To the voices in my head

I'm scared of listening to you. You give me such wonderful things to write. You trick me into believing they are mine. And when I show them to others, I can hear you laugh.
I am scared of listening to you because I think you are feeding me with the words of some past thinker. Someone whom I had once heard and understood and remains in the annals of my mind. Maybe you recite them back to my ears. And I, like a fool, will quote them as mine.
I hope it doesn't become a copyright infringement.

One of them said, "trust me. And write this..."

You throw words like snowflakes. Each with a distinct shape, soul. And I have to catch them with my palms. I have to mould them, shape them, unearth them.

She said, "You can then call them yours..."

The Secret of a God

Now, monsoon has always been my weak-point. I suppose I share this quality with a number of others. Here's what wafted through the window after a slow drizzle.

This clear, settled monsoon air. Celebrating the tears and words of some mighty pagan God. Long forgotten. Yet His words linger in the air. When the clouds have weeped enough and they gather around to muster a few more sobs, you can hear them. Sometimes, I am privy to them. The verses of His secret so strong that they make the sky blush at night. I have seen it. Once when I was floating, watching the night birds flee in silhouettes, I had seen the pink night sky. And I spoke to it "I know, I have heard it too..."