Painting myself red.

The heart aside, the mind is a genius. Think of it like you are a slave and your mind its master. Mysteries of my mind are in the dark. And I have no clue of the plans it carves out for me..wierd bunch of miracles, good and bad. It makes illusions seem real and reality seem distant. Sometimes it makes me feel there is no strict line between what I imagine and what is. My mind steals the remnant of my sanity. Locks me in a dark room for days and lets me free on an unexpected sunday evening. And the hooliganism I am capable of after that long an isolation, it is very well aware of. These dirty tricks I tell you. Now it just sits in a corner and watches over me as I paint myself red.

First Fight

A first fight is a fresh page. It's that slightly ugly slightly cute conversation in which the acquisition of each others' hearts is complete. Somewhat.

I don't have words for a thing like that. But it adds on to the love.

Sometimes I just want to get back to the night when we had ours. In a crazy way it cemented what was between us.

A friend chose to have her bday just when u wanted me with you. But I had to go. And u wudn't get why I couldn't just call everything else off for you.

It wasn't a fight exactly as it was a disagreement of sorts. And I remember that hardening of your voice when you wanted me to just stay with you..and go nowhere else..
Miss that crazy town in the cusp of clouds. Those smoky cafes, strums of guitar. Forgotten alleys, ancient houses. Stray children, playing between random rays of sun. Hazy evening strolls. And bookstores selling antiques..names of previous owners scribbled on cover pages.

Looking for a moment like that, I whiled away all my time waiting to find you. I didn't.

And now look! What a blunder. You're here. Fuck
There is a fine line between denial and faith. And now I am placed on that line. It's the most absolute thing I have ever seen. Transitionary though. But absolute. And as I inch from one side to another, from denial to faith, I can see why. Why. Hence I shant ask anymore.

It's a trick of truth, how you can see it all when realism touches you. Things that either pessimism or optimism always hide.

And realism comes to you, when you turn twentyfour in a dark room, alone.
Thank god, you can see enough of the ashtray, in the glow of the cigarette butt.

Else life would have been set afire long ago.

Hence, the faith. Instead of denial.
And I used to have a life. Whatever I have now sux

The lack of lust.

Life is shitty expensive. To be let lose, this way. I don't just think I am enough. Can't ever be. Staring at things glide away, from my hold. This way.
It's like staring down a sky scraper and watching cars zip past. Like I am an entity other than me. Like I am outside of me, like an independent third party observer. Uninterested.
And That observer wanted to become the antithesis of what she sees. In me. She craves the life that others so lustfully indulge in.
There are those moments in life when the reason behind everything reveals itself and a lot of whys are quenched. The era of suspense that life is suddenly ceases to be. The people u have known, the things u have done, and the ones u cudn't, all fall into place.
No..that moment is not here for me now. Pretty sure wont ever be. But I cherish this damned hope that my wait for that moment will see me thru my life.
There are those moments in life when the reason behind everything reveals itself and a lot of whys are quenched. The era of suspense that life is suddenly ceases to be. The people u have known, the things u have done, and the ones u cudn't, all falls into place.
No..that moment is not here for me. Pretty sure wont ever be. But I cherish this damned hope that the wait for moment will see me thru my life.

Insomnia- mother of second chances.

You know it's funny. I write stuff people don't understand. People write stuff on my stuff which I don't understand. This is not sarcasm. Just that this stalemate is something I am not enjoying. I mean you can sense that. Else I wouldn't be blogging at 3 in the morning. Usually in the last few months, by this time, I should be sleeping.

Should be. But that's utopia. By 12, I am done reading the papers. And I switch on my laptop and start watching  some sitcom, tempted by the possibility that it would lull me to sleep, bore me to sleep, whatever. By 1:30 I am really worried that I am not sleepy at all. Infact, I could be laughing, very elated at some stupid American joke that I so totally get. By 2, I am running in and out of thoughts. Of work. Of people at work. About deadlines and fears of not meeting them. My mind is swaying over the chances of a big professional failure. And blah blah.

And gradually, I really don't know when and how, by quarter past 2, I would have moved to severely dangerously sentimental stuff. About how I am failing as a person, how I am missing out on all that I always wanted, how my plans are far from working out, how I have wasted away almost one third of my life, having accomplished nothing much on any random scale. And blah blah. From there on, the fears take charge. This could be something that one might be ashamed to confess, but I am so so scared of being alone all my life. I mean, now with all the seasoning that has gone into my loneliness, this doesn't come as an insecurity as it comes as an assured fact. Something that's going to happen. A long life, all by myself. So what would I be doing.

I start chalking out the people I could still keep in my life. And how often and how should I meet them, and whether they would find it acceptable to see me once in a long while. Would I be imposing myself like a crazy grandmother, old and abandoned. What would I do. What would I do. I mean I have already lost my knack for writing. And reading doesn't hold me on for too long either. Television sucks. I can't paint. Inside four walls, and under a roof, what could engage me.

It probably reads funny to you. But it isn't. Not an ounce. It's scary, it's painful, it's so dreadful, I can't even dream about sleep coming to me. Even sleep has better places to go to. But I. I feel so discarded, like shoved away. Just when I can't deal with the issue anymore, I draw patterns in my mind, brush colors around, count sheep, the quintessential cure for insomnia they say. Very recently, there was a time I couldn't even spell it right.

Just when it gets absolutely awful, and it gets impossible to contain my mind, I plan out second chances. Of all those failures and abandoned dreams I was talking about, I pick up a few and wish to give them a second chance. Give me a second chance, rather. Sometimes, I have been told, it's all about second chances. I try to lull myself to sleep, promising that I would give that another shot. And that even though it is all upside down, noone can stop me, if I wanted to try again. Of course, they could ridicule me. And I could fail again too. More miserably so. And end up heartbroken.

But what the heck. I am heartbroken anyway.