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..
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I-topia.
A smoky bar. Disheveled hair. Long loose curls. Falling off the sides of her face. Lowered eyelids. Impossible to get a hint of the expression on them. Nevermind the feeling in them. Dissolved in thought. Wild and stochastic. Her presence, as good as her absence. Merging into the varied shades of black. Of the imposing night.
A held glass. Between fingers holding hard enough. Like they were tempted by the ice on the whiskey. Like it were the only hope, for the rest of the night. To come and leave her, unharmed. By memory or fear.
Her shaky head. Gradually rising above her body. Limbs feeling loose. Like they would fall off, any moment now. Except for the cold glass, the stronghold of which could still be felt. She could move around with her legs on the couch. She had forgotten to blink. And her eyes were perennially open, in some dream wide awake. Sleepless, yet at peace.
Laughter, unbridled. Un-caged. Rippled across the room. Like the most benign of whims had come true. Like the wildest of temptations stood before her, satiated. And there was nothing else. Nothing more. Tonite was coming to an end. A happy end.
You could spot the marks of her lips, remnants of their gloss, left on the edge of the glass like a memoir. Of their first touch. A bitter aftertaste on the tongue. A confused palate, which dips further into the tumbler of insanity, tempted by a deeper loss of senses. Nascent happyness. Smoothening the journey into utopia. I-topia.
A held glass. Between fingers holding hard enough. Like they were tempted by the ice on the whiskey. Like it were the only hope, for the rest of the night. To come and leave her, unharmed. By memory or fear.
Her shaky head. Gradually rising above her body. Limbs feeling loose. Like they would fall off, any moment now. Except for the cold glass, the stronghold of which could still be felt. She could move around with her legs on the couch. She had forgotten to blink. And her eyes were perennially open, in some dream wide awake. Sleepless, yet at peace.
Laughter, unbridled. Un-caged. Rippled across the room. Like the most benign of whims had come true. Like the wildest of temptations stood before her, satiated. And there was nothing else. Nothing more. Tonite was coming to an end. A happy end.
You could spot the marks of her lips, remnants of their gloss, left on the edge of the glass like a memoir. Of their first touch. A bitter aftertaste on the tongue. A confused palate, which dips further into the tumbler of insanity, tempted by a deeper loss of senses. Nascent happyness. Smoothening the journey into utopia. I-topia.
Undead
My life is ordinary.
Ordinary. Home to work. Work to home. Nothing much in between. I practice nor preach a thing un-ordinary. I brush shoulders with ones who are as ordinary as I.
I have too many weaknesses. Not many strengths. Most of the times I curse. Myself and the conspiracy behind my existence. But then surviving, not living should do the trick. And learning to live with that thought could make a life out of a life.
There must be a niche in my brain where sorrow erupts and engulfs all else that is. Else, I wouldn't be the one I am. Most profoundly pessimistic and fucked they say. Severely, I feel. Stuck, almost. Unmoving. Like a frog in a deep deep well. Enclosed in a minuscule space compared to what the human mind could occupy, but yet lost. Yet lost.
Sometimes, like once in a fortnight, I indulge. At random, nothing drawn out from before. I be me. And get happy. I mean I really laugh out loud. My decibels gather some attention too. But after that whimsical dream ends, I ask myself why was I ever happy. Be it even for those few minutes. Why was I happy. Amid all that is, how could ever see joy? The worth of it all plummets in like a second. The fleeting house of cards collapses. Life is back to being ordinary. Very ordinary.
Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror. Into my naked eyes first. And then I count the faint wrinkles arising of age. I see the sluggish slow movement of time along the lines under my eyes. Along the cracks on my lips. I find the smudge of my kohl and the darkness of my future, very much the same. I count the days I have lived. Or rather, the days I have not lived. And the crazy crazy relapses I have had, into being happy, into trying to being happy.
Among other things I count, I count my sinful escapades. Stolen smooches on drunk nights. Thick chocolate underneath layers of layers of Hershey's chocolate sauce. The friends I won. And the same I lost. My fallen attempts at dance. The books I read, the characters that I have almost almost made into undying ghosts in my head. I count the hearts I have broken. Not many. Just a couple. Exactly a couple. And the times, I have been stabbed. Too bad that heartbreaks don't bleed. I keep a count. Of a lot of things you know.
And religiously ensure, my life is ordinary.
But when a written word escapes the tips of my fingers, hell breaks loose. I feel anything but ordinary. Like floating, like ecstatic, even though I write sorrow. I feel un-ordinary. Gifted. Anything but dead. Undead.
Cuff-links for him!
Cuff-links for him. I was shopping for another friend, online of course. From shoppers stop. And there was this entire gifts section. Where I was actually supposed to send something for that friend. But things din't work out well, my eyes strayed. And I went into the Gifts for Him category. You know how much that trouble that could mean don't you. And my eyes were stuck to this awesome pair of silver cuff-links, with shades of black, the classiest, almost the sexiest. My mind hovered over how neatly they would fit into the cuffs of his shirt. His wide wrists, and his prim shirt, that violent corporate look. Oh! Very arousing. And for once I thought I could actually send them over. Of course they shouldn't disclose the name of the sender, would they. I have his address and all that. Could post it to his place though, he wouldn't be there during the day when it would most probably be delivered. So should I send it over to his office. Wondering so forth, I hiccuped a little when it occurred to me that it would be like stalking. Not just amateur stalking. But something way more tactful and all that. So I just ogled at the picture of those sinful things for a minute or two and then just gave up the thought.
Like I opened up my fist, and the thought flew out like a feather.
Cuff-links for him. Haha!
Like I opened up my fist, and the thought flew out like a feather.
Cuff-links for him. Haha!
Off the record!
Someone once must have said. Love is the lack of it.
I have been there. On the edge of the cliff making one dying wish. To see you. To find you. To be loved by you. Cried nights. Lost breath. Gasped, ran into and away from love. Lost my way. Broke my heart. In a way that could be never unbroken. Suffered. Cursed. Written. Turned insane. You know the rest of the story.
Probably I have survived. The sin that is called love. In many ways, outgrown. Outlived. Proved wrong the ones who once said, love is all that is. Ever.
I have never felt love. But things that come very close it. More or less. Almost. And I am almost satiated. There is a dire need of strength and patience, both of which many weak at the heart lack. The have-nots of my species.
I am unfortunate. But what can we do. But what can we do. Even if we could, we are lazy and scared. Haha!
Anyway. In afterthought, seriously off the record, now that the game is finally over and I grow fatter and uglier by the day, I have called it quits. A stray picture comes before my eyes. Just a could have been. And the assurance that comes with him, is mind jolting, belief breaking. Status quo shattering.
This is it. Love it is.
I have been there. On the edge of the cliff making one dying wish. To see you. To find you. To be loved by you. Cried nights. Lost breath. Gasped, ran into and away from love. Lost my way. Broke my heart. In a way that could be never unbroken. Suffered. Cursed. Written. Turned insane. You know the rest of the story.
Probably I have survived. The sin that is called love. In many ways, outgrown. Outlived. Proved wrong the ones who once said, love is all that is. Ever.
I have never felt love. But things that come very close it. More or less. Almost. And I am almost satiated. There is a dire need of strength and patience, both of which many weak at the heart lack. The have-nots of my species.
I am unfortunate. But what can we do. But what can we do. Even if we could, we are lazy and scared. Haha!
Anyway. In afterthought, seriously off the record, now that the game is finally over and I grow fatter and uglier by the day, I have called it quits. A stray picture comes before my eyes. Just a could have been. And the assurance that comes with him, is mind jolting, belief breaking. Status quo shattering.
This is it. Love it is.
Wy I shd carry headphns on d waybak!!
At the end of a long tiring day, which has nearly vanished from before your eyes, when retrospection visits you, you try to ward it off, call it a day, and use hard, the drug of sleep. Don't you?
I do.
Never pause or think. It saves a lot more trouble. Go on. If you can, simply afford to. I do.
The only fifteen minutes I steal for myself is when I get back home every night after work. Those uncomfortable fifteen minutes in public transport. When my past coagulates. Before my eyes. Future seems pretty blank. Pretty much.
Dude. What all had I dreamt of. Slogging, yet never giving upon the dreaming part. And now, future disrobes herself as a shy bride, slowly, but you are assured you are going to get there. Only that the consequences are going to be the ones you warned yourself against. That makes life very shitty. And honestly, that's all the truth that's there in it.
Every other passerby on the road, reminds you of your failures, every single click on facebook makes clear another hurting regret, some random name in your phonebook, kicks you in the heart. Haha!
Shit happens. Always!
I do.
Never pause or think. It saves a lot more trouble. Go on. If you can, simply afford to. I do.
The only fifteen minutes I steal for myself is when I get back home every night after work. Those uncomfortable fifteen minutes in public transport. When my past coagulates. Before my eyes. Future seems pretty blank. Pretty much.
Dude. What all had I dreamt of. Slogging, yet never giving upon the dreaming part. And now, future disrobes herself as a shy bride, slowly, but you are assured you are going to get there. Only that the consequences are going to be the ones you warned yourself against. That makes life very shitty. And honestly, that's all the truth that's there in it.
Every other passerby on the road, reminds you of your failures, every single click on facebook makes clear another hurting regret, some random name in your phonebook, kicks you in the heart. Haha!
Shit happens. Always!
Taken
There has always been her. The other woman. That seductress wild wind, holder of desires. The red little luscious fruit in his eyes shining. Settled like she lived in them. From an era ago.
It is her from who he gets all his happyness. Calmly invisibly, she has captured his soul so well. Merely being around him, tells me about her hold on him. Tenacious, not letting go, assured.
That content certainty makes me envious. Notwithstanding who we are. The both of us. She and I. The two absolute ends of his fate. Each, one of the two mutually exclusive choices he could make. Options he could pick. Lifealtering, nevertheless.
He is the translucent shield of glass between us. In him I see her. Through him, she sees me. She must. Else this game wouldn't be fair. Like everything else. In the man he is, I see not the man he is but the man she has made of him. Every bent of emotion, every glance of expression, everything in him reminds me of her. And how she had him taken from me. Taken.
And invariably turned the tables. Twisted destiny, what was to be. Made me into the other woman.
It is her from who he gets all his happyness. Calmly invisibly, she has captured his soul so well. Merely being around him, tells me about her hold on him. Tenacious, not letting go, assured.
That content certainty makes me envious. Notwithstanding who we are. The both of us. She and I. The two absolute ends of his fate. Each, one of the two mutually exclusive choices he could make. Options he could pick. Lifealtering, nevertheless.
He is the translucent shield of glass between us. In him I see her. Through him, she sees me. She must. Else this game wouldn't be fair. Like everything else. In the man he is, I see not the man he is but the man she has made of him. Every bent of emotion, every glance of expression, everything in him reminds me of her. And how she had him taken from me. Taken.
And invariably turned the tables. Twisted destiny, what was to be. Made me into the other woman.
Meanwhile
Wondering what has changed
nothing much actually
there haven't been many new movies that I have watched
meanwhile
nor licked icecreams when it's freezing outside
o yeah i have shopped a lot
lots of new dresses and shoes
closets full of colors, i have even experimented
found that mauve and purple are different
convinced myself they are
and shoes
many gave up in this rain
the way it has poured this year
you have no idea
of course you don't
nail paint in the shades of blood and black
kohl
everything. all that
i also counted my age
in decades, i look so believable
in days so impossible
never stood on rooftops to feel the wind
always ran for shelter in the rain
never ever sat down and talked
to myself or anyone
meanwhile
talking has come to scare me crazy
i bought a bracelet of gold, coiled
like a cozy snake on my wrist
has a mystic red flower on it,
somewhere in the middle
also i should get a ring
must be time
i don't know
still the same people around
who never understood my insanity
just like you didn't
but then insanity is not to be understood
it can't ever be
insanity is to be celebrated, the way i did
and stared at, the way you did
besides
nothing much has changed
not much water under the bridge
just been a few months
life has turned topsy turvy and back to fine
many times over
nothing much actually
there haven't been many new movies that I have watched
meanwhile
nor licked icecreams when it's freezing outside
o yeah i have shopped a lot
lots of new dresses and shoes
closets full of colors, i have even experimented
found that mauve and purple are different
convinced myself they are
and shoes
many gave up in this rain
the way it has poured this year
you have no idea
of course you don't
nail paint in the shades of blood and black
kohl
everything. all that
i also counted my age
in decades, i look so believable
in days so impossible
never stood on rooftops to feel the wind
always ran for shelter in the rain
never ever sat down and talked
to myself or anyone
meanwhile
talking has come to scare me crazy
i bought a bracelet of gold, coiled
like a cozy snake on my wrist
has a mystic red flower on it,
somewhere in the middle
also i should get a ring
must be time
i don't know
still the same people around
who never understood my insanity
just like you didn't
but then insanity is not to be understood
it can't ever be
insanity is to be celebrated, the way i did
and stared at, the way you did
besides
nothing much has changed
not much water under the bridge
just been a few months
life has turned topsy turvy and back to fine
many times over
house.
this house is the dumbest of them all. corners jammed with forgotten furniture. beds slept in. rooms lived in. scratched crockery stocked in the kitchen. a mirror which makes fatter of the fat, uglier of the necessarily not pretty. this house, a lot lived in. windows with cracked panes, windows to look out at nothing from.nothing much, striking or noticeable. just mundane absurdity. that nobody peeks out to notice. thesedays unlike earlier. closets full of old torn smelly dresses of children who left, undonated abandoned. sighs of what is now unrequited love. shrunken pillows, ancient sheets. and a windchime that doesn't ring anymore. but sometimes on stormy afternoons when the wind's angry and rain pours. followed by a lull of an evening. of dark ruminations. perfectly stochastic. by fast dying candles, and molten wax. calenders on damp swollen walls. of years ago. now tilting, falling off. pictures of gods, adorned with shrunken flowers. yellowed pages of dozens of books, on rusty racks, tilting unbalanced, falling off.
and moist pots of soil, with weeds in the balcony, watered in the afternoon by those who hadn't had much to do all day. giving flowers, wild ones, in purples and violets. and leaves, ones that were pressed between the pages of the fat old yellowed books on rusty racks, now tilting unbalanced. with unposted love letters of mad scribblings used as perfect bookmarks. and so on and so forth. this house, dumbest of them all, ironically never pauses from being heard. understood.
and moist pots of soil, with weeds in the balcony, watered in the afternoon by those who hadn't had much to do all day. giving flowers, wild ones, in purples and violets. and leaves, ones that were pressed between the pages of the fat old yellowed books on rusty racks, now tilting unbalanced. with unposted love letters of mad scribblings used as perfect bookmarks. and so on and so forth. this house, dumbest of them all, ironically never pauses from being heard. understood.
Anhedonia-ad-infinitum
There won't be a plethora of posts. I promise.
Just this. Today while walking back home, I missed seeing the fat middle aged professor walking the other way. He was bald, and wore a constant expression on his face. Eyes, which from a distance looked obviously content and old. But they must have been dull and empty when stared into. There wasn't another soul around his. You know what I mean. He taught a class that didn't give a damn. His wife had left him a few years ago. The children left with her. Some said his mind was sick. The reasons behind him being that absolutely alone were never discovered. He died some days ago. Some said he killed himself. He could have. Very much could have. The way he was stuck in his bathroom door. Don't know who came to his funeral. There must have been one.
The other day. A few months ago. I was staring at pumpkin creepers. In faint moonlight. On the other side of the valley, between two hillocks. You know what I mean. Under pines. It must have been a cold night. Who cared. I didn't. Under layers of wool, I felt the safest. Farthest from fear. Assured that nothing would go wrong. Ever. It was like forever was enclosed in those few minutes after midnight. Do you remember? Something was glowing between those pumpkin creepers. It couldn't have been a lamp or a candle. It was to faint to be earthly. So I stared on, and listened to you talk. Half conscious. Wondering if there was a ghost in there. And then getting back to you and saying yeah yeah, I heard it all.
Extremes, no? I ain't crazy. Semi-crazy may be. There won't be a plethora of posts, I promise. Just this.
Just this. Today while walking back home, I missed seeing the fat middle aged professor walking the other way. He was bald, and wore a constant expression on his face. Eyes, which from a distance looked obviously content and old. But they must have been dull and empty when stared into. There wasn't another soul around his. You know what I mean. He taught a class that didn't give a damn. His wife had left him a few years ago. The children left with her. Some said his mind was sick. The reasons behind him being that absolutely alone were never discovered. He died some days ago. Some said he killed himself. He could have. Very much could have. The way he was stuck in his bathroom door. Don't know who came to his funeral. There must have been one.
The other day. A few months ago. I was staring at pumpkin creepers. In faint moonlight. On the other side of the valley, between two hillocks. You know what I mean. Under pines. It must have been a cold night. Who cared. I didn't. Under layers of wool, I felt the safest. Farthest from fear. Assured that nothing would go wrong. Ever. It was like forever was enclosed in those few minutes after midnight. Do you remember? Something was glowing between those pumpkin creepers. It couldn't have been a lamp or a candle. It was to faint to be earthly. So I stared on, and listened to you talk. Half conscious. Wondering if there was a ghost in there. And then getting back to you and saying yeah yeah, I heard it all.
Extremes, no? I ain't crazy. Semi-crazy may be. There won't be a plethora of posts, I promise. Just this.
Solo
The way I look for you in crowded streets in the morning rush, the way I scan faces in cabs passing by hoping one could be yours, on rainy nights, wanting to see you by the turn of the road, drenched, probably wanting to be found by me, my life has become dangerously entwined around yours. But the glitch is that I have learned to live with this. Gotten used to breathing sans you. Waiting for you, and never watching you arrive. The need inside me is so persistent that it is almost like a limb. It is so obvious that I do not notice it. You do not notice it.
This is a new stage for us. All those unsent letters in your name, lying in forgotten folders, are testimony still. Always will be, to my madness. To the craving that used to drive me insane. But not anymore. Because I know, you aren't mine. Never to be. Because loneliness is my sole benefactor. This acceptance is my genius. Being far from you has so seasoned me to live by myself, I can't thank the gods of estrangement enough. I have learned to bow down and let go.
But on nights like these, when I return to empty rooms after tiring days, of endless searches of looking for you amongst the unknown, I know that I will find you, one day I will. Because you are mine. I have kept you as mine. And that nothing should do me apart from you. Not even you. No matter where you go, you will come back to me. To take me along.
I don't know why. I think I love you.
May be I am just crazy. One expensive wish every few days. Let me live with it. Let me live without.
This is a new stage for us. All those unsent letters in your name, lying in forgotten folders, are testimony still. Always will be, to my madness. To the craving that used to drive me insane. But not anymore. Because I know, you aren't mine. Never to be. Because loneliness is my sole benefactor. This acceptance is my genius. Being far from you has so seasoned me to live by myself, I can't thank the gods of estrangement enough. I have learned to bow down and let go.
But on nights like these, when I return to empty rooms after tiring days, of endless searches of looking for you amongst the unknown, I know that I will find you, one day I will. Because you are mine. I have kept you as mine. And that nothing should do me apart from you. Not even you. No matter where you go, you will come back to me. To take me along.
I don't know why. I think I love you.
May be I am just crazy. One expensive wish every few days. Let me live with it. Let me live without.
Antidote
I don't keep a picture of you. I would lose my mind if I did.
So I look at mine.
Strangely enough I am the only thing that reminds me of you. My love for you shows shamelessly in my picture. Between those eyes of mine, I see you. In the curl of lips, the mild pout, I see you. Definite memories of you.
It's a helpless situation. Because, now I can never get to you. Nor will you to me. I have desperately ensured that we lose each other and that every strand of contact be broken. And now that there is nothing between, you and I, I feel love. Nothing but love. Pure, stagnant, glistening, love. For the first time in forever. I feel assured that I love you. There is no glitch or doubt.
And yet I don't feel helpless at all. Could be because I have learned not to hope. I have drawn a line & abandoned the world on the other side.
Nevertheless on some nights, I cry. And cry relentless. My mind missing out on that line between truth & untruth, I sway into thinking, wondering how would I have been if I had you.
I would have been like me, in that picture.
So I look at mine.
Strangely enough I am the only thing that reminds me of you. My love for you shows shamelessly in my picture. Between those eyes of mine, I see you. In the curl of lips, the mild pout, I see you. Definite memories of you.
It's a helpless situation. Because, now I can never get to you. Nor will you to me. I have desperately ensured that we lose each other and that every strand of contact be broken. And now that there is nothing between, you and I, I feel love. Nothing but love. Pure, stagnant, glistening, love. For the first time in forever. I feel assured that I love you. There is no glitch or doubt.
And yet I don't feel helpless at all. Could be because I have learned not to hope. I have drawn a line & abandoned the world on the other side.
Nevertheless on some nights, I cry. And cry relentless. My mind missing out on that line between truth & untruth, I sway into thinking, wondering how would I have been if I had you.
I would have been like me, in that picture.
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