Finis

Acrid smoke, acid sky

Tears of blood, a string of lies

Trembling,

Found her way in.

An empty shell, broken.

Into the abyss, she went 

And cried.

For a love that was never hers

She died.

Although written much before her death, this poem is dedicated to Viveka Babaji. I was no fan of her, nor do I support the very idea of suicide. It's just stupid. But having been close to the edge myself, I know just how shattered a person must be to harbour such thoughts leave alone taking the plunge. May whatever it was that drove her so leave her side in the afterworld.

Edit: And this, incidentally is also my 100th post. Congrats! To me, you, my dear blog, the neighbour's dog. Ok maybe we can do without the last one.

(Photo: Taken on my last trip to Rajasthan)

SHE

Filled with doubt

And spite she stared-

Perched on the rocks-

Into the abyss

Many came upon her beach

Tainted tears, stained kiss

The heavens, they cried

The wind, it hissed.

Swam in the ocean of hate

Swallowed tears, blood and pain

And at last, she broke into a song

They thought she was a dreamer

They couldn’t be more wrong.

_________________________________________________________________________

Author's note: This was a prompt. Those who are on my Gtalk would know that I had requested some ideas for a theme, something, anything to get me started. Tubelights gave me the link to this picture. Just know, I'm grateful. 

Personal vs. Professional

The so-called professional and personal are, to use a common phrase, two sides of the same coin. They might stick to each others' backs, but they're as different as, pun intended, head and tail.  

The professional is what we project... It's like a magic trick. You climb up a stage, show your audience your little trick. The catch is that the audience already knows it. They know what you're there for. They know what you're going to do. What they don't know is how. That is where your real test begins. If you could fool them, even for a second, then you can make them wonder, and that's your reward. The wonder.

We're all show-mans at the end of the day. Shakespeare knew it when he said "All the world's a stage, / And all the men and women merely players". So, where does the personal come in? And how do we separate the two? I would say we don't. But that doesn't mean we let the lines blur. That would be stupidity, suicide. A great professional, like a great magician, does not show his trick. He lives it. 

So, at the end of the day, you can only choose 'heads' or 'tails' to play your gamble, to take you shot at winning. There's no guarantee you will, but this great gamble requires a great sacrifice. That of the other. 

And here, Sirs and Madames, must I rest this discourse.

*****

Yes, this is quite random, I know. I was discussing the matter with this gentleman when I realised that I would like to take this discourse further. So I've brought it to all of you:


How many of us try to keep the professional and personal separate? Some succeed too. But does that constitute a success really? Living two lives, dissecting yourself and everything you know in two halves so you can have the best of both worlds. But can you really? For those who strive to achieve a balance it might be true. But for others who aim to excel, a balance might just be one stepping stone.
Indeed, it IS like a balance. Think of an old two-pan balance. The kind that vegetable vendors still use here in India. The professional rests on one pan, the personal on the other. A balance can be achieved, almost perfectly at that but that is just half the journey accomplished. For someone who aims at success, one who wants to climb the highest pinnacle, must destroy that balance. For one pan to rise the other has to go down.

                      

This is my personal belief. I would love to hear your takes on it. 

*****

P.S: For a change, we don't have a depressing or morbid post on this blog. :P

The Final Embrace

Behind the doors, beyond the sea

Knew not gloom, knew not glee;

Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers

Frothing spasms, bone chilling shivers.

Death but gently kissed

Time and space frozen again

Silence surrounds, sorrow strains;

Anguish impaired, infected reason

Crimson terror persecuted vision.

The bottle slyly hissed

Healing herbs turned assassin

Victim of a crime of passion;

Love defeated, prosecutor Envy

Here he lies, where he longs to be,

Embraced by the mist

Note: This is my take on Prompt #3 at Flash Fiction. You can check out the original post here.