There's a lump in my throat. I can't help it. I'll miss you so much this festive season, and new year's eve won't be the same without kissing you at midnight and you laughing at the drunk me. Cheesy, but true. :(

"Gray, quiet and tired and mean
Picking at a worried seam
Itry to make you mad at me over the phone.
Red eyes and fire and signs
I'm taken by a nursery rhyme
I want to make a ray of sunshine and never leave home

No amount of coffee, no amount of crying
No amount of whiskey, no amount of wine
No, nothing else will do
I've gotta have you, I've gotta have you.

The road gets cold, there's no spring in the middle this year
I'm the new chicken clucking open hearts and ears
Oh, such a prima donna, sorry for myself
But green, it is also summer
And I won't be warm till I'm lying in your arms

I see it all through a telescope: guitar, suitcase, and a warm coat
Lying in the back of the blue boat, humming a tune... "
 

A small/gigantic part of me is quite mad. But then, you already knew that, didn't you?


My nose is perpetually cold now, but i am loving this season. It's cold, my blanket is super soft, and the city looks prettier somehow.


Dad is okay and quite nervous I think. He's being super cool, but that night, at around 3 am i caught him fiddling around the kitchen with a saucepan and a pair of scissors. When he saw me standing there, bleary-eyed and astonished, he sheepishly told me: " ei saucepan-er handle ta loose hoye geche" ( the handle of this saucepan is loose and hence the saucepan wobbles). So i asked him: " er, but why are you trying to fix that now? Do you want to make something?" then he grinned at me, said, " No, no, just like that" and went back to sleep. That should explain it!


I was very upset yesterday. i couldn't handle the stress, the uncertainty of everything around me. I know i have to deal with so many things that is being taken care of at the moment, and i know i am an adult now, capable of taking decisions, making plans, executing them and being the support-system of my near and dear ones, but i am a sissy. And i needed one of the two important men in my life to be around me to take care of me when the other one would be at the hospital. but, yeah, things never happen like that. So, i have to bear with the voices inside my head, put on a brave and happy front and be a big girl.

Good news is i am super excited about this. Ideas are buzzing around my head and i can't wait to be a part of The Office. Also, check our twitter page here. Follow us, send in your ideas, be a part of this! =)

made up my mind. yess. nice new experiences should always be welcomed with a giant hug.


Things at home are tense, because Baba is going in for a major surgery, and this Christmas i plan to be with him, maybe watch a movie together like we used to. Nothing beats the warmth you receive from your parents, and my daddy is STRONGEST, so am sure he'll be healthy and happy and beat me at sudoku again. The month he'll be home, i plan to cook and read and get cosy. sounds nice, no? 

=) 

When I went out to look for my head, it was a dangerous experience.


So that happens on a day you make a life-altering decision and a bad cup of tea. 
It's like someone is scraping my insides with a very sharp, pointed object. Rubbishing all that is good, or apparently so.

I understand nothing about anything anymore. Reading Calvino this strange, damp winter morning something inside me broke. 

"What do you mean? Everything's in its place. All is as it should be. Everything is a result of something else. Everything fits in with everything else. We can't see anything absurd or wrong!"

And yes, i am still standing here, quite lost.  different people at different parts of the day, at different parts of the city, in different groups. 

I can scream myself hoarse but if I don't comprehend the state of the mind, I can't blame you. Maybe I am self-absorbed, but aren't we all, aren't you? I apologize for making it miserable and I don't. You'll say it's from too much pot. No, i can dissociate. I should let you go, because we are too young to do this. Or maybe, not equipped enough. 

Maybe the inside of my head is not peaceful. Maybe people are fighting battles over trivial things like a statement. The world's gone wrong, so can we can we can we?

from where i stand now, things look tilted, things look oddly misplaced.

I haven't been nice this year.  Or so a voice tells me. And you, I have wanted to delve inside your twisted little head- you're so hard to figure, y'know?

It drizzled today. Groggily crossing the street, almost slipped .
Nothing falls into place anymore. it's cold now, and as i wrapped the scarf around me tightly, I felt strangely out of focus. i know i might snap. i will snap, probably. I can take the blame, but well, that's inevitable.

Dean Moriarty: The New “Hero” of the Road.

On the Road (1957), known as the “Bible of the Beat Generation” is most definitely Kerouac’s most popular novel. Characterised by rapid pace, this book vividly portrays 1950’s underground America. Kerouac, the “King of the Beats”, had heard the term ‘beat’, on the streets. According to Kerouac, it meant “weariness with all the forms”, - weariness with militarism, its conformity, distrust of spontaneity and nature, and excess faith in human reason and technological process. The Beats championed all forms of liberation- sexual and spiritual and they glorified and celebrated candour, individuality, risk and were completely opposed to materialism and the mass media.  What seemed to set the Beats apart from their peers was a deep, disturbing alienation that transcended their identities as artists and extended to personal idiosyncrasy and a self-destructive bent. Such tendencies were captured in an intellectual fascination perhaps even an identification with outcasts and criminals. The Beat agenda attempted to reveal in the most intimate detail, the world of the outcast. America, to the Beats, had morphed into a ‘spiritual wasteland’, a land of intolerable repression and conformity, and extreme measures were needed to overcome the restrictions placed on the individual. They sought liberation through hedonistic self-indulgence and found companionship and spiritual kinship with those on the margins of the society- addicts, thieves and dropouts. ‘On the Road’, like Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ and the novels of Burroughs, chronicles the life of the new hero- the marginal individual, who leads a dangerous life and who attacks every notion of normality embraced by the bland guardians of middle class existence. Kerouac explores through Dean Moriarty the nature of the ‘anti-hero’, the ‘hipster’, the ‘non-conformist street punk’ and the rebel outcast.

Dean Moriarty- “the holy con man with the shining mind” is the subject of the novel. He is variously described as “A holy primitive”, a “mad man” “a youth tremendously excited with life” Dean stands for Neal Cassady, Kerouac’s friend and someone who stood for the values which according to Kerouac constituted the word ‘beat’. Dean/Neal had spent their childhood in Denver slums, and had been a part of reform schools and jails. He is a social outcast- yet he is exuberant, spontaneous and in him can be located a tremendous optimism which in a way transcends the existential uncertainty of the era. Sal Paradise is the narrator of ‘On the Road’- someone who identifies with the ‘hero on action’, but is himself not at the centre of activity. He is inspired to a great extent by Dean and attempts to bring about a change in his own life. Through the continental road trips, Dean and Sal are looking for means to partake in the American experience and to discover “IT”- “a transcendental moment in which the complete essence of something is understood”.

The structure of ‘On the Road’ is neatly arranged and the order of events roughly corresponds to similar events in Kerouac’s life. The narrative begins when Sal Paradise (Kerouac) meets Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) for the first time around 1946 in New York City and ends shortly after Sal gets back to New York after a devastating trip to Mexico City with Dean in October, 1950. Sal first met Dean after he got divorced and he describes how, with the arrival of Dean “began the part of my life you could call my life on the road” The novel is centred only on this life. The coming of Dean is a major turning point in the narrator’s life, and as the novel ends four years later with Sal’s separation from Dean, another major turning point takes place. However, there is no hint of what happens in the future. 

The narrator Sal is essentially different from the excitable Dean. Dean Moriarty is almost manically energetic, and he embodies a kind of freedom that can never be achieved by Sal. Sal Paradise’s character in the novel is important- he is deliberately presented sketchily so as to set off the two. He is presented as a follower, the “innocent neophyte”, someone who “shambles” after people who interest him- the “mad” people- “ the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles..” And needless to say, Dean is one of the “mad ones” and Sal is overwhelmed with a sense of wonder at Dean’s holy primitiveness. Though he cannot himself experience fully what Dean is experiencing, he is tempted to, he is keen to observe and identify with someone who is an archetype of the naturally transformed new man. Through Dean, Sal is shown the folly of rationalistic and materialistic impulses that reflect the dominant culture in favour of a more instinctive spiritual orientation. It is only but natural that Sal admires Dean as the latter possesses the “special knowledge”, and Sal is almost envious of this knowledge. Dean is the hipster who is free from and far away from conventions and he has been able to preserve the spontaneity, the vital primitive response and he has the courage to embrace life on the edge and yet survive. Like Sal, Dean doesn’t reflect on experience and record it, and unlike him, he doesn’t at any point in the novel, face any kind of spiritual impasse. Sal, at the point of achieving near transcendence, falls sick and Dean deserts his friend in search of more life. When Sal recovers, he realises “what a rat” Dean had been, yet he does not discredit Dean’s heroic status. The negative qualities of Dean are alluded to from time to time in the novel but they are usually dismissed in favour of a positive portrayal. What is clear from this is that Kerouac’s attempt to present Dean as the “religious prophet”, “an avatar of pure being”, and a new kind of anti hero obscured Dean’s demonic side and resulted in the narrator’s unwillingness to gauge his “megalomania”. It is evident in the novel that Dean is manipulative, yet Sal defends him as being misunderstood, or accuses others as being envious of him. The connection between Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty has often been interpreted in homosexual terms, but Sal emphasises throughout the novel his quest for a figure of a brother, rather than a lover. Later in the novel Sal explains matter-of-factly to two college boys terrified by Dean’s wild driving- “He’s mad...and yes, he’s my brother.”

Dean Moriarty is someone who is fully possessed by the idea of reaching the zenith of physical and emotional delight. He is someone who seduces- one feels almost tempted to follow in his footsteps. Sal is hypnotized by Dean and lured by the idea of experiencing a “new world”, but he gradually begins to understand that he is inherently different from Dean. After each road-trip, each marvellous adventure, Sal retires to a protected environment- living at home, being cared for by an aunt, and working on a novel. Sal has been on the road, but he has never really been of the road, like Dean.

It is important to mention that it is during Kerouac’s fateful trip to the Mexico City with Cassady that he discovered Cassady’s nature fully- Cassady for Kerouac had then become “more than an embodiment of beat”- he had become the “embodiment of the spiritual forces of creation and destruction”. Cassady fascinated Kerouac, as Dean fascinates Sal Paradise. Dean is presented as a glorified figure in the novel and his “hipster amorality” which was the source of Holmes’s and Brossard’s uneasiness with the “hipster” figure, is overlooked. Sal, in Part 3 of “On the Road” assumes responsibility for Dean’s eccentric behavior and herein occurs the climax of their relationship.

Sal Paradise’s major illumination in the novel is his ability to recognize “IT”. Dean illustrates this concept by referring to the jazz musicians they had seen one night- “Now, man, that alto man last night had IT- he held it once he found it, I’ve never seen a guy who could hold it so long.” The quest for “IT” continues in Part 4 of the novel and eventually Sal realises the true nature of “IT”. “IT” is ecstasy which eventually leads to death and loss. This idea of immense joy and purity which consequently leads to a great sense of loss, disillusionment and dismay reminds one of Nick Carroway’s final attitude towards Gatsby’s dream in ‘The Great Gatsby’. 

It is quite clear that “On the Road” finally is a defeatist and even an “elegiac” novel- it is truly “enormously sad”. Despite the tremendous excitement which characterizes the novel, it promises nothing but disillusionment. Sal Paradise, at the end of the road, has discovered his hero and the dreams this hero represented and he is back to the world he belonged to. Kerouac’s ‘spontaneous prose style’ is completely new, but the novel remains a traditional tale of youth’s disillusionment. However, what stands out is how this disenchantment is transferred here to the ‘hobo’- the bohemian living on the margins of the society, embodied through Dean Moriarty. Through Dean, Kerouac not only celebrates the figure of the outcast, but also upholds the ‘spontaneous American personality’, and the effort of that personality to express himself through “confessional conversations, cars, sex, marijuana and jazz.” ‘On the Road’ turned Dean into a human image of the “vast wild continent which is his playground”. This celebration of life by Dean is irresistible and consequently, ‘On the Road’ continues to inspire the young to follow in Dean’s footsteps and to feel, as they are doing so, that they are taking part in some unwritten ritual of the American experience.

my favourite term paper. reminiscing. hence. might delete soon. but wanted you people to read. =) appreciation or brickbats welcome, but please don't steal.

not cold November morning. the mutant crows outside my window are cawing about some conspiracy they have recently identified in us.

i am in a dilemma. which is making me impatient.

Was calmly walking down the stairs (scared of the lift, alone) when suddenly the sky peeked out from the window. For some reason, Joyce is inside my head today and consequently epiphany epiphany hanging from the rear of a car. People are starting to freak me out, they are disintegrating into tiny lumps and i can only observe, for once putting away my Miss fixit image. (me and U had a funny conversation regarding fixit during lunchtime today, but we talk in hoardings). Chasing deadlines with a dead pan expression on my face, often breaking into laughter or glum, bratty fury. Then, of course, walking down seedy streets stoned beyond belief, pausing mid-sentence and hysterics with a big plate of horrible crispy fried chicken. Bonds in every form, quite precious.

edit: haha, was stealthily reading a funny book about Advertising and every word in it about the Copywriter is uncannily true which includes finding Grass in the drawer and MAD magazines and writing a Brochure for ages and going blind while Proof-checking. lifeissadarkabyss anyone?

 My last post scandalized a stranger, though it was innocent enough. Mere herbs, nothing more than that. But it was quite amusing.

I don't know what to look forward to. I have saved no money at all. 

Well, that is my life in a nutshell. Observe from outer space, and die of ennui.  

I feel like this:

 which reminds me. Check out Maheshwari Janarthanan's awesome work at:  paperplanes
Isn't she like a chocolate cupcake? :)

there is a girl, who is yippeee at the moment. the day has passed, and she has licked and rolled to perfection   her way to happiness. delicious sleep came after that and sugared cereal before.

trip toss turn

check check check. sigh. grumble. write. bite pencil. download shaa'ir and func new album. bop head to love love love hyperbole sexy scam shine. brilliant.

The child in me wants  bright new erasers, the ones which used to smell so good. the adult in me wants my place back, the place i've made my own, rightfully so. things won't work out your way, love, things won't. they never do. Wanderlust, give me a ride.

good diwali. three-day-weekend. a cold  cruel  smoky  city  endless spliffs  smoked  tequila drunk people on the floor scaring the eyes in neon light. 

half conversations, half-delirium. happiness is a difficult chore.

fullstops are tiring me out, people are tiring me out.

edit: Mister Blacko might leave town. Happy for him, sad for me. i'll miss you endlessly. don't go away aaannn.

 and now, aa-bb ugly pome for old hag.

there was an old bitch

who was very very rich

wanted to kick her ass

wouldnt care if it was crass

oh Lucy!

so many things to do but everyday is kicking everyday and i am being jerked forward. motion is missing, winter is arriving( calcutta winter, which is hardly winter, yes Srin but it's still nice and dreamy. ) Places i want to visit include Henry's Island, The Sunderbans, North Sikkim, Rajasthan, Dharamsala, Amsterdam (which might happen late next year, toes crossed) and butofcourse, Santiniketan( Prantik, with the quaint beautiful houses and powercuts and storms).

A meadow, lush and big, rolling around, lying back and watching the sky, walking along narrow roads, butterfly-watching, squatting on the ground rolling a spliff, scribbling in diary, talking less, befriending dogs and cats and monkeys.

A place to call my own- two tiny rooms, one tiny kitchen, books everywhere, yellow lights, plants, bedspreads on the floor and a fat cat sleeping on my tummy, scrambled eggs with cheese for dinner. Come?

Hair- long again, with a fringe.

(Image Credit: http://blog.freepeople.com/2010/08/vintage/)

ah.

Shy boy.

You are like a tiny poem

Delicate ears, delicate hands

Eyes full of sorrow.

So far away from knowledge

From songs of the mind, sudden stories

and

Encounters.

wretches of mine, dears and not-so-dears,

i like my pathos, but i like moving around. please travel with me here. it's a pansy-fancy place, it's sissy, it's strange and i thought it would be mine and only mine, but i would love to share.
so, indulge, and laugh at me.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

bisous

choipoi

p.s: i keep coming back to this, thus, perch here too.

you know what, i don't have to pretend. I am really not fond of too many people. I used to be this happy, loving- everyone, grinning hippie but what the heck, college is over, i am just not that person anymore. I miss my best friends, i miss being the lovely person i used to be. I still care, but not too much. Too much cynicism has settled in. What i really want is to travel, is to just throw all my clothes into a bag, take off from work and routine and leave, and alone. no, i don't need you. I want the tingling sharp air and the trees and the clear,clear sky and only my head. I thought i could, but i can't. I can't do this.

Our new office is situated on a bustling street, right behind a mosque and beside a dhaba and every afternoon we let go of work as the overpowering fragrance of kebabs grabs us by our nostrils and drags us away. Sometimes I just want to stay back late into the night, reading, scribbling, ideating and going completely blind. Work is nice because I am usually very engrossed, very busy or very bored. When bored I delve into a book and as I hardly have the leisure to do so anymore, I forget the troubles of the real and let the letters wash over me.  I quenched my rum thirst yesterday, it felt so good. But I woke up with a sore mouth and to a sleeping-like-a-baby O and a disgruntled self. Clockwork Orange bathroom, and consequently rushing through traffic like a suicidal mad person .

Happiness is also meeting the mad people in my life, spending Saturdays with the boyfriend, eating a Subway sandwich, sudden midnight cab rides, laughing uncontrollably while watching uncensored footage, reminiscing about college, taking Blacko’s trip and, of course the chic UCB jacket for free free free!

A strange empty hollow has been created, a very pompous, smug, forlorn hollow. 

It has been 12 days. A long cigarette dangling from my lips after lunch is a fancy now, a fancy I am trying to throw into the bin along with the potty cigarette, the post-sex cigarette, the ughh you pissed me off cigarette, the drunk/high cigarette, the bored cigarette, the stressed out between work cigarette, the tea/ adda cigarette, the sitting in a circle-lighting a cigarette cigarette.

I have a solid, well-defined reason to be cranky now.

I have a new little place, full of post-its, full of pansy-fancies, full of tiny little dots.
I like it.
  On a different note:
She's not a girl who misses much
Do do do do do do, oh, yeah

She's well acquainted
With the touch of the velvet hand
Like a lizard on a window pane
The man in the crowd with the
Multicolored mirrors on his hobnail boots

Lying with his eyes
While his hands are busy working overtime
A soap impression of his wife
Which he ate and donated to the National Trust

I need a fix ?cause I'm going down
Down to the bits that I left uptown
I need a fix ?cause I'm going down

Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun

Happiness is a warm gun
(Bang bang, shoot shoot)
Happiness is a warm gun mama
(Bang bang, shoot shoot)
When I hold you in my arms
(Oh yeah)
And I feel my finger on your trigger
(Ooo, oh yeah)
I know nobody can do me no harm
(Ooo, oh yeah)

So, i'll let you go, and my world will cease to exist, but I have to.

Did you too?

When I feel like running around the streets screaming stupid stupid like a little brat with no social tightening and when I feel like saying aah no that’s Mister Crow my stomach tells me not to and my brain emits various signals so what am I to do?

A spin is a spin is a spin but did I really?
Gorgeous Belgian chocolates shaped like sea shells and delicious creamy tangy cheese.
Momentarily I forget.
So I snarl and bitch and snarl some more and curve myself around the work grind and escalating hours.
Twenty two years of existing.
Tonight the lights will bounce off my hair, and I’ll submerge.

yee haw yee haw yee haw. not a donkey. just ridiculously loony. I am happy again! All my conflicts have been resolved and I can settle down like a complacent plump bird, and blink at the world in peace.

and, Boblusbug, i love you gallons xx

The alarm tone which wakes me up every morning is a frivolous unknown rather weird song and then it continues to buzz around my head insistently. So my whole day circles around that very moment of waking up and I think that I need to change it soon. I’d prefer Cold Hard Bitch. Yesterday I slept like a baby stoned and happy. Client meeting in an hour, birthday in two days, Gravy show tonight. I grow old, I grow old. The red dot on my forehead comforts me. Maybe I’ll get used to it.
The orange fishie looks gleeful today. I think I’ll call it George.
Reading funny intimacy stories, Oatmeal, hark a vagrant, Hyperbole and a Half.
Little bored. Send me nice links. =)

Right now my head’s a spinning top, as alone as that fish in a bowl at my workplace. I am swimming in circles and hitting my head against the glass occasionally. It’s not easy to transform and it’s tragic that I am even trying. Midnights are special again but I am perpetually sleep-deprived, perpetually crabby/weepy/angry. My brain is swinging to and fro and ideating is much more difficult than I thought it would be. You are my root, and my nook. And you are a feeling which is unfathomable, often brushed aside. I don’t know if it will rain this autumn, but you will be gone, and maybe there won’t be a tempest anymore, or maybe the idea will be lost.

you are not mine you came waltzing in carefree your curls around your face and I lost my steady foothold I lost my firmly entrenched warmly built earth so now deliver your paper deliver your poetry as i relinquish my scruples bit by bit into an infinity of stardust tainted thoughts

Shooting the moon.

Last week has been a blur- a beautiful big shiny blur. If I try describing it, I’ll probably fail and my brain will try analyzing facts and situations and fantasies and pictures.  I’ll probably start moving and shaking and overthinking. So, I refrain and instead revel in the grandeur of transforming reality for a few days. I catch hold of a few shimmering strands curled around my ears and tuck them back safely because I am alive and happy and happier and now I see things differently. My yellow glasses are off and I am unbearably warm. 

so fake, so fucken fake. And, yeah, i had to be stupidly stupidly ignorant. Sometimes this overwhelming stupidity of the self is just too much to handle. And you, you SUCK. Your FACE sucks.

for now there's this intense strange ache and for now i can only pretend to laugh

I can only stare at your tousled head and choke back idiotic tears because they shouldn't exist and i can only humour myself, i can only flee. 


WHY

If i were in love with a stranger, I 
 Would dream of roller coaster rides with him, and
train rides across lonely landscapes where
no words would be spoken and only fingers would brush lightly.
 I would lie on the terrace, drawing patterns, waiting for his letters.
Years would pass, and we would meet suddenly in some rusty city..
 dirty, thirsty and make love. We would scream out our names in the 
  dark waking up lonely, tired vagabonds.
And, suddenly, surprisingly, you came in one delicious summerday and
 my heart stopped.
Everything halted, not turning to poetry and visions melted into this startlingly bright reality
 and I fell. As I unravel you, my searingly beautiful stranger, I never stop.

One Friday in October.

That rainy evening as you poured your heart out there was nothing but awe and a little chill which crept up my spine nimbly. Every illusion shattered quietly as I wondered what the small silent man holds inside- you, or his enourmous bag of stories. I want to believe that there is love, I want to believe that the both of you fit snugly, as I have always wanted to believe in his music which emanates such strength. I envisioned a new being, a different being and as the rain washed city blurred, I fumbled in my bag for change.

Antithesis of thin and social.

So, I gobble down dinner, wipe my nose and hear a distant rumble indicating that the store downstairs is closing down. 

“ MA, is the store CLOSING ALREADY??!!”

“Yes, it’s ten o clock.”

Rush to room, grab purse, and rush downstairs ignoring protests ensuing from full stomach.

Pant Pant. Phew!

“Thank Goodness, I thought you were closing.”

The shopkeeper twins don't really look amused.

There is a pregnant pause.

“Er, I want chocolate?”

“Small or big? Oh wait, small is not available right no-"

“BIG! BIG!(almost screaming in excitement). How much?”

Climb stairs slowly. Purse heavy with the weight of chocolate. Plus, I am out of breath. However, that’s life nowadays. Thank God for television shows and cocoa beans.

i do not believe in myself anymore. It's merely a jumble of alphabets stuck together with glue. so, it's funny that i am feeling sad, as that is not even an option. my face will scream, but for now everything is inert, and even the wind refuses to blow. so yeah that way you can call me defeated, because i am tired of my own beliefs. Don't impose anything on me, let me flow, let me breathe, as it's tres difficile to carve out an identity. Self destructive yes, and stay away from vindictive bitch yes.

I miss Old Mister Curls. I miss his mind blowing peace providing beautiful lectures. I miss college in a strange, stomach turning way. The big bad wolf of a  world at my doorstep, and i refuse to come out, refuse to accept. It's a strange time. Strange bewildering time. 

. But give me a few days/evenings like this. Sigh. With white rabbits running down the hole, and two noses sniffing and  joy guru and everything else in between, because spicy fried chicken has never tasted so good, and my room never felt any better, and the shock/kink/surprise and even a bandaged leg makes me look hot. all nice. i give up. I am shamelessly in love

Out of Focus. I am learning.

Talk.

It's all fiction, compactly stacked together, or lying scattered. And, accordingly, I sing. Or pretend to listen. Maybe it's all pretense- the way I think, understand. It's all on the same plate, randomly fried, or served without lettuce. On another level, I am like a twig, swaying to the beats inside my brain as they tick tock away on several notes. So I board the bus, tear the ticket to pieces, and notice the sky for the first time. The atmosphere behind changes- is ever changing. Colors hold hands and walk past me and I finish my daily ritual. I have faith, I fear a lot of things, and i wonder if everything connects like a fast moving graphic novel. Love belonged to a different era and tomorrow the light in your eyes will not gleam and focus on a brown door or the toilet seat.
So yeah sometimes my senses mingle and burst so then i open my mouth to find my grin transfixed stupidly and my jaws hurt or I do not open my mouth at all. I think dirty and imagine you wiping your nose on my sleeve and I am strangely familiar to you. Or i concentrate on one line and it stands out voluptuously till the lights go off and then there's nothing but a table and a new fluorescent green highlighter and my senses explode again.

I want to change the header. It will take time. It might be the picture of my red usb drive.
After fighting for days, we have scrambled back to each other, and if our PDA sickens you, please look the other way. Exams in a week, and I am not bothered and I donnowhy. Marie biscuits drizzled with thick chocolate sauce. Light up my life. I have made good use of the wonderful maal, thanks to the immense generosity of the boss.

Two more days of college, two more days left of abusing St. Xaviers', yesofcourse. Yet strangely enough, as i was trooping down the old, old staircase this Friday, something about Room number ten sneaked inside and consequently i teared up. And, as old Mister Curls finished teaching Preludes, I teared up. Ran to the bathroom, half-ashamed, and finished crying. 

And, as Park Street recuperates something in my heart quietly dies.

It’s March, and there’s no smell of Spring anywhere. The sun is recklessly shining down, and I cannot help but crib, complain, fight. Reality is indeedly distressing, and I bolt from it as often as I can. Today, classes were on as usual, and I set my teeth and encountered them, albeit sleepily. After ten minutes I was in Willow Farm, swinging recklessly on the ladder, and feasting on plump glossy tangy apples. Quick Cut. Same ladder, topmost rung, and I am sitting, eyes half-closed, toes curled, with a gigantic multi colored apple in hand. And I have a fringe.

I wake up to find myself in a very yellow classroom.

“The dream has begun- the dream that he has of apple picking has psychological basis in reality.”

Petite professor arches her famous eyebrows at me. I half grin sheepishly and resume unraveling Frost.

I prefer guavas. Power naps help. Otherwise, everything’s all right. 

Magic Dragon.

- I refuse to believe that they are going home. It is a place alien to you, where they strangle voices, inhale madness, and run around each other- shouting out names, places, addresses.


-Tell me we collide, everyday. Knowing you, nothing can be passive, when I don't want it to be. Look for blossoms, till you find the perfect one. Strange pictures vibrate ideally in my head, and I can't  get rid of them as I don't want to get rid of them.


-Stopping for nothing except some noise. Leaving behind clumps of people. Warm people, happy people- walking inside, painting walls, emptying garbage cans, making love. Trying quite hard to invoke the light.


-You stop thinking affectionately. Your favourite people fade in their forms- long, short, wild, gay, humorous, insane, senseless. 


-Jai Guru Deva Om.

Strange and Orange.

Seeking you, not quite finding you, and whenever I do, something slips away unnoticed and I cry as I always do. It was different then, that bright March morning. I was observing a certain pair of eyes glinting and a certain pair of hands emoting. There was something there. Something was distinctly shimmering between us. Something which could have been real maybe for one rainy evening smelling of wood polish and musty books. Everything would stop outside, for a certain moment.

It's a strange fantasy and I can only watch the world move between your hair and eyebrows.

A sore little spot happened and disappeared. Patience is not overrated. Profundity is.


The last year started off with sickness, phbbt, and my immune system executed a perfect back flip as a lot of other things went the other way. I was mostly angry, furious, to be precise, and I failed to live up to my own expectations. I grew miserable, dreaded each moment, heard voices, and was not patient in the least. The threatening, evil fury shook me up, and when it settled around me, I took a shower, ate, and left the house, often without a direction, or fell asleep. I was paranoid, and almost embraced my fury, as it stopped me from thinking. ST, I fought vehemently with you, and you put up with it all. You have no idea how much I love you. 


I know for a fact, that each and everyone comes with one bag, one song, one story. This universality makes me feel like a whole person again, and compels me to touch my toes, sigh, read, eat a biscuit, bake fancy cakes, and long for things yet to blossom. This keeps me sane- all the surfaces.