Category: Journal

Journal, Preeti

Mechanical

Sanjay Sabarwal
By SinnerX

There is no time.  Just me and her. The only quietness on her face while the room buzzes with small beeps indicating normalcy or a call for help.  It has been far too long since I stared at her for so long.  Her breathing gentle, accompanied with small grimaces of pain when she moves too suddenly. 

I only see her face, holding onto my coffee with dear life, focusing my gaze on her body and willing for the stranger inside her to be gone.  I imagine being lazer like and just destroy all that is foreign.  I gaze and focus on her willing my love to pour into her and eradicate all that bothers her.  I imagine feeling her with so much joy there is room for nothing else. 

I lean in closer to her,  filling my vision with just her face, imagining beautiful eyes full of life, laughter and the knowledge that everything is going to be alright.  I stare hard, hoping/wishing/praying that somehow the cancer can teleport into me (Star Trek like).  I stare, willing the enemy within to just go away, get away from my love.  Shoo!  You don’t belong here.  I stare and I stare.

There is no time. 

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Cancer of Words: A Blog Post

Sanjay Sabarwal
Cyclops projecting an optic blast. Art by Jack...
Image via Wikipedia

The words just sit there.  The guilt sits behind them.  Yet nothing moves.  I plead with the clock to slow down, to let me gather whatever’s lying around so I do not feel like a fraud.  Yet nothing comes.  It is as if I am spent from fighting the cancer in my beloved, and while the movie reel in my head sputters along, the projection screen is blank.

I can’t stop thinking of writing, and seeing every conversation as potential dialogue.  It’s as if my body is become one huge receptacle for ideas and possible stories.  Yet I want it to stop.  I feel like Scott Summers from the Xmen, unless I put some glasses on, I can’t stop the lasers from destroying the world near m me.

Just stop, I beg regretting ever having starting this muse yet it grows just like the enemy in my love.  Her body betrayed her and now I feel like my mind is doing the same.  The words keep growing and I pray they don’t spread to my hands because I need the energy and the strength to by her side. 

I want nothing except for her.  She is my life. Without her, I am just another person, but together we become one unit that can take on the world.  But we have been let down by our bodies, hers turning against her and making her wonder what she did to deserve this and mine seeing everything as a reason to write. 

But both of us are wrong.  All we is the present and blame worry sadness don’t belong because the reality is we will both survive, one as a writer and one as former cancer patient.  That is our new reality.  It doesn’t take anything away from us, it just has made us a thousand times stronger. 

While we will kill one cancer, we will allow another one to spread so it can kill the doubts worries and sadness in others.  In hindsight, maybe being an X Man, isn’t such a bad thing.

Journal, Myself, Preeti

Breathing

Sanjay Sabarwal
Fire Breathing
Image via Wikipedia

Lying to you was better than seeing you lie there.  Protecting you from the realities of your current world was more important than breathing. Watching your beautiful face still and breathing in pure oxygen made me wish for complete bliss for you. 

Not 5 feet away from you yet feeling a stranger, I look upon you wishing it was me lying there and you watching me.  Asking again and again why you to no one in particular gets old and while the shabads surround the room, the soothing melody allows me no time alone with my thoughts.  I sit here in darkness thinking of lies to tell you so the flicker of hope brightens in your green eyes,  I don’t have the words to tell you that everything will be fine because it’s not.  However, the reality is that although our past lives are obliterated, we have a new beginning. 

Breathe my babu.  Breathe away the anger, the past, the arguments, the many wasted moments regretting what was not to be.  Breathe in the love surrounding you, Breathe in thoughts that will remove the enemy in your body, the unwanted stranger.  Take control of your body.  Get angry.  Get calm.  Focus the laser of your thoughts ‘ on to that pervert, and give me back rightfully whats fine.  Breathe.

The darkness swirls around me, and the thoughts try to enter, but I wont allow it.  I am willing you to breathe away all the negative energy, and lets start our lives anew.  Breathing together positivity and love.  Neither of us know what the future holds except we are together.  Breathe out the intruder like a fireball, and come back to our new life.

I love you.  Breathe…

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Fraud: A Blog Post

Sanjay Sabarwal
The Secret Life of Words
Image via Wikipedia

I have a need to be read so I know I exist.  These are my words, and I need to share them.  Too long, they have gone silent, and worst of all ignored by me.  I had convinced myself that writing was enough, just like breathing.  But after a while, you need more than air to live.  Life isn’t just a series of breathing exercises yet for a while that’s how I treated my life.  Something I just had to do.  No vision. No motivation.  Just passing of the day and really just being lucky enough to be around people who loved me for existing and providing me with everything.

So why am I whining because I know I am a fraud.  I know that the words coming here now are just so simple and don’t even come close to the poetry in my head.  It used to be so easy and now I am lazy and dull.  I stopped listening and hearing what the words were trying to tell.  So now I just sit here, listening to amazing religious songs with a cold cup of coffee trying to convince myself at 38 that this is what I want to be.   Yet every moment feels forced, made up just so I can say I wrote. 

I am a writer.  It’s what I tell myself when I wake up every morning, and the first strokes of the words comes easy.  Yet after a minutes, I find myself tweeting/emailing/posting/reading/searching/paying bills all throughout the precious time I have managed to find to write.  It’s as if my body is telling me to get real and go back to my superficial life. And I oblige.  That’s the sad part.  I know I am failing myself and yet somehow I still continue on the path. 

I am a fraud, but at least I know it.  And knowing is half the battle, Gi Joe reminds me.  But wait, I feel like a fraud but does that really make me one?  It’s the question that nags at me.  Who am I, really?  Am I the thoughts in my head or am I to be defined by actions?  What is it about slamming these letters down that makes me feel like a light weight heavy lifter?  Is it the guilt that the joy I felt when I first learned to transform my thoughts into reality seems buried, muffled underneath the chorus of doubt and guilt? Or is it just not meant to be? 

Should I remain a fraud or for once be the man I said I wanted to be?

And then there was silence…