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.