on you?

Sreedevi

A scar to tell...

Scars abound; pink, white and brown,
Each with a tale to tell;
Some in anguish, many in sorrow,
A few in happiness as well.
A story to each, from scrapes on knees,
To stretches across a plane;
Perhaps our tricks and climbing trees,
Or rough-housing, when games remain, not games.
A sharpened blade, a broken glass,
Edges unnoticed by the eye;
A clenching fist, with digging nails,
Efforts to see through a lie.
The need to feel a thing besides,
A broken heart, ripped from its place;
Hope withdrawn and pain derived,
With salten rain in call to disgrace.

Sreedevi.