MUSINGS OF THE HEART.
Emotional regulation calls for stifling of all feelings and spontaneity,
Careful titration of social tensions and mulling over emotional currents that often weigh the heart,
And harmonizing the voice of doubt and its close cousin the voice of indifference,
In due course, such emotional labor takes toil on oneself and makes someone feel sheathed in a translucent haze of indifference,
Often transmuting oneself into an insulated layer of unvoiced yearning.
We each have an inner map of our proclivities, abilities and deficiencies,
Mine is optimism, harboring an affectionate heart and a dreamer of sorts,
A dreamer filled with dainty and beautiful dreams, just like butterflies,
Sadly, at a time, life wrecked my dream ship on the sharp rocks of reality,
Reality that scrapes off scales of self until one feels naked and false,
Verily, realism vultures have a way of emotionlessly hacking into one's memory carcass and splintering pieces of the memories all over the floor.
Reality has a way of aggressively pushing gales of memories to shore with canvas billowing and winds winging through the masts,
Memories that implode from below and spiral upwards; eddying in little swirls around the mind, rattling the soul and subtly dominating the spirit,
Memories that land boots and all in the puddle that is the heart,
Reminisces that make the stomach tighten up and refuse to unknot itself,
Recollections that make the body joints unhinge, the limbs fail to move to music and other effortless things,
Memories that capture the state of the mind, making the heart lurch and the insides dissolve,
Distant memories dulled by moments of aborted hopes.
These memories are shrouded in a web of cobwebs,
They sit in the heart like ancient statutes in a forgotten shrine,
Motionless and lifeless in a brooding silence, though their seeds still budding internally,
With a shake of the head, the images dissipate like a reflection on disturbed waters.
These scribbled words though hurriedly penned down, half whispered and half recited caress the residual skeletal emotions like the evening breeze sweeping through the grass field,
They are testament to the confusing sentiments that besiege the heart and the soul in silence,
I wish I could wane into these sentences and be knitted into these words,
Spun into these poetic phrases where there would be emancipation,
I wish I could sink my roots into these letters and be melted into them,
But, the reality grips once more!
Careful titration of social tensions and mulling over emotional currents that often weigh the heart,
And harmonizing the voice of doubt and its close cousin the voice of indifference,
In due course, such emotional labor takes toil on oneself and makes someone feel sheathed in a translucent haze of indifference,
Often transmuting oneself into an insulated layer of unvoiced yearning.
We each have an inner map of our proclivities, abilities and deficiencies,
Mine is optimism, harboring an affectionate heart and a dreamer of sorts,
A dreamer filled with dainty and beautiful dreams, just like butterflies,
Sadly, at a time, life wrecked my dream ship on the sharp rocks of reality,
Reality that scrapes off scales of self until one feels naked and false,
Verily, realism vultures have a way of emotionlessly hacking into one's memory carcass and splintering pieces of the memories all over the floor.
Reality has a way of aggressively pushing gales of memories to shore with canvas billowing and winds winging through the masts,
Memories that implode from below and spiral upwards; eddying in little swirls around the mind, rattling the soul and subtly dominating the spirit,
Memories that land boots and all in the puddle that is the heart,
Reminisces that make the stomach tighten up and refuse to unknot itself,
Recollections that make the body joints unhinge, the limbs fail to move to music and other effortless things,
Memories that capture the state of the mind, making the heart lurch and the insides dissolve,
Distant memories dulled by moments of aborted hopes.
These memories are shrouded in a web of cobwebs,
They sit in the heart like ancient statutes in a forgotten shrine,
Motionless and lifeless in a brooding silence, though their seeds still budding internally,
With a shake of the head, the images dissipate like a reflection on disturbed waters.
These scribbled words though hurriedly penned down, half whispered and half recited caress the residual skeletal emotions like the evening breeze sweeping through the grass field,
They are testament to the confusing sentiments that besiege the heart and the soul in silence,
I wish I could wane into these sentences and be knitted into these words,
Spun into these poetic phrases where there would be emancipation,
I wish I could sink my roots into these letters and be melted into them,
But, the reality grips once more!
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