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.

A journal of epiphanies & other things

I think it's nice to be free, to change the way things used to be. 

It's strange how life comes back and hits you hard on the face. It constantly reminds you that yep, sometimes you can be invincible. 

Your ideals somehow never existed, as it's supposed to be. It's surprising how calm it feels inside. 

Maybe this is happiness - roam free, no expectations, detached. 

I miss my cats. But they are good. They are happy. That's all that matters. I can go on now. Move forward. Nothing to go back to. 

----    

you make me buzz. 

I like this buzz. 

-----

We are the children of a non-revolution. 
We are glimpsed at and people wonder at our placid fights.
Flip quarters, you might just understand. 
We strive to put our thoughts in place and then strive to find the right way to express them. 
We are new everyday.
Peeling off layers of the unnecessary.
We are the lost children.  

-------

He told me we would travel. 
Far and beyond these few lanes, where the whisper of the trees are overtly familiar.
I believed him.
I dreamt because I believed even if I didn't want to.  
----

Liberation comes from a thought; strange how liberation comes from no thoughts as well.

-----  

#1

Do you think we lost touch somewhere in the middle?

With whatever we used to believe in: fluttering eyelash on skin, bacon for breakfast & a sad twang of the guitar in the sunlight. We mixed up people & objects & desire. Or maybe I did.

Then what happened, you ask?

I moved. With bags, a confused head, & foolish youth-centric misconceptions.

Each time I search, I end up in Calcutta. With the old buildings, a favourite terrace & the many roads travelled and the many floors sat on. I miss the buses, the quick auto rides and conversations. I miss one old house, with bizarre pencil scrawls on the wall, where I discovered myself in bits and pieces. I miss my home, the terrace where I used to sit for ages, or walk, ominously talking to self. I miss that nestling feeling. I miss my friends & my trysts with romance and life, I miss my old ghost wandering around aimlessly, effusive and often intoxicated.

In Bombay, I’m constantly on the edge, looking looking looking for peace. I do things at a feverish pace. I feel like I have to establish this ground for me to walk on, like I’m striving for a sort of perfection which doesn’t even make me happy.

This is not what I want to do and the strangest thing is, in a way I am okay with this chapter. I don’t see a continuation, because that would indeed make me a lot more restless than I already am. It’s like a gypsy wind, this kind of restlessness.

I fantasise about being grubby, filling reams and reams of paper with the stub of a pencil and travelling. I fantasise about a kind of liberation I have never let myself have. Looking up at the sky, cooking for people, caring for sick animals, writing- in sand, in cold air, in tents, on a boat, on a mud-filled truck. No children, no lovers in the sky. Enough money to sustain.

I want utter freedom from the shackles of my mind, it’s various crevices and darkness. I want light, I want to rid myself of petty anxieties, doubt, panic and paranoia. I think I shall start with a baby step. 

a long long time ago

It all started with disbelief.

And a knowledge of what used to lie in the shadows.

It had happened once before.

You were not the person I expected you to be.

My hair still smells similar. 

---------

It hit my face really hard.

Then, time took control.

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.