Sailing Sinking Ships

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We live in constant fear, tired and paranoid eyes scanning the gray seas for any signs of their ships. They wish to hunt us down like the supposed criminals we are. Criminals? We are, but mere, dreamers. We do not believe in their petty Gods of selfish goals and pretty furniture. And for that, we are watched and hunted and live under the constant threat of exile.

Exile! But if there were only a place to run away to! Oh well, the world is round and we've been sailing for years. If we knew where this world ended, there would be no need to wander the seas for, what could only be, eternity.

There are many among us who believe that the right boat will come along to pick us up, even though it means doing little more than waiting forever. These men live in the inner cabins of the ship, which they've decorated to look like ordinary homes, barely aware of the journey itself. Many fall asleep holding on to memories that stopped being valuable a hundred thousand years ago.

There are a few who leave us, on small boats, convinced that there is no point in this journey. Often, they return once they realize that the night is a thousand times darker when you are alone. Sometimes, we never see them again.

There are those who believe that the shore will appear on the horizon if we just keep sailing. But we've been sailing for an eternity. The World is round. But I do not have the heart to remind them.

There are some who sit on the wooden deck under moonlit skies and talk in hushed voices. I join them, sometimes, if only to see the stars reflecting in their otherwise tired eyes; faces suddenly years younger than they appear to be under the glaring light of the sun. Their company makes this voyage bearable. Their thoughts make my soul want to cry out at the unfairness of our flight. Their dreams make me smile. Their hope spreads like flames from a candle kept too close to too many sheets of paper.

And then there are those who have thrown themselves into the raging seas, convinced in the madness of stormy nights and thunderous skies, that the only land there is to find lies many many miles under the water's surface. I have seen many rescued from such a plight. And I have seen many faces gasping for air before the waters claimed them forever. I have said many goodbyes.

I choke and drown on memories that have long left the insides of my mind. I think I made a mistake when I turned it inside-out. Now the whole world is in my head. And there's no place left for me in there, anymore.

I have no country to return to. And the land we set out sailing towards seems to be nowhere in sight. This ship and it's crew is the only world that exists tonight. But even the hushed voices of the people with stars in their eyes can't drown out the screams of the drowning. Perhaps the only land that exists is really a thousand miles under water.

They never told us that you couldn't sail the moonlight to the moon...

I think our ship is sinking.

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Paharganj - I

“Delhi’s den of Debauchery”
Not only does it sound cool, it fits. I must thank Sir Loon for the name. And while I’m at it, for the entire trip. I wanted to write this sooner, when everything was still fresh in my rapidly-degenerating mind, but I haven’t gotten around to being sober much. Why am I writing this today? Because today I’m exhausted, awake and clean. More or less anyhow.

Paharganj happened last Saturday. After a successful con, I got dropped off at the Metro Station at CP. My mother bought some KFC stuff for my brother and then left, albeit reluctantly, leaving Sir Loon and me to wait for the 6 other people that were supposed to show up. It’s true; lies don’t even ruffle your conscience after a point.

Anyhow, before taking the Subway, we wandered into the giant geometrical park. Actually, “wandered into” isn’t honestly what we did. We ran about crossing roads and climbing stairs until we found the deserted park. Why was it deserted? Because it was now Noon. This meant that the bright summer Sun was a straight nuke-powered arrow away from the top of our respective heads. (And it can do that because it’s the sun. Really huge, millions of miles away, etc). And we’re talking Delhi June here. For the fortunate and blissful ignorant, that means that the temperature calmly crosses 40 degrees Celsius whenever it feels like. In short, you’d have to be fucking insane to be wandering about in a park at Noon. Or in real need of a safe place to smoke some marijuana.

Once slightly stoned, we were prepared to take the next step. “The CP metro station is always crowded”, Sir Loon said, with the air of a co-conspirator, as we walked down the clean shiny slope that marked the entrance to the underground station. “That’s ‘cause it’s a main junction and every line passes through here.” How Crowded?, was all I could think of, as I told myself over and over that I had done this before. And I had quite loved the whole subway trip. But that was from another vaguely remembered life…

At first, it didn’t seem all that bad. But then, as the “train” got nearer, all these strange people materialized out of thin air. And we were carried into the shiny silver box along with the busy, harassed looking janta. Yes, I liked the whole experience better the first time around. But that’s probably only because there weren’t so many people back then. Using the Metro, I mean. Still, the journey was uneventful and quick, and next thing I knew, we were at the station with the… holy sounding name (that will be found out and mentioned. Sorry.)

To Be Continued...
That’s all for now. Part 2 (and 3?) shall take a recorded form of existence sometime later. I’m tired and sober, remember? I have to fix that. At least half of it. Later gators. :P

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