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.