Myriad Musings

Meeting monsters

 

Image result for pain abstract

I seem to have an inexplicable desire for pain.

More than curiosity. More than fascination. A strange craving, almost.

The way you’d try your hand at a spicier cuisine or experiment with a new hobby, to test your limits.

Perhaps, it’s my ardent interest in Psychology (one of my majors).

Maybe it stems from my belief that I am truly alive when I experience the A-Z of emotions in palpable intensities.

Or is the source subconscious guilt which makes pain feel right, even relieving?

I play with pain, the way a child blows air into balloons until the loud pop!

I am my own rubber band. I fiddle, pull and observe to see how far I can stretch, until the snap.

The breaking point is yet to be found.

Maybe, the reward is in that after feeling gutted, tortured, confused, I can surface up and claim, “That wasn’t so bad.”

We treat certain parts of ourselves as inner graveyards, with unimaginable ghosts.

Meant for paying an occasional, wary visit.

It is freeing to know that the darkness in me is tame in comparison to the illusory demons I suspect I will discover.

Maybe it’s time to invite the monsters under the bed to lay next to us and start a conversation.

You never know. You might just sleep better at night.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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Poetry

Painting: Poem

colours.jpg

An art brush drips inside of me

Throbbing, kicking wildly

Lettering a tragicomedy-

Brazen strokes vibrant of

ecstasy, sorrow and madness

bleeding in –

Red Green Blue

throw themselves

against the receptive canvas

I live loudly

My single redeeming attribute

I hold nothing back-

When you ask to witness

the spells of a fiery sketch

Don’t be bewildered

if I confess –

All my paintings

breathe

inside of me

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Myriad Musings

Colours in the mirror

In my ascent to gigantic benchmarks, I stepped on many toes.

I adorned and abandoned masks like a transformable being.

I picked values from the spinning wheel of time, my finger pointing at the moral that was made for that day.

I stifled the punching pillow that was my snuffling conscience to the point where there was no more cushion left in it to protest.

Somewhere, near the end, I woke up, wondering who the hell I was. Why not seek answers from the mirror?

I vainly strutted to the metal-glass amalgam and the looking glass gave me answers to questions I hadn’t dared ask.

A red face taunted me. A red that had once indicated passion, screamed resentment and fury.

My sadness was striped across blue sagged shoulders. That explained why I felt so blue.

I felt sick to my stomach. I gaped at the green belly, overflowing with the sins of greed and envy. What else had I digested?

My yellow hands were spotted with cowardice. No wonder people always said that I got my hands dirty.

My legs were shrouded in sad shades of grey. Sigh. I am, indeed, on my last legs.

Then, my attention was averted to another body part: my heart had begun oozing out black darts. I was both the aimer and the target in this game of mourning.

I moved my quivering lips, turned cold, cold white, to mouth a question into the mirror,
“Was it worth it in the end?”

The colourful answer stared back leaving me colourless.

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