Neurotic love

Those who know me know that i thrive on the written word. Brilliant writing fills me with an ecstasy, which i am yet to discover in any smoked/drunk/imbibed substance.
When i read something that has definitely changed my life monumentally, there is a curiosity to delve deeper into the writer's pschye, to know where it all started, how it came to be,
an arcane urge to know how they loved and lived.
and it is what i do when i finish a book and have decided that the writer belongs to my list of illustrious individuals, only to discover that they are dead
and that they did not live a happy life or die a peaceful death.
It is not a privilege or a special trait or anything 'real cool' at all. It is the greatest tragedy, a loss of the highest order.
There is a large research pool dedicated to the link between key depressive disorders and creativity. It sickens me to realise that they were ailing to cope with the idiosyncrasies of the world they live in, struggling to come to terms with reality, in the most literal of meanings.
And i think, How could they,cope, when that what they forged in their minds was superlative compared to what the collective mind of the 'real world' had to offer.
How could they cope,
especially when they knew what it can be.
when they've glimpsed the world beyond
Its like moving the translucent curtain covering a painting. What you see, the colours richer, the expressions so much more vivid; what you see, without the dull grey film, is such explicit vibrancy.
And then, how do you return, to mediocrity;
and survive it.

reading material for the interested: 
creativity and mood disorders
artistic creativity and bipolar mood disorders

filter pages of pain through my limpid fingers,
lilting tunes toss them far away,
words of hurt used shimmer on memory banks,
but now, like the receding tide
worlds merged and colours
pores of want and longing
You don’t exist in my dreams anymore;
You are here, as true as the thoughts in my head
are my own.

interlude

my patience with words so
feeble, so little while my fingers long;
to tap those elusive strings of your.
furtive stirrings of my.
heart
feet; your
fingers
tracing permanent memories on my.
skin so perfect under the
caress of your.
thought.

Voices and slingshots

sheets of gold
drape fleeting time into their fold; eternity
teases urgent scurrying life.
its fleeting flight
forever one glance ahead; forever
one step elusive


dipping amber casts crimson over green; lending
ephemeral shine; leaveing murky brown
in place of, vivid erstwhile-chartreuse.

river swells

fingers entwine
pressed skin pressed against lips, eyes
show a tint of fear, and concern
the thrill and the encouragement

secret hell.

To dissolve into unyielding nothingness
is not difficult.
all you need,
is a heart that doesn't feel,
senses that do not perceive;
a being that negates its own existence,
by the virtue of not wanting to exist.
a soul that is faithless,
faith that is baseless;

spirit smothered in the mundane duet of time and survival.

my paience with words so feeble so little while my fingers long to tap those elusive stirings of your heart fingers feet

with every

A long haiku

caress inanimate objects
kick the landine
the instrument of my affection

postcard lessons [3

This is for,

two brilliant girls, 

two brilliant aquarians 

and me. 

sum total= 4.

[Happy Birthday Tris <3 ]

(c) Meghana Naidu

www.subtle-signs.blogspot.com

Photo information:

Brussels,

Oct 19, 2006

Exposure: 1/50 sec
Aperture: 2.6
Focal Length: 5.8mm
Flash Used: No

The borderline series

"think"

(c) Meghana Naidu 
www.subtle-signs.blogspot.com 


Jan 29, 2010

ISO: n/a
Exposure: 1/60 sec
Aperture: 2.6
Focal Length: 5.8mm
Flash Used: Yes

New song.
(because sometimes you've got to forgive songs and let them take your breath away, again)

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it.

99. 

99 blog posts

48 poems

11 original photographs

assorted indulgences and 

a myriad idiosyncrasies later, 

i realise that The invisible counter has been ticking, 

(despite my repeated attempts at ignoring blog birthdays 

and other  momentous landmarks)

but now, it freezes.

and i'm left staring at a number, 

which would mean nothing to me If not for the blog.

If not for the blog, i'd have never 

crossed paths with some of the most 

amazing people in my life right now.

and that, is a HUGE understatement.

(you know who you are; 

and i love you, 

every one of you)

for this, i'm thankful. and willing to surrender 

to the retrospection that the 100 brings.

The 100th entry, however, is not mine. 

Instead, these words belong 

to the one constant in my life

beyond everything else, 

my soul mate, 

my best friend, 

I'll take the liberty of calling her following poem  "Oasis"

She says:

"This is dedicated to those who have stood by me, 

all those times when the sun set 

and there was no hope. 

There is no strength bigger than love. 

If it offers none of that strength, 

then it is not love at all."

"Oasis"

Its past midnight
And I don’t want to wait for the sun tonight
I have lost many ‘todays’ for tomorrows
I don’t want to wait for the sun tonight

Yearning for voices from hope and love,
Dreaming of that precious hand,
I have lost many ‘todays’ for tomorrows
I don’t want to wait for the sun tonight.

While my tears drop in regret,
Of all that is lost and will never be me,
I have lost many ‘todays’ for tomorrows
I don’t want to wait for the sun tonight.

When the sun shines tomorrow,
And casts his warmth upon me,
I will be deep asleep and be glad
I didn’t wait for the sun tonight.

PS: the song she picked.