Cry It Out

Sometimes all you need is to call an old friend and cry it out.
Life is rough and I am sure I am not the first one to tell you that.
You know.
There is a flood of emotions and feelings you try to bank everyday.
Negative or positive you mask so many of your feelings.
To portray them in the best possible manner so that you do not look
like a malfunctioning unit of our civilisation.
You hide a lot. You are not pure anymore.
What have you become? You started with something so divine.
But now it seems like your soul is corrupted.
Your soul is burdened.
So why would you not talk to the one who knew you when you were YOU.
When you took the leap and moved into a bigger world,
aspirations were oversized diminishing everything else that mattered.
Your visions have betrayed you.
You have been gathering way too many fake promises, fake smiles and fake consolations.
You have been chasing shadows.
Now it is up to the brim that your glass is full of sorrows & repent.
Isn't it time that you let it out. It is ok to cry.
Tears won't make you weak. Holding them in will.
Your friend is not going to judge you.
Because he knows you.
So why won't you?
Talk, cry it out.

The Reminisce

As I say goodbye to last of the distractions,
Wonders of nature or mind boggling attractions.
As I bid farewell to beautiful people, alcohol and money,
I do not know whether I am stepping in or out of reality.
I struggle to define real, I struggle to define me.
As the past grows stronger I barely see,
A spark that I once saw and did dwell upon.
A spark that is gone now and has failed us.
Us. As I think of us it all fails.
The distractions, attractions, people, money and alcohol,
Who were trying their honest best fail.
Its funny that even in distractions,
Lies some sort of codes that relate to you.
Excuses to reminisce.
I am told not to but there is a certain beauty in reminiscing.
I go there to collect some love and some pain.
Admire some and curse some,
Promise to keep some forever,
Promise never to visit some ever again,
Artist's re-imagination of history can be as colourful as rainbow,
Or as dark as a moon less night.
But its only imagination. It's only memories.
Yet your memories to me are like a treasure chest to a child.
Which he hides from others but secretly visits.
He might be afraid of darkness otherwise,
But to visit the chest he braves the darkest of nights.
Has no clue of the worth of it,
But knows its special. The value of this treasure exists only to him.
Child's play.
Then there is the growing up part. Pragmatism. Moving on.
You have to move over your hidden treasure chests.
Pretend they never existed. Chase real treasures.
But I already said, I struggle to define real.
Thus I reminisce.