Spending time and resources in its pursuit,
Seeking it everywhere, turning every stone in the hunt,
Sometimes deriving it in those little things -
On a nice morning when up, or when with an old friend,
Sometimes for reasons difficult to comprehend,
Perhaps when with family, or remembering an old lover,
It is still unexplored, its mysteries remain uncovered,
I find it as a fountain whose source hides behind the mind,
Leaking a little now and then, whenever one's spirits lift,
Oh happiness is always about going back -
Oh not in time, not to a place,
But to a state of the self -
Familiarity is indeed the key to happiness,
The search for happiness lying in its forage,
In a song, a trip long,
In a little chat or an old play toy,
A state of longing, or little joys, or even fear -
In fact it is such events that remind one,
That one truly relates to -
A movie, a story,
A song one heard when young,
A picture, a painting,
Seen with an open heart -
They must've registered within,
In a nameless language -
Sans words, sans pictures - just an inexplicable experience -
One that registers deep within - and stays there,
Until stimulated by a response unknown,
Such things awaken the heart,
Giving it a jolt -
Oh if such is the case with a few years back,
What if we dug deeper -
Perhaps the state of sleep,
Why, even the one before we were born?
Appendix:
(Stray thoughts while writing this poem - lines that have been cut out of the poem but ones that I cannot take down from this page)
Where such familiarity exists:
Of unpenned thoughts, and inexplicable emotions,
Of events perhaps not so important -
With no records in picture or word,
But registered in a dimension, known only to the heart -
Oh it surprises me to see -
How records are kept in a chaotic world -
Pictures, memories, books and biographies,
Of histories and men long forgotten.,
Facts that bother a handful, recorded in numbers and figures,
While the pain and joy of people,
Has died with their memory.
*I had written this in a half sleep state, naming it "Memories" for some reason. Publishing it, I went to sleep unsatisfied, since the title did not fit the poem. I've made a few changes and updated the title to a more befitting one. I am aware that this writeup is still substantially haphazard and has been presented in an uncanny manner, but I find that any more changes may remove the emotion from these words, and hence, I choose to leave it this way. (7.9.2016, 1:28am at C504, H13,, IIT Bombay)
Seeking it everywhere, turning every stone in the hunt,
Sometimes deriving it in those little things -
On a nice morning when up, or when with an old friend,
Sometimes for reasons difficult to comprehend,
Perhaps when with family, or remembering an old lover,
It is still unexplored, its mysteries remain uncovered,
I find it as a fountain whose source hides behind the mind,
Leaking a little now and then, whenever one's spirits lift,
Oh happiness is always about going back -
Oh not in time, not to a place,
But to a state of the self -
Familiarity is indeed the key to happiness,
The search for happiness lying in its forage,
In a song, a trip long,
In a little chat or an old play toy,
It unfolds in fond recollection of long lost days,
When one not merely recounts, but goes back to that state -A state of longing, or little joys, or even fear -
In fact it is such events that remind one,
That one truly relates to -
A movie, a story,
A song one heard when young,
A picture, a painting,
Seen with an open heart -
They must've registered within,
In a nameless language -
Sans words, sans pictures - just an inexplicable experience -
One that registers deep within - and stays there,
Until stimulated by a response unknown,
Such things awaken the heart,
Giving it a jolt -
Oh if such is the case with a few years back,
What if we dug deeper -
Perhaps the state of sleep,
Why, even the one before we were born?
Appendix:
(Stray thoughts while writing this poem - lines that have been cut out of the poem but ones that I cannot take down from this page)
Where such familiarity exists:
Of unpenned thoughts, and inexplicable emotions,
Of events perhaps not so important -
With no records in picture or word,
But registered in a dimension, known only to the heart -
Oh it surprises me to see -
How records are kept in a chaotic world -
Pictures, memories, books and biographies,
Of histories and men long forgotten.,
Facts that bother a handful, recorded in numbers and figures,
While the pain and joy of people,
Has died with their memory.
*I had written this in a half sleep state, naming it "Memories" for some reason. Publishing it, I went to sleep unsatisfied, since the title did not fit the poem. I've made a few changes and updated the title to a more befitting one. I am aware that this writeup is still substantially haphazard and has been presented in an uncanny manner, but I find that any more changes may remove the emotion from these words, and hence, I choose to leave it this way. (7.9.2016, 1:28am at C504, H13,, IIT Bombay)
