wolf at the door

There's been a lot of conversations about the days when the sun leaves our skies. We settle ourselves in an imaginary womb-like state hoping that we feel good about something, anything. We don't want help, we refuse your well-pleaded, well-tried efforts. We are in a black room which grows smaller and smaller till we are the same size as it is. Yes, we fit now. A snug little bleak room. We embrace it. The light hurts our eyes. We need a hand, but we can't ask for help, because you might raise your eyebrows, pucker your lips, look at the ceiling, smile, blame us, shrug and say - oh come on, we all have problems.

We certainly don't enjoy it, and we hope you can sit with us in silence in our rooms with no sun.

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Silence of the lambs

The joy killers attacked again. In a grown-up world, they talk differently. Everything is a large slice of the perfectly-baked pie for these specific joy killers. Their gapes are silver-coated. They wave flags of hypocrisy over your head and you can do nothing about it - after all you can afford to wash your hair every morning. They are benevolent, you might say. They stand over your shoulder constantly, the usually grim mouths somehow twisted into a smile. Their claim - charity begins at home.
In other news, some of these joy killers attacked our kin. They dictated love. They pointed their fingers at you and you and you. A valiant move, we nodded. After all, what can we do. They have the power to chop off your tongue, snatch away the food from your mouth, restructure your dreams and nightmares. After all, we push the button. We are the ones who choose to make an informed decision. 

****

Beginnings

Hello lovely human beings,

The art of being idle has been extended here: http://spewingstories.wordpress.com/

Please visit, leave your footprints and gimme some lovin'. You can take back home some recipes!

I will be writing here as well, but of course. :)

Oh Dear God.

Sell your soul for a few measly thousands.
Stop traffic, flailing your arms vaguely for some kind of an answer.
What kind of world are you - for the lost & meandering, do you have a place?
When we sing, we sync, when there's a tussle, why can't we sleep?
Slip & fall. Let it rain when it's not supposed to.

Organised chaos

Oddballs gather. Oddballs stay up late in the dim yellow light, chewing fast, smoking slow. Oddballs make sweet love, with occasional oddball laughter. Oddballs look at each other and wonder about hardships, failures and ideal situations. Sometimes, oddballs giggle and make strange faces. Noses loop, lips twitch, an errant strand of hair flies. Oddballs tire. They sleep like two cats in a tight embrace. 

Kabadi on rooftop

There will always be longing. 
For the perfect stomach. The perfect regimen. The immaculate house. Or, for a nuanced conversation, spiced correctly. A dash of salt for humour. Some whole garam masala to balance it out. 
And then, some fools long for more nostalgia. One more hit. Never get enough. Vision blurs, hands shake, the curry burns, neglected. 
Sometimes, a place defines you. Don't let it.  

***

Ruminate

***

Walk, arrange assumptions in a neat triangle, point at a stranger's facial expression and laugh.  

Dream a little dream.

Green hills, a balcony, a cup of coffee. Long walks, friendly tail-waggers, worn out shoes, laughter. 
Where  we can go, where we could go.
Art is a posh affair these days. Heels a-clatter, dainty pieces of pastry on daintier china. 
We could travel far and away.


 

How old, again?

I'm sure I'll pull the covers up (till my nose) when you reach finally, but it might take a while. When your smile becomes a laugh and you skid while skipping. I lap it all up like a thirsty cat. 

      

No sheep just sleep

We tire so easy, no rhyme no rhythm, only some prose -  total surrender makes us perspire, little beads making way for the floor; or damp armpits. 
Who's got the stash, you ask. They said they wanted to walk. Clamber down the stairs, restless, almost panicking. Walk along the asphalt, yellow lights a slow blink above.
Where did everyone disappear, I wondered. They were in a song, their voices in sync.
What happened, I wondered.  They were all singularly strange, often the misfits.
Loopy, with messy hair, incoherent, mute. 
I think I might leave an imprint. 
How do you deal with boredom & lose the stony eye?  

The mirror is Pinocchio, so is your notebook.

I think I like your frayed edges, sometimes they scatter on the ground like little scraps of paper, taking with them a portion of what I would christen, joyous epiphany. You seem to understand that. You seem to be wanting to take away the shine of the last few weeks.  

No wonder then.

Some conversations hang above our heads and some are chopped up mercilessly like 60 rupees/kg onions.  

A sudden 25th. With enormous amounts of baggage.  How would I misbehave now? 

You can be a song to be tucked away carefully, wrapped in a piece of my hair because I can hardly afford a heartbreak, among other things. 

Till then, I keep feeding myself eggs and other bullshit.