The Hazy Road

​We're the broken-hearted. We're the romantics. We're the stressed, the depressed, the oppressed. We're the revolution, the result of evolution. We're the lost, the distraught, the complaining lot. We're the broke, the overdosed, the confused smoke. We're the epoch, the bedrock, the much sought. We're debauched, and we've been popping in pills each night like they're confectionery. Manufacturing peace and calm by the early morning. Addicted to anxiety like it's daily medication. Overdosing on pills to give attention to the outside and be blind to our insides. We're breaking apart, we're half-broken, and half devastated, but we need no fixing. We need no fixing. evolution of doom Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: one day, i sincerely hope, you shall look back at this, and understand that these days are gone. hopefully.]

​Trying too hard to preserve life, we tore our skins. We were dysfunctional, faithful to all definitions of disorders, or as she liked to say, "Chaos Exhibit A." Waiting for our springs to bloom life. We lose sleep over our mind's days of slumber, seldom slender than the line between reality and fiction. We've fictionalised every moment to the point where we cannot recognise it for what it is. We see a filter block our eyes so much that we need it to see clearly. We've adapted to darker colours and normal people. They just don't see it. The flimsy cover that hides what has decayed inside. We’re different. We’re the same. We’re broken. We’re hurting. Not in vain. I'm spending nights writing letters to the broken, hoping they'd mend, and I'm spending days destroying the letters after reading them and failing to fix myself. The clockwork has been jammed beyond repair, and replacement costs more sacrifice than what the world accepts. The...

​One day. We base our lives on one days. We dream, and we promise, and we live for one days. I didn't have a one day. Hell, at one point I was certain I didn't have any more days. 9 and out of place. 10 and friendless. 11 and too quiet. 12 and walk home alone. 13 and don't know how to talk two sentences without messing them up. 14 and a slight waste of space. 15 and heartbroken and want to die. 16 and no idea what to do in life. 17 and hurts so bad I don't feel anything else. 18 and stuck, with no idea why. I don't really remember it being just a phase. There are happy parts in every story, but I think I only have the parts where I'm busy and pretending it is all fun. Somehow, it's all disappointing when it needs to matter. I'm all disappointing when it needs to matter. But to the world, nothing matters. I'm smiling. I greet back. I get grades. I help out. I exist. I am. They don't care about one days. They probably don't e...

Drown out the noises, It's too quiet here To hear the silence. Bury the lies alive, It's too dark here To see the truth. Murder the air above, It's too hard here To breathe the love. Destroy the world around, It's too painful here To kill the pain. last wishes (or, how to not exist) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: may you never need last wishes.]

I imagine roads must be litmus tests To see if I still hurt, and they always say positive Which means I still have to kill A little more of myself, to see myself in all the darkness; It means I have to fill A few more holes before sand pours me out dry Before I fall apart ever so quiet. I cross roads looking around thrice, And once behind me, Because I fear something from not just inside me pushing me, And I fear not stopping, and always stopping, And too much sunshine, and too little pain, And I fear it'll be quick and certain and ugly and split And fragmented and broken and staked and baited And each time I cross it all fine, Without another panic attack, I have already imagined my death twice. So tell me to cross the road, And tell me to hold your hand, And I'll tell you I don't like it, Because I don't trust myself with hands anymore, Not these fingers, not half as much in daylight as at night, And I'll tell you it's so easy to...

Dear 31 December, Hello, friend. In the search for our own design, we have come full circle again. We're crossing the finish line, together. I didn't think I'd make it. Did you? I'm breaking our little tradition. It wasn't a very good tradition, anyway. No tears tonight. No excessive sleeping because 'it's just another day' and 'I don't feel well.' No waking up at 3am to see how many missed calls I got. It's only fair. A new year calls for change. Every month-end, we run short of money, so we cut back. Every year-end, we run short of time, but we don't give up, do we? We hope. We look at our private moments, and we think, there's more to life. There always is. But whenever we meet, why do I feel that we're a miscalculation? It just doesn't add up. Yet, here we are. Looking back to see my triumphs and missteps, miseries and regrets, jolly moments and their subsequent hasty farewells. Well, life never ...

When I told my friend, I've never memorised anything I've ever written: Neither the beginning, nor the end, He was curious, like most men are, About pointless things, which is bizarre, And asked me, "Why?" And I said, "Scars." What I didn't say was, Everything I've ever written, has been written with sadness, With pain, all stained, An overexposed negative with too faint colours, All in an attempt to make a picture. Their idea of brilliance isn't staying up nights, Because the mind refuses to stop thinking, Nor is it breaking down every fragment of life Until there's nothing good left, Nothing worth an ounce of happiness. Years of memories are lost in my head, So I don't remember why I was scolded, For being too talkative when I was 7. When I don't remember ever having friends, Or things to talk about, lies to make up. Words in my head are always out of order, Like they were when I was 8, And every...

With mad purpose I break tonight, remembering the phoenix that died trying to rebirth. It is the same story, the one with a different character, but the same actor. Night has broken. Shambles of mental monologues have disintegrated into complicated dialogues with no point. This is the syncope I keep trying to pronounce — the loss of sound from within the words, where one eats up parts of the word in course of habit, and I eat up parts of my sentences, in course of poor habit. An incomplete nightmare, always leaving the possibility of its completion as a prospect of horror. Desolation inviting loneliness. A melody that glitches in the middle, a song that sings to itself, recalling its words from the echoes, but never quite getting them right. This is most definitely a trance. I am not awake. Silence hears the universe call out for hope, the distance fading it all. The universe continues anyway. The coherence still broken. The words still haphazard, but not quite. ...

And, my dear, your scars are old, your heart's turned cold the summers don't shine enough on you your tale's all told your destiny sold you owe the alive some more company so kill and burn and scream but don't you dare say you're meant to only weep. The mirror lies And the reflection sighs And the world's all spectacled So put on your smile And walk the extra mile Life is a precious trouble. The pen is mightier The sword rarer The books may tell you that Ask the dead what chopped their heads: The sword is still finer. So wage your war and lose your fight To the demons on earth Hell is for another day and heaven a myth Come with me tonight. the Satan's melody (or, another night at the bar with a random stranger) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: mirrors shall find you, someday. may they find you happy]

I painted the lips blue: The calm of water, And lack of oxygen. I coloured the head red: Filled with life, Full with blood. I drew sharp lines, Starting from the veins of the wrists And running up to the crevices of my elbows. I stained the legs purple: Patterns rising up to the thighs, unveiling struggles, And marks of quiet pain. I covered the heart almost black To highlight the reason for all breaths, And to reveal a void in its place. I coated the skin in grey To add the finishing touch, And to balance the blood. And when I was done with my masterpiece, The one the world will inevitably remember me by, I painted my eyes black, And left the colours to dry, And smiled at my creation: My Death. the final masterpiece (or, how to be a nihilistic artist) Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: may your art always save you]

Every time you face the mirror Your reflection wants to cry. Every time you face the mirror Your face forgets to smile. So you say nothing, And you look away For you know nothing Will fix this, anyway. And you tell me, You have no worth. Let me tell you, You're a fault line In the Earth Ready to destroy Everything in line, Everything in sight. So bring in all your pain, All your sighs, All your worries, All your cries, All who hurt you, All you couldn't forgive, All who broke you, All who made you this, And make them all stand in line In the line of fire, And let your world shake, Shake with all its might, For it's never too late To finally wake up tonight. And if that isn't enough, If you don't feel enough, Here's a truth for you to swallow A pill that cures all voids: Complete is the greatest lie, For to be complete is To be ready to be destroyed. forever incomple- Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: ne...

// All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts // The curtains close. The Act ends. Scene. They are all you. You see your bloody face. They don't have different faces. Bloody mirrors around you on all their faces. Reflections held up against you. The faceless crowd sees you. Who are you? Deaths are fixed points in time. Your lips cannot move. Your eyes are screaming. The tears are burning. You're sweating blood. The sky is too bright. The mind is too dark. They forgot to close your eyes. You are a dead man arriving at your last destination. You're carried by strong, crying figures. Your hands hurt. Your legs atrophied, but they don't know. You forgot to breathe. Headache. Alive. (now read from the bottom to the top) smoke and mirrors Written by Yash Raj Talan

With heavy heart and long-held breath, I let out the words, "I am not done yet," Or so I am wont to think, For all they hear is gibberish. I recollect some instances Of follies old, deep regrets, Held back, half-wrecked; A ship unaware of its end. The sorrowful roads run their coarse, Quietly delivering screeching remorse To travellers just passing by, And rejoicers ignoring life. But all I am is meaning, Yet to be understood; All I have are words, For you to see it too. the search for the right words Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: the search shall never end. may you still go on]

There are things I would say, But mostly, there are things I would never Even if it's something I want Something I can ask Something I need: A touch of love, A kind compliment, A smile. You see, I make do with imperfect, Nay, I am too cozy with imperfect: I have stopped resisting it, Stopped trying to change it; I have, instead, done the most bizarre- I have accepted it with all my heart; Imperfect is sad, imperfect is pathetic, It's the opposite of perfect and aesthetic, But imperfect is still better, for reality's sake, It's not all sad, it's not all fake: It's simple and it's horrible, But it's real and it's plausible. Now, I know the world Better than to ask what I know I'd be denied with And I know my reach is shorter than you'd think So I just take the world for what it is: A machine where I'm just nuts. things I'd rather not say Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: live more breathles...

​//if flowers could speak, would they smile for not being white for funerals of lost loves, or smile because they aren't? // Five years ago, I learnt That flowers listen And respond to music So, stupid as I was, I played Taylor Swift to them To see if they wilt in pain, Or remember their last loves again, But the funny thing is, They died. Now, I've learnt, The flowers knew just to bloom And to look up And keep looking Until their dying breaths, Until the same sun they seek Leaves them dry, Discoloured Disintegrated. So when someone told me To not pluck flowers, I said I knew that, For people had been plucked out Too often And I did not want to do the same. My mother once told me To not keep wilted ones, And I just wanted To keep them All the more then, Because that is when We forgret them easiest, We miss them least; We want them left, As they were, Dying, present continuous, And then, simple past, dead. I'm no flower; T...

​Har dastak par hasil aaina hu mai Har maksad e saajish ka saiyaara hu mai Dhund tu naqaabo ki aakhon mein chamak Na jane, shayad vo aaftaab ka aks bhi hu mai. हर दस्तक पर हासिल आईना हूँ मैं , हर मक्सद ए साजिश का सैयारा हूँ मैं ,  ढूंढ तू नक़ाबों की आखों में चमक ,  ना जाने , शायद वो आफताब का अक्स हूँ मैं। Translation: I am the mirror you find at the end of your calling, I am the shadow of the grand game of purpose, Go, seek for the spark in eyes of masks; Who knows, maybe I am the Sun's dark reflection. journey Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: paradoxes keep you alive. aerodynamically, the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway]

Twenty missed calls, eleven texts and six door knocks later I realise I cannot skip through my day by tugging my blanket harder, knowing that the world is sliding away, and the wind is too cold, as if the next breath I take will break me into tears, and let out more than my silence can, more than my distance can, but honestly, I prefer to choke myself till the lumps in my throat ease themselves into the pain, till my sleep is all I can understand, for all it says is nothing, and I understand nothing. Red blankets are not reset buttons, and I wish I could hold up a bigger danger sign, or at least a sign, something readable, something prominent, something that says, "fragile, might break," because every time I get back, tired from this picturesque reality, too tired to see, I wish my bed would put together my pieces, and see my dry eyes, and my wet eyes, and fill them with calm, and fix things up, and unhook the burdens, and not break me again...

It’s all bright Christmas Lights in the end, Glowing to announce the occasion or its existence: Miracles fabled into a happy ending; Another excuse to be happy, To celebrate and spend, And gift and get, And love, Love. It's all a miracle in the end- How all worlds change, How mistakes fade, Mistakes make Us. If we could fix it all with a few dollars, And if prayers cost us more than just our time We'd spend them all till we're broke But alas, we're broke already On time and on pennies And deep in debt We can't repay So we Hope. Days die; Years end; Sigh out; Santa bailed Like always. Yet we smile, And leave on the lights For it's Christmas somewhere. the modern christmas Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: you received your first wristwatch on christmas. may you always have time for the ones who gave it to you]

I'd write you a poem, but it's too late, It's cold under the skin, inside the heart, And a beer is just a minute away, And you, a million; my words slip away From my mouth, and my tongue is left longing For something to fill this emptiness, It's just another night, it's all a mess, And all I have to enunciate is morbid silence. And I'll tell you something, if I could, It's not the words that hurt the most, Sometimes, it's the silences that choke The life out of your lungs, leaving just smoke To breathe into- the smoke of oblivion: You try to take it in, to forget, mark under "Trivial." But it hurts to breathe, to let go, to live. And it pains to wonder, if all I do is wander with no destination. wanderers of the dark Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: you shall always find the right silence for your playlist]

"Tell me about your demons," they said, With their still eyes, and their sane smile, And they didn't notice my raised skin-hair Or why I let out a sigh and a smile instead, And I'm glad for it. My demons are not at all like you know them, They're not hideous, or creatures that strike at night, no; They're rarely ethereal, on occasion formless, Not too loud, but quite good listeners, yes, For they've heard all my lies. You see, the lies are important, always have been, Artists, bankers, lawyers, athletes we all need them, My lies mirror my pretentions and truest intentions, And they know, and in they come mocking, quiet, With their scornful eyes, and their lies. I don't recall not being insecure, fragile, confused; I've worn several masks, too many to count, And while many have fit, and adored, None seem anything more than masks, visages, But I carry them all nonetheless. And my demons, they don't like being ta...