Supreeth Madduri

The sound of a dropped coin  Into the piggy bank sounds like a desperate lover awaiting  at the opened doors of his heart. May be, that's what savings should Sound like. You put all your happiness into a whiff  Of desperation, that you slowly inhale, To make your heart ready to be served. Similar to inserting the coins, one after the other until the intensity fades. The art of saving, require a lot of talents. You need not put all your heart and soul in a single go. Relax. For instance, if the moon is shining bright today, save it for your darker days.  You see? Saving is an art. If you're wasting your love, hold on. Save it in your pockets, in your favorite books, in your diary, in your smile and most importantly in your belief. Let it entangle with every nook and corner of your bones until you feel like investing your savings on something worthwhile.

When you're out of words,  Just breathe. Just that. Your breath is your poetry. And when you do so  Listen to your breath, carefully. Dance around with the                                 silence and you might  as well hear it with a high  Pitched tone. Sometimes, your sweet little                       voice could be your wasted words. But, never mind. Just watch                       those sweet little words kiss                         the heaven. And always remember You're nothing short of the                             masterpiece that you always  Wanted to write.  Because, You are your masterpiece already you are your own poetry. Just breathe.                                                                                                                                                                                                   

The streets of Varanasi looked Familiar to me The bent and holes of the streets  French buildings, confusing  Crowd, deceiving weather And pretty much everything. As and when I started roaming  Around, the reminiscent of  My past started appearing on The walls of down trodden  Buildings, the etched names on the  Bank of the river which might  Have caused wars for land(s). I was lost. Google can get Awkward at times and make you so. I was lost. Completely.  Familiarity helps in ways you can't  Be less thankful for. Familiarity, sometimes, appear in the  Form of sweet words, affection at times  And in love, most of the times. I was lost. I couldn't leave a trail. But my name did. Did I travel the map? no. I just put my name on the map, happily.

Uncanny resemblances.  Of places, of scents, of smiles. Like that in any of the fictional novels, in a romantic love story, in a horror movie,  Possibly, in your poetry. You must have read about this character elsewhere.  Do you see me? Uncanny resemblances. with a stranger at your favorite restaurant,  Or In a tram of secluded hearts, Or In the names of familiarity, Or at your favourite place. Do you feel me? In the end, I'm just a passer by reference  in your story. And you, in mine. We're meant to cross the paths. After all, we are all just stories to be heard. Aren't we?

The best part about train journey is the window seat. For instance, I become a paradox with a window seat. Not the paradox that mind could think about , it's the paradox that, only the heart knows. The moving mountains, flying hair,  'Tuhi re' playing along, the train's shakiness putting me into sleep as the train sounds its  Lullaby. Is someone singing along, or is it the train? I wonder how perfectly Rahman's albums frames its lyrics with the window, itself. May be that's what moving keys on his piano mean. Also, that's what a hypnotist does to you. You're aware of your heart beat, not the senses; that you enjoy losing. I am the guy who quotes 'the part about reaching the destination is its journey towards it' I am the guy for whom R N Jayagopal songs has been written down for I am the guy who puts paradox across the minds Mostly, I am the guy by the window seat.

I have read about Casanova,  Cleopatra in the pages of  lust and seduction;  Whose eyes were made of love and perfection. I have read about the cosmos, about the space, about the time, about space-time, the dimensions, about parallelism in universe, And also about your selectivity  Of actions and words. Strip me your thoughts of far away world of granular dust hovering around. The art of seduction, as the books  mention, is a sardonic expression. Space and time slips away to  a world where 'Einstein' is an alienated term, with you standing naked with your words, alongside me. Looking beneath all the myths and theories, I find your eunoic to be far more seductive.

I see faint light glimmering through the hole of hope, flickering incessantly. I strive pretty hard  to get back at you, like a cuckoo popping out every hour, reminding  me of how eager I am at the closed doors of your heart. May be I shouldn't have met you, in the first place. Second of all, I shouldn't have  dreamt about our children,  our house, or anything with you in it. May be, you were my favorite lesson in my history class. Just so you know,  I used to hate history, Only to eventually admire it now. I stare at the flickering light missing your palms  and talk to myself  Saying, whatever will  happen, will happen. And may be that's how  I should be living. Picture courtesy: arvin_illustration (Instagram)

Ashes burnt smelled exactly like  the inhalation of first breath. May be that's what life is. It wasn't suffocating, at least for once; liberation, as they say, is the highest form of purity. For all I realize, death feels nothing like pathos. Liberation from chaos, you see? All the happiness and sorrow in the  world came down to dark particles of  burnt bones and bruised flesh. Nothing more. For all I realize, the war is within and so shall you conquer the roots. Liberation floats with the wings of purity And stings with the blood of hatred. For all I realize, love is the highest form of nothingness,  and so shall you love yourself first.

I find you in between the thin gaps of uncoloured spaces in a painting that is enthralled with the heart and soul of an artist; for thou art the voids that can't be filled. I find you in between the spaces of semicolons hoping to join the further clause, from a writer's diary revealing the emotions similar to that of mine; for thou art the pause for a beautiful sentence. I find you in between the subtle movements of a dancer's legs that are struggling for perfection, and those subtleties excite me like you do; for thou art my dancing distortion. Voids. Pauses. Distortions.  What is art, if not these and if not for these? An art full of uniqueness and an art full of resemblance.

a. There must be a place that feels exactly like home, but not home. There must be a phrase that  Sums up all the feel-good emotions that I so want to banter about. There must also be the warmth that I always needed. b. Every step I put requires the strength  Of wanting. I wander. I get lost. I wander. I find. c. Every play has 3 parts to it. The beginning. Feels terrible. The interval. Realization and the urge to get closer. The end. Finding the familiarity. The more I get lost, the more I find a part within me that I barely knew existed.

I sit there, on my bed hoping for some rest.  But unfortunately,  I get loneliness in return.  The thing about feeling lonely at times is,  you get to admire the things that goes unnoticed, with utmost respect; like the corner bin waiting for someone to fill its soul, like the dust succumbed to be blown in between the keys of my computer keyboard, like the piled clothes on a bean bag and anything that's been stuffed,  serving a purpose. How I wish to stuff my feelings within me,  but sadly, it doesn't work that way.  You can't stuff random things when you're feeling lonely.  It just have to be served  with another feeling by another heart, only.

I  belong to the men of forgotten race. the men who toiled for a bread of sweat and sun In places less foot kept descending, a dawn at a time  travelled to attend the unattended whispers  of mourn and disbelief. I belong to the men of hard hearts. who'd leave at the alter with the name called with the one etched within. not with the eyes which caught in the air of kisses and pecks.                                                 I belong to the men  of love and sensuality. not that we speak of. but of actions, of hopes and of beliefs.

I dream about going to Prague. There's something strange about the streets in there, that attracts me. Light, windows, pavements and even the sky; not blue, I believe.  Skies are colored.        Summer feels like a dream. Getting tanned has become a practise. Soothing. Winter is gorgeous.  Getting sick under the dark cloud has become a season, inside. Stories chooses its tellers, it seems. Like me, like you, like the streets of Prague.  But, We only choose what we want to choose. By the end, it's a full circle. A paradox. The summers, the winters, the colourfulness and everything, is just a dream.  Like you and me together.

A 4 year old kid made a wish to  Own the ice cream vehicle. When asked for more, we'd probably ask more of everything. He also stood his words for more . But, wished for yet another ice cream  Vehicle. Nothing else. God once pledged with the idea of creating the humans. The pledge contained a purpose. Mainly, love . Humans were incepted with more of everything.                                                The kid grew up to see that, the wishes are just a misconception. Not that he couldn't buy an icecream vehicle for himself, just that it wasn't necessary. Sometimes, humans die in                                   scarce of love. Not that they couldn't love, just that they did not get enough of what they should've got.

Just the other day while standing under an abandoned building similar to my heart, when it was raining cats and dogs, a man ran towards the building seeking for shelter. As apparent it was, he was all drenched. Striking a conversation was never so easy with a complete stranger, until it down poured heavily. Because everyone does look for shelter just like seeking for their souls out of life and have got nothing but share stories. The particular story of the man standing right across me left me dumbstruck. You see, relatable stories. Crazy as it sounds, but the fact is stories are never unique, just the souls dealing with it are. In the end, we're all just mundane stories narrated with different lives. As simple as that.

With nights spent listening to old-time fairy tales napping on granny's lap, so by her fingers shoveling miracles into his head, With days spent counting along with the pages of a fantasy novel, most likely Harry potter. And on one fine dawn, becoming a story himself for others to be read over and over again. Somewhere between granny's miracles and Rowling's masterpieces, he found himself as a writer on the verge of his pen's nib. Just like that.

A part of me is still hiding somewhere in the middle of a book that I haven't opened yet. I fear if I will open the book, ever.  But, for reasons not known, every other book I come across  has something interesting that I can relate to;  From protagonist saving his princess from the evil to the evil itself, at times. Protagonist as in good, evil as in, well, definitely not the other way round,  but a little less like a protagonist. The part that is not found is best kept as it is for quite a period,  so I can live thousands of them before finding the one.

The warmth of your hug at the airport; The sniff of your breath,  the smell of your cologne,  pictures of us together in your gallery dating the day you flee across the oceans  and our first ever Skype call standing beyond borders and our never-ending conspiracies. I cherish all those meticulous happiness of fervor enthusiasm, still.  Let serendipity play for us, so shall we sit back enjoy. All I bless for, is, long live video-call apps.

An old man sitting on a bench of a park amidst the city of devastated dreams,  kept lurking at kids playing seesaw going up and down until the stop is obvious at a point,  skidding down from the slide choosing to fall down over and over again for the love of joy,  twirling around on a merry-go-round until heads fall down,  chaotic ambiance yet so serene at the sight of playfulness. Feelings once experienced and correlating them to his life flashing in front apparently, tears failed to persevere at the tint of his eyes.

Shape me like a mud vase, running your fingers through  my thoughts of perpetual swirling. Let them thoughts entangle every gap of my bones and every pause of breath. Let everything you do suffocate me so  as to breathe the fresh desire of  eternal togetherness,  more and more.

She barged into his heart of gold paved with joy and harmony, Forgetting the destination stayed she, with her soul full of determination and symphony. Together they walked through the streets of torment and cure, Together they shared the stories of laugh and pure.   "...they were their own reflection in each others' eyes. Just like a mirror."

Eunoia-  "well mind" or "beautiful thinking" How badly I miss those perpetual talks bothering less about the precedented happenings. I try to spark the conversation with other beings,  but I don't feel connected no matter how good they make me feel. I still remember all the little details about you that makes you happy and what makes me sad is that I can't beckon you anymore with those  tiny packets of abundant happiness. Of all the things I miss, I miss your thoughts very badly. You were the eunoia to my heart.

Everyone talks about the moon, the stars,  the beauty and everything that is a cliché. I hate clichés. Just for the same reason I hate human beings. Instead, let's talk about the irregularities. Like how the passing clouds wander around blocking the moon light, Like how our dog scratch our legs when we hold our hands together, Or, like how our faces seem distorted when we gaze at the flowing water... You see, Clichés are boring. Let's ditch the clichés. Yeah?

I still remember the first day of school after every summer vacation. Those crisp uniforms, the belt that'd take forever to set my waist accordingly, smell of the new books, the excitement, the rush, and what not? It's the exact same feeling I get every time I look upon you.  Those Crispness in your eyes, the elegant walk, smell of your hair, the euphoria, the blood rush, and everything no less. But, darling! Not anymore. It's those memories that haunts me and sadden me to not get excited about; they draw the scars for life in our hearts, and  I blame time. I'm sorry! I just don't feel the same joy anymore.

Translucent self talks. Disdained actions. Countless intricacies hitting on to the self belief.  Blink of an eye. Pitch dark. Universe running through the head. Sound sleep. Wild dreams. Fade out. Back to square one.

Dear Ted Mosby , From enjoying the pitcher full of beer,  sitting across the corner couch of a bar in a city like New York,  Spilling your wit out which people seldom feel joy about,  being the guardian for your friends that you're,  failing every now and then miserably to find the love of your life,  weeping the tears for others and for yourself,  eyes glistening with a hope to feel  and enjoy the happily-ever-after stories, finally meeting the girl of your dreams, To narrating the story of  How You met the lady of your dreams to your children. This is pretty much what I always dream of, And, how I wish I were you.  Love you. Thank you so much for the lessons! Yours   HIMYM fanboy, Supreeth 

Let your thoughts ravel you through the streets of confusion and inferiority. Let the fears hover you through the thick and the dark. Let everything you do make you feel like a spell that is very bleak and goes uncasted. At times, It's equally important for us to be Ron and make mistakes. Because, Hermione is just standing right around the corner expecting you to say, 'wingardium leviosa' and immediately correcting it saying, “It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

You and I make a beautiful poetry; Wonder why? The rhymes across the either ends of the string  standing naked in between our hearts, vibrating in tandem with the unprecedented longing,  makes us a beautiful one.

How beautiful it is, to let the morning sunlight  invade our skin pervading the mist and heating us up!  The feel is just so right. A cup of strong coffee and a book full of inspiration would add to the morning perfection.

  I have tried enough to swim across the oceans. Not everyone can watch the horizon kissing the ocean from either of the sides. I have been there done that, just so you know.                               ------- Even the bravest soldier in the battlefield fear for the impending dawn I have wandered through every inch of the ground just to feel my pounding heart over and over again, without fearing. Best feeling ever.                                ------- With every second that pass by, the broken trust, the lost love, disguised promises, demeaned self-respect, the lost character. I have losen myself, lost almost everything. I have learnt the lesson. I have become wiser than I was yesterday.                                ------- If you may ask, do you regret anything?                   No, I regret nothing.

Ever seen a calm river with slow current? No. Nature hoodwink us by her looks. Ever experienced the undercurrent of a calm river? Yes. Nature is in itself is an experience to be felt. Introversion as such, can be as deceiving as a calm river. It's the experience of the undercurrent that gives the euphoria of an introverted heart.

He stood there, in the middle of nowhere. Shell shocked. Dreadful silence. Unspoken words meant the world at its periphery. Darkness scared the life out of him. The rustling leaves took a straight hit on his belief, pulse slid down just like a damping wave losing its girth. The thoughts of letting go suffocated his brain. Not breath. His hands trembled. Seismic waves, what? Sweat poured onto the paper. Oceanic depth, so narrow? With every word spilled, the wanting, the hope, the belief grew stronger. Never like before. Damn! Words are undoubtedly the secret saviours from the darkness.

You are the type that Plato gave a rhetorical pedagogy about. The stains, the vanity of appearance, the beaten bruises, and the untamed lust that craves for encomium of kindness; Everything seems so apt on your part. Wonder how You manage to show the resemblance from all the written theories dating from Centuries without your knowledge. God, girl! You must definitely be the one when Plato said, " And Agathon said, It is probable, Socrates, that I knew nothing of what I had said. And yet spoke you beautifully, Agathon "

Ever seen a calm river with fast current? Nature deceive us by her looks. Ever experienced the undercurrent of a calm river? Nature is in itself is an experience to be felt. Introversion as such, can be as deceiving as a calm river. It's the experience of undercurrent that gives the euphoria of an introverted heart.

  I fail very hard to impress you with my bleak metaphors. Just like photons trying to avoid the singularity from the black hole. But still, the hopes of ironies winning every freaking time makes me bombard you with my cheesy one liners and metaphors all the time. Do not disappoint me, please.

How about making out on a summer night beside the sea shore, on an empty boat, by stripping our thoughts one by one? I just want to feel the jealousy that the waves and moonlight on it get when we sprout our emotional intimacy. I so want to feel that. Desperately.

Here we meet once again. Phew! What a journey it has been, with tidal air of melancholy and gasping air of excitement; although it seemed like a journey of a lost wanderer through the deepest of valleys  and through the thickest of woods, it was never about losing. It has always been about finding. Funny it is, how 'time' extracts the best and worst from us without any affirmation. It also ridiculous how we are put in the same situation we were before and learn the lesson from a whole new perspective again and again, but with different people and deal with different characterized situations. What else could life be, if not a circle of learnings and experiences, going on and on and on...