Venetian Dreams

Endless hours of pouring rain,
The rough tarred roads which used
To throw up volumes of road-dust
Now metamorphosed into Rivers
Lanes of glittering brown rain-water.

The sky has never been duller
The mood has never been sadder.
While I peep from between these
Rippling golden window curtains
I spy a bout of dampening misery.

One step into the fresh outdoors
And a muddy fragrance is about
But knee deep in flooded water
I sigh; my crumpled patience has
Inevitably reached a dead end.

Curled up into the corner near
The rainswept French Window
I listen to the mellow tunes of
Crispy melodious Sunday Classics
As he plays on the Grand Piano.

"Restlessness isn't reasonable", he said
As fluttering notes bounced around.
"You seek solace in hard-covered
Novels; soft shimmering music
And Keats' bittersweet poetry.

"You dream a lot, but don't you see?
The woman's mind is a Symphony
An orchestra of flowing emotions
Of Transience and Continuity
Echoing a Venetian Romance."

And soon the Heart blossomed
The eyelid flickered like a candle
He paused his heavenly music
The repercussions followed me
As I stood by the glassy window.

There, reflected in murky brown
Lane flood of the sprawling suburbs
Floated the ocean-blue saltwaters
Of lovely, royal historical Venice
The sparkling heart of Lavishness.

Beneath the rickety old Rickshaw van
I saw the shadow of a Venetian ship.
Glamorously cruising through the
The radiant eateries by the river,
Alive with dripping enchantments.

And as the vivid green Autos tumbled
Like creeping spotted ladybirds under the
Strangely curved storm wrecked trees
I see the little boats of imperial Venice
Wade through under the Arch Bridge.

As the rain drizzled to a pregnant stop,
Sounds of carefree drenched laughter
Burst from children riding bicycles
Splashing and splattering floodwater
As they headed out to their school.

His fingers graced the keys again,
And as the beautiful music began
I could have sworn I finally heard
The regal romantic tunes of
Extraordinary Patrician Theaters.

Echoing with laughter, blending with
The never-ending fresh showers
Crowding the streets of my city
Rising to the thunderous clouds and
Reflecting those Venetian Dreams.

The Gift

Ten Ribbons he bought, five white and five black.

Three paperback books, both 7th editions.

One rose and six daisies, in a golden bouquet,

A greeting card with her name on it.

"Is that all?" she asked, a glint in her eye.

She glided into his vision like a nymph.

"Not quite." he smiled, and presented

to her a gift quite unlike anything else.

A wooden box, delicate leaves carved on it.

She flipped it open; her grey eyes widened

Two dolls stitched together with shiny threads

One girl in silken pink, one boy in royal blue.

"It's beautiful, " she looked up to thank him.

But the warmth had long escaped his face.

Shaking his head, he lifted up a silver knife.

Hand shaking, head bowed, he said, "Sorry."

It took one neat slicing, an acutely sharp cut.

As she cried out in dismay, eyes flashing,

The stitch that held together the hands;

Of the lifeless dolls, now cracked open.

She gazed upon this unexpected mixture,

Of unbound happiness followed by sorrow

And not understanding this hollow act,

She faced him bravely and asked, "Why?"

Stale apologies gushed from his eyes,

As he spoke, "That's the Fate which,

awaits you and me. I'm sorry I had

to do this. You ought to know.

"Ten ribbons to show you that Life

without me is a balance of light and dark.

Three books, two Bronte and one Hardy.

Seven is just an awfully lucky number.

"One Rose to symbolize bloodthirsty Passion

What you will revive once I'm gone.

Six Daisies for your life's simply glamour.

Your name to remind you of Yourself."

He gently placed, two dolls with torn lace

Right next to the presents; her face

Torn apart in shock and misery.

Greeted his floating shimmering orbs.

She watched as the horror of the night

Descended like a clammy mist

Jerking her awake from the dream

As she watched him fading away.

Sweat dribbled down her spine,

The stinging sensation of salty tears.

It was a nightmare of sorts; she consoled

Herself that everything was unchanged.

The clouds crept into the sky outside,

as she merged into nothingness, eyes

closed; her form limp and asleep again.

Two dolls peeked from under her bed.

  

The Beauty Of Stoicism

So I felt like Writing about this Intriguing Philosophy.

I've always had this fascination for Stoicism, although I could never fully understand the concept until recently. My knowledge of this 'philosophy' was sadly limited to Marcus Brutus' restraint from mourning the death of his beloved wife, Portia. But, that as we all know is never enough to describe an age-old subject such as this.

The Great Brutus?

Urban Dictionary likes to refer to a Stoic as :

Someone who does not give a shit about the stupid things in this world that most people care so much about.

Fair enough for a common man I guess. Undeniably simple.

Men and women are exposed to this never-ending wave of emotions. They come in a mixture full of virtues and vices. While I sit on the edge of this chasm of feelings, I wonder exactly why is it that we allow ourselves to suffer when we can avoid it? Maybe, I am far too young to classify what is right and what is wrong, or maybe I am just too inexperienced to comprehend the result of any emotion. But I was out looking for an answer.

And that's where this ancient philosophy strutted in.

Stoicism, I have learnt, is a Hellenistic tool to fight with the uprising of  'destructive' emotions. Emotions that can destroy the structure of human mindset. Those that can create a havoc. One can respond by shouting out loud, crying and making a royal fuss out of things, mocking and chastising. But to be indifferent, that's where lies true self-control and grit. The famous 'stoic calm' and all?


The world can embrace you or throw arrows at you. Give you pleasure or pain. But that's what a Stoic does, he accepts it. He accepts everything on this planet just like you accept the breakfast your mom offers you early in the morning. Basically, he focuses on the big ideas and not the petty insignificant nothings. And most importantly, he lets Fate do her job.

I had this interesting notion of happiness and sorrow. It continues to delude my subconscious till date. Joy is like this treasure, something that we are always relentlessly pursuing. It's a state of equilibrium that can always be attained by your own choice. Sorrow however, is pretty dimensional. Like a black hole. When you're sad, you're just nearing the event horizon. Once you slip, you cascade into a monstrous depression.

A stoic takes none of this nonsense. He's decided. He knows how to react. If he has to react at all that is. He's the kind that quietly says:
Let's be reasonable guys. 
Let's go on. 
Let's not be irrationally passionate. Let's be composed. 

I believe one must experience, if not believe in all kinds of philosophy. It would be a shame to die without tasting a bit of everything that those Great Minds had in store for us. I've spent the last few weeks re-reading mythology, and it doesn't surprise me...exactly why the Greeks and Romans propelled Stoicism. For that matter, even Hinduism parallels Stoic thought.

I'm surprised at myself because following Stoicism goes quite against my nature. Yet, I've believe that certain natural tendencies to resort to Stoicism are inherent in humans and cannot be questioned. It is unbecoming of a bubbling, sentimental and dramatic person, yet it soothes the minds of many who search for a meditative calm.

In short, Stoics are cool. Let's just leave it there.