lull, a bye

Brain, stir fried, neatly served on a crystal plate. 
In dire need of some calming, white substance and the kindly face of Mrs. Cabbageleaf. Now, Mrs C is a nice woman. The tea she serves is tepid, and slightly sweeter than normal. I like the chocolate chip cookies, though. Mouldy, but delicious.I hope this time she'll show me some more pictures, and I can interpret them my way. Maybe I could even pick some stuff up and throw them at her, while grinning smugly.
I want to sprint so badly -  run till my legs become like water. 
Some nights, I only accept defeat because the voices are too deafening. No words come out, there's nothing to do. 
Sir, an orange with your tea? 
A doodle a there, a doodle a here, a doodle doodle everywhere.
You can choose between an asscrack and a sunbeam in yor hand. 
But then, what would you really do?

A change of name/ a change of game

So so uninspired. Inspiration please?

would she look down?

Wish I could be really tender as I am quite archaic.
Fallen sick again, Bombay weather is quite strange. Wanderlust stems from feverish delirium. Lovely old playlist, shitloads of work on my desk, no lovers in the sky. No strangers either. No winding roads, and clean cold air and a mad Sixties playlist inside ears.  

I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
And all the times I had the chance to.
(Nico. Chelsea Girl)

slow sam sidled upto him for a sugary sniff

Severely multi-layered, like a human being constantly dipped in cold water. Skin slowly starts peeling off, revealing a dark pink rawness one usually associates with new born babies. This kind of nascent ugliness puts your mind to rest. Rest in peace, young child. As you start growing more fingernails, your dissociation will begin. It won't stop for as long your brain ticks and skips. Hello silence, welcome silence. What started as a breadcrumb is a loaf. Whoever thought of paucity of feelings? A term coined by the hardened of the world. But then, you are bound to be. You can't keep flailing your arms, waiting to be rescued. You need to be your rubber boat, please to fill with air and float when needed. You don't need benzedrine anymore to fill reams and reams of plain manuscript, roll yourself in it and be mummified. 
You scorn me, I'll scorn you right back. It's a war. It always was. None of us can change that. 
Why do you never fade? When we scramble for a happy place, I run back to a child we'll never give birth to. It died, like he did. 

I have decided that this place needs to be slaughtered. As I re-read things, I feel banal. I feel anger, despair, and whatnot. Argh. Self-loathing often leads to bland humour. Enjoy cheese toast with sauce.

I wish I could. Stare at things and feel the loop lolloping inside brain like roadhouse blues like strange fragrances at a fair like brown eyes from memory.

Whether or not you can devour an entire sandwich like a dainty delicate darling with due diligence, does depend on your dear daddy. Fuck alliteration, embrace alligators instead.

Do you know salt and pepper can shake your brain up?

You need to listen to some serious blues. 

growing up, no pyjamas.

They always whisper, changing the atmosphere within our grasp. I light a candle near your face, trying to scrutinise the shadows. I thought memories disappear behind hidden cupboards. But they rear their grotesque little heads often, and we lose our minds. 

Mumbai monsoons didn't hit hard this time. Circumstances, however did. Every single day in this city, starting from Day 1 has strengthened me a little more. I don't know if it's going to get tougher, but I know inside that maybe, just maybe, I'll deal with it. 

I have started counting my blessings. I'm glad I'm breathing in fresh air everyday, surviving, making beautiful new friends, eating anything, going mad at work, living with you in our lovely new house, talking to my constantly anxious parents, observing beauty in tiny things and meeting lots of dogs and cats. 

You and I have gone through the worst, and you have been there at my worst. We have broken each other several times over, me more than you, but you have been the best friend. Currently kind of insane, dealing with a lot of shit, including a terrible temper, and you are helping. I just hope we can build us back, one day at a time. I am your monster, and you still love me. You are my smoo, and I am quite terrible, vindictive, sick. All I can say is thankyou. And despite everything, I love you to death. I loathe myself for hurting you. But I am trying, to change. To become a better person. It's difficult, it really is, but if you are there, I think I'll manage. You make me stronger and weaker at the same time. 

Just be there, tell me your stories, good and bad. Break the walls. I hope we can make tents, have so much fun! And, I'll make up for all my mistakes. Try and make us happier and warmer. :) I hope you grow with me. 

I realise now that things happen for the best, and it does get worse before better. 

Your grace, amazes.

Here I thought of a picture, quite perfect.

There, you hid behind doors, a little embarrassed.

We are both hurled against a wall.

I am tired of putting a bell around your neck.

Today I failed. The ink stopped flowing. Brain cells stopped answering. Felt slightly cold. 

July jam

your tragedy is hardly a tragedy, whereas mine leaps ahead to welcome you. Your clothes are ragged and mine shines.

When the walls turn around to talk, leer and drink a cuppa, you are polite. I am distressed. Our clothes don't match like our minds, unlike our teeth.

It's a collaboration, she says, enunciating each letter. She says wow and whoa and oh dear god. I lisp. She believes that monsters hide under the flowery tablecloth, and she can pet them.

I see her poltergeist cartwheeling. She carries my cat and steals the backpack I used to love. Old is gold, she sneers.

Okay, so you drink whiskey? Okay, so you hate Indian style toilets?

You sneak inside loos and stay rooted for fifteen minutes, shutting out the constant buzz. Washing your hands, scraping the filth from underneath your nails.

Your life is a random illustration. Detailed intricate lines, beautiful colours, but when you look at it closely, a little hollow.

Agree and buy me a sandwich.

Treble it. Try harder. Snapping his fingers, he waited. Well, I asked, what about setting it free? Setting it free like the round perfection of the moon tonight. Strange land of mine, another day tonight turns to. Tonight I can scream the loudest. In another time, quite a different place, however, tears quietly died inside. All the songs that I thought were ours always seemed to belong to some other era. When you don't hear, will you never listen?