THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

I was a drunken soul,  When I reached the cliff,  But sober enough to stop at the edge.  I stopped and thought why would I stop.  What feeling is better than  Floating freely in the air,  Feeling light and unburdened.  What feeling is better than,  flying with the birds And falling among the flawed trees. No romantic ecstasy can compete with that feeling.  Everything I left at that house,  Isn't mine to go back,  But everything that awaits beyond  this cliff is mine to embrace.  The cold chills me asking is it the right time?  When is the right time?  When is the right time to float?  I'm sober enough to remember My pain,  No drinking can diminish its essence,  No party can fade its dominance.  Happiness was a distant cousin,  Who would come like Christmas.  Yet I kept the Christmas lights for a longer time,  Hoping to keep the darkness away,  and Christmas never came as I hoped.  But this cliff, its emptiness, and stillness beckons like a witch,  A sad witch looking for a comp

  As the church bell tolls,  The pigeons flew away from the parapet.  The shiny old white threads left on the Red aisle runner Struggle to break up from its clutches.  The wind becomes the professional bench drummer of hallelujahs,  And the pages of the Bible search for a reader.  As I entered, the guilty cobwebs hide Their faces behind the Chandelier,  reflecting its complex housing.  A curse has consumed this place,  The curse of lovers who were left at the altar. The church stopped functioning,  someday,  Because the people stopped coming someday.  And the choir stopped singing,  The weddings stopped And nobody was left at the altar.  They say it is the curse,  The curse of seven lovers who were left at the altar,  Over the seven years.  The lovers who left the town in shame Never came back.  But people shared stories of cruel brides and cruel grooms,  Who left their lovers at the altar. They sewed and stitched stories,  They made tea and poured stories,  They read and shared storie

                                           The children of dreamers Emerge from the wombs of their mothers,  Into a world, they watched inside,  Their aura make the sun jealous as they make their first cry,  Holding all the energies in their little hands.  They make their way to create the utopias their mothers viewed,  Charging up at every critical juncture With a feisty mind.  They watch their words becoming actions,  Crawling out of every dark cave that traps them,  Breaking the gardens of inappropriations,  Guarding every door of justice.  The children of dreamers love and love,  Never making their hearts go jaded,  Their love conspires to form a wormhole connecting dreamers,  Where they plan their world.  Their magnificent dreams,  Challenging the realities,  Lure many to sabotage the plans,  Running tests on them,  Questioning their parenthood,  And jealousy whines like a wicked dog.  The children of dreamers  dance at the ecstasy of their threatening identities,  Some would term

    Every week I come to the lake,  To talk and look at you as always,  But sometimes I feel you don't listen And you have gone too far.  I remember the day we met,  You came to me like summer,  Bright and shining  Fresh and green as the summer garden.  The tiny pimples on your cheek Said hello to me.  I remember how we connected,  And before we know,  We became inseparable,  Like a neatly solved jigsaw puzzle,  We solved each other.  Our friendship thrived through hard times,  And we survived most storms together,  Seeking shelter in each other's arms.  But never did I realise the mechanics of the mind,  Your mind worked in mysterious ways and whenever I tried to enter,  You shut the doors and sealed them.  You never reached out for help or a tissue,  But kept on amusing me with your buffoonery.  It was only when your cold body was taken out of the lake,  I realized you were more than a buffoon,  You danced with a heavy heart,  And I saw the bruises from dancing on your cold l

  I hear murmurings from the graveyard In the West of the town,  Of married women,  Dead and disappeared years ago.  I wonder what a time they had,  What a life they lived.  Their husbands weep and weep and forget them,  They praise how they looked after their women,  Covering in glittery gold,  Buying them silly silks,  Giving makeup for a make-over.  But still, the women murmur,  Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs.  They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly.  I lowered my face and listened to the tombs,  It seems their lipstick was revolting,  Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation.  They talk about the lies they had to live through,  In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages.  They call out their abusive partners,  Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof,  The blood-stained clothes that were never washed,  Lay hidden from neighbours and relatives,  Who praises the happy coupl

  Most nights we are alone,  Trying to form a shape,  Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart,  In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat,  Trying to keep it as calm as possible Not to wake our partners beside us.  Most nights we are alone,  Clenching onto pillows,  Playing loud music,  Pretending sleep,  While we writhe in pain.  Most nights we are alone,  Thinking of faces that promised company,  Faces of people we assumed would hug us,  Hands that we thought would caress us,  And talks that we registered would soothe us.  Most nights we are alone,  Peeling off our gender,  Searching for an identity,  Making sense of our essence,  Organizing our anger,  Revolting against the structure,  Living past the breaking point,  Storming a mysterious body.  Most nights we are alone,  Cursing the dreams we believed,  Blaming the instincts that spurred on dubious actions,  Marking the words we spat out without tasting and Lines we crossed, forgetting our position in the 'sys

  Kate Winslet as Mare Sheehan in 'Mare of Easttown' gives us the perfect portrayal of middle aged woman that we have been wanting for so long. Instead of giving us the sexualized, all perfect, extremely talented and beautiful typical heroine, we have Mare who is shown as a normal human being, flawed, at times selfish, unglamorous with a bulgy belly. As humans, we are not perfect, we are flawed at certain ways. Similarly Mare do not have a perfect relationship with everyone around her. She doesn't try to  work on it just in the fear of facing it. We listen people constantly reminding us "to face our demons" , but that's not easy as heard. We all are afraid to the core of reliving all the past, the traumas, the unsaid words, the mistakes, the happy moments. Mare is one of us. It requires a lot of time and courage to face our fears after several failed confrontations like Mare. She is expected by everyone to fulfill her duties as a mother, daughter,wife and frie