A Night In The City

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The sun has almost set in the sultry winter sky
And to every poets consternation,
Each nook of the city smells like cigarette smoke;
They wonder what they should write today,
A pint down with a burning throat
They walk through the city, to capture life.
The night is piercing, even the hookers have put on modest clothes
And somewhere in a multi-storey building
A girl sings in the dark,
Her drunken voice bewitching the entire city in its merry spirit;
And further down the lane,
An old man collapses, and with a wheezing breath
Denounces his possessions to his son
And he breathes his last in the snow clad streets,
The stars bearing witness to this commemoration;
And a girl stands over the bridge,
Whose coat flips carelessly in the icy wind,
As she readies to jump into the freezing waters,
Thinking desperately of last words that’ll hopefully
Last longer than she herself did.
And somewhere an artist’s fingers roll the joint
After he’s fucked the same guy he did last week,
And the one before that and the one before that,
Wondering if this is what love feels like:
No late night conversations, no meals,
Just two hot naked bodies writhing in passion
And the familiar smell of smoke and sweat.
They all wonder, they’re all living,
And thus the city lives on-
They all wonder, they’re all looking for something,
Or finding something or making something,
Or just being.
The city breathes through their breath,
And the world feels alive, thriving,
Even though nothing is similar and nothing is different
Because it has all happened, it is all happening,
It will always happen
And yet is is never the same- the girl’s voice
Has never sung of that one morning, ever again
And the old man’s son will never know how proud
His father was of him.
And the artist has woken up to a realization
That what he loves has, and can never love him back,
So the next morning, when the moon descends
And the first shy rays of the eager sun wake them all up,
The poets, well, they’ll already be wide awake, with cheeks blued, and hands gritty,
Forgetting to see the sunrise, forgetting to breathe
As they write about the cities they’ve never left,
The cities they’ve never seen,
The cities they’ve never been,
The cities they’ve never owned.

Thoughts.

She could feel her level of contentment decrease each passing day.

She read things which inspired her, she read beautiful words and of beautiful worlds with beautiful people and the happiness she felt was unparalleled.

Yet, when she sat down to write, words didn’t flow from her fingertips to the keyboard like they used to do before. Instead, she felt a pressure. She didn’t feel the wish to write, rather, she felt obligated to write.

It took two drafts which she never deleted, always saved, before she could produce something good enough to maintain the bar of her poems.

At the peak (and opportunity) of her writing career, she felt that somehow, she had already put forth her best work. The sense of fulfillment, pride and accomplishment that followed every time she entered the post button was hard to come by.

Her mind evaded thoughts, things that she knew she could put to words. Desperation turned to anxiety and he could feel it slipping by, as if the longer she didn’t write, the more it would escape and soon all she would be left with the ghosts of all-good-things-written. She would be a shell. She would be someone who would come to be known as the person who let the best thing that ever happened to her slip by.

The one thing that she was good at, she let it go.

So she wrote. Though it was rubbish, absurd, hopeless, immature; she wrote. She wrote of her block, she wrote of overcoming block, she wrote of what to write about- and when, it was done, she closed her eyes with her palm and would press the “Publish” button.

She made it a habit to write at least five days a week.

Was it sufficient? She wouldn’t know. Did it get better? She wouldn’t know.

For right now, all she cared was for the not let her rust herself. All she cared was for to stop her mind from stopping, because she knew if she did, there would be no one who would stop her thoughts from consuming her.

How To Write When You Cannot

Start. Start to write what pops in your head;
look around you, the universe is your friend,
observe the cold of the air conditioner induce a
shiver, feel the mattress pressing in your arse,
look at the poster on the wall opposite to you
and think of how it became what it was,
look at the books lined up against the walls
and think of how many words they must contain
and how such similar words created such a diverse
magic, look at the table and imagine the legs talking
about the weight of the bags they have to carry,
think about the guitar that lies in the corner
of the room and how it creates magic that survives
people, think about the news you heard that day,
reflect upon exactly how many people in the world
are struggling to fill the same web page that you
are, ponder upon what exactly would have been
going on in the musician’s mind before he shot
himself, and contemplate how the world came to
being- not the big bang and the planets- but how
we came, think about the whore you eyed that day
on the street, ruminate about the diamonds raining on
Jupiter, deliberate on the existence of yourself,
and dammit, just write about the vibe between the
band and their fans in a concert, lord, just start,
just start writing what comes to your head,
and if you do, I can promise you, you will never stop
writing, baby, because the world is a magic show
and it is made for people like you.