There.

Stutter and stammer and sputter and mutter
the pathetic  stream of words you will never write down again.
Warm them with your breath as they spin out of your  head.
Web-like, fragile, transient.
It’s been awhile and the roses are dead now.
But it was real,
the dirt under your fingernails
remind you of the muck
that was once what you revelled in-
Black rain and fingertips throbbing inside you
and , and cinnamon- because that’s good, good stuff.
Hair that smelled of smoke and blinded you in one eye
and the cold weight that rose in your stomach as you watched the last one die.
You hardly talk about yourself anymore these days but that’s okay.
The stars have lost their scars and all you see is white light,
burning back tears that never fell
that last night and your memory dwells ambiguosly, selectively on …
But No.
Play it safe now.
We don’t want the world to know.
(Oops. Too late).

A little fun.

'Wet stars in the sky,
Moonshine in your eye...'
 these are some things I like
 to write about-
but tonight I feel light-headed
and this leaves me with shredded
 hopes and sleepless doubts.
As you are reading
 the words I am weaving
you might hear a rhyme somewhere.
Don't be alarmed
 as there is no harm-
nor is it a crime
 to write like this.
I think I am done
with my fair share of fun
and pleased with the outcome
of this experiment.
And here I will cease
my weird strategy
of 3 a.m entertainment.

Hello 3 a.m. It's been awhile.

They ripped me apart, tore into my heart and laughed as I watched them helplessly.
There are certain things you do for love and then there things you do because you don't love yourself.
The last few months have had me on my knees, in the dirt, on my back and finally underground.
But now I'm alive again.
Rebirth is painful.
Something like an internship- an actual place where I do something I'm good at.
Making mistakes and learning.
Growing.
Unexpected things happen once in awhile.
Seldom do they turn out good.
Meeting you was one of those rare things that took a turn for the better.
1437.
I should have known.
As a person, I have a hundred problems with you.
But as a friend I have none.
As someone who loves me, I just have one- which is that:
It's too bad love doesn't last
 because I could have gotten used to having you around longer.
Still, we're gonna make the most of this.
:-)
Thank you for being you.

Back.

Brush the hair from my eyes,
Crush the yellow petals under your fair toes,
Come back to me my love.
Let me lay myself on you tonight.
The air is scented with your breath and I wish to feel your mouth on mine again.
Come back to me my love.
The rains are annoyed because you betrayed them too-
their wetness means nothing without a bit of you
melted in each drop of their sweetness
that I allow to trickle down my lonely breasts.
Come back to me because
the first time in a long time
I miss someone.
Let this feeling not go in vain.
(Too many loves have turned to pain).
Come back to me my love
and let me rest my head on your bare shoulder-
caressing your moist palms with my fingertips in small circles.
Round and round and round.
Come back to me
 before I forget the way
your eyes looked at me the day
you let me kiss your virgin skin.
Come back
before I learn to be stronger without you
my love.

Ah, Well

Tonight I keep you hidden,
In the broken corners of my dreams.
Caress your face in the fathomless  shadows,
Till I wake with silent screams.

Under a pale shadow-moon
a night-bird flutters ominously.
Winged portent of my soul.
The beginnings of how my heart was rent
to bits by an iron-will.

I put it back : bit by bit.
Futile efforts by a blind Fool.

They tell me that love-bred flowers always die.
Who knew tonight that would fly?

The movie-hall lies abandoned.
Amidst spit-stained walls I sit
Alone
And watch the sad sad re-runs of my past mistakes in black and white.
(Pass me the bloody popcorn somebody!) 

Exams starting tomorrow.
Final lap.
Funnily - zero enthusiasm.
And zero dedication.
Its like I'm running out of charge in the most crucial moment of my career.

Is it because of new entrant- kukkad kamaal!?

Hmmm.

Crumble and Cry.

There have been so many times in the past when I have felt like this.
The stirring of a restless impulse that travels like a dull worm all along my spine.
I can feel it in the end of my nerves, this feeling of complete and utter destruction.
A feeling that something NEW is about to happen.
And that does not necessarily need to be a good thing.

Today I was walking down the hall of South Campus with my friend Geetakshi. We had just had our last class with one of my favourite professors in Delhi University- Subarno Sir and the girls had brought up the fact that our student life is coming to an end, well, for the most of us at least.
Nostalgia, that old forgotten feeling spread through my limbs, upward, dulling my brain, numbing my senses, as I floated along with my friend for company. I was wearing an Arsenal jersey, messy hair and no make up and she was pretty in a neon pink t-shirt and white gypsy skirt and a perfect plait. What a contrast!
Anyway, so it hit me that this is it man. End of the line.
I have  NO idea what I want to do in the future.
I guess I'll cling like driftwood on some forgotten river-bank to something.
Or someone.

I recently broke up with my boyfriend Lijo.
Just like that.
He was pretty serious but I woke up one day and realised I don't want to end up living with someone I don't love.
Or someone I have been coerced to love?
Hegemony?
(Fuck I never read the essay for tutorials tomorrow!
Kill me.)

But, this thing  about love is a serious issue ah. I have been trying to brush it aside ever since Ron died. But maybe he knew it me too well. He had called himself a 'PLOT DEVICE' in my life.
Well, he was.
He has been for almost a year now.
But I can't let this come in the way of my surviving anymore.
I don't want to be a widow.
I don't want to be a whore.

I want to go back and live for myself.
For ME.
Do whatever the fuck it takes to make myself happy.
If it's a new guy, so be it.
But I don't think it's as shallow as that anymore.
It's more like a new way of thinking.
A new way of living.
And a way of loving myself, no matter what.

All this is fine to write down but what I really need is someone I love, someone I desire-
 who would watch me
crumble and cry
and do nothing to wipe my tears
but whisper a song in the hollow of my ear
and smile when I'm done with my drama.
Getting up slowly, dusting the back of his pants and leading me -
On.

 "Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?"

I look at the outstretched fingers,
waiting to touch the corner of my eyes.
Don't you see, you were me then?
Listen carefully-
Your voice is in my head.

A day for love in a year of indifference.
Dark rain washing away a desert of pain-
grain by grain.

Tonight I won't beg for you.

Oh to break down and cry in your arms!
Shedding inhibition and tears in a single night.
To open the midnight door to you heart and let
myself tiptoe in-
Stopping in dismay,
exclaiming in agony at what I find there-
A frightened boy in a night cap,
clutching his heart to his chest.
Afraid to let go.

Blue flame
melting me down
memory by memory
till I'm but a black fleck
of all I ever was.
Burning holes in the couch
with cigarettes and the love we made.
Daylight creeping beneath fluttering eyelids
waking to a snowstorm of want.
An eyelash spiked with the remnants of tears she
cried in her sleep as I thawed.
One last time.

Evolving

 Bless those days when our love blossomed like bluebells and we crushed them under our feet,
carelessly, thoughtlessly,
reveling in our reckless bravado.

You drank dark wine from my eyes.
The dull ache behind each tear and the weekly organized fights.
Each time, falling endlessly into your arms.
And there were arms- arms and legs to enfold me close
in my very own world of sweet-smelling sweat and nicotine.

The heavy weight of peace that burst in my head each time I awoke in your embrace.
Catching my breath when I saw the fire start in your eye again
and feeling your love grow against my thigh again.

Blessed were those days.

Now, your love flashes like lightning, fleeting, white.
Ominous on a rainy summer night.
And I hear myself pacing restlessly,
tirelessly,
for you to break upon me like a storm cloud
drenching a tired desert rose with old love
and new regret.

Insatiable.

 My toes curl when I hear you murmur my name,
hotly, softly, behind my eager ear.
And then all is naked silence.
And then I am left trembling,
like a white lemon blossom,
crushed.
The final sacrifice of a tidal, ancient passion.

No Hot Bods for Me.

I don't remember the last time I found a man hot enough that I'd want him inside me.
'It's such a sad, sad situation, and it's getting more and more absurd'
I perceive this as a problem, I mean, come on, I'm 23, and not that bad looking etc,
How is it that I've never made out or slept with a hot man?
I mean.
Not ONE.
:(
Is there something wrong with me?

Also, why can't I get a guy who I like to like me back?
All my relationships are a compromise.
I be with the guys who like me.
Poor, poor me.

Fuck it.

So tomorrow is a saturday and I have extra class like from 9:30 to 3. FML..
Still.
My craving for a hot bod is NOT done.
Wanting.
Now.
:(

Diary Days

I just finished writing my response paper for my Internal Assessment and I hated every moment of it.
I feel like such a fool, pretending to be all smart and stuff, at this University.
I have nothing original to contribute to the field of academics.
Worthless.

But on the other hand, I smoked three cigarettes today.
I like smoke.
I wish I could taste smoke in different colours.
My favourite would be purple.

Something gave me pleasure today.
I will not tell you what.
But it felt nice and I was taken aback while I remembered the old familiar feeling growing inside me.
I couldn't do anything but kept staring down, with a smile that seemed confused whether to break out or not.
But then I re-arranged my face and the day was saved.

Love is truly a wonderful thing.
Specially when it lasts forever, in your head.

Do you know flowers could fly?

Waves and Sand.
Hold an ocean in your hand.

I also had the chance of reading Kristeva today. She is this French Feminist - post-structuralist rather. And her notion of the Semiotic and the Symbolic- as in language as being masculine and feminine- was a nice little theory that interested me. Apparently, the pre-oedipal stage when the child is connected to the mother's body and the post-oedipal stage, after the child's birth, has something to do with the language that the child uses. The first stage is the semiotic, that is repressed by the symbolic. The symbolic is male and semiotic is female, but a writer can write semiotically too, like James Joyce, using fragmented speech and the stream-of-consciousness.
Okay, 3 a.m. is not the right time to be talking about all this and I must have muddled stuff up. Will try and do a reasonable post about this soon.

In the meantime- love me.

:)

Old.

My birthday passed and it was good.
It made me feel nice and wise.
Today, however, I do not feel that great.



I have forgotten to put words to a feeling, Because it doesn't matter to anybody.

Yes.

Nobody.

Pity it took me this long to figure it out.

I love nobody and nobody loves me.

But this knot in the space between my stomach and my chest is twitching and I don't know why I continue to type but all this is a lie. A lie and a fantasy I have created in my head. Love, Engagements, Loyalty, Marriage- how can all this be for me?

I am a Widow.
I am a Whore.

There is no love for any living person. No love for any single person.
Only pretence.

But tomorrow I will be fine.
And the mask will be indistinct again.
I can learn to live with secrets?
Can't I?

But the wind is mild outside today and I was walking along a corridor and I turned around as if I recognised somebody and it was You. And You frowned momentarily, trying to place me, failed and turned to go your way.
And I woke up and I realised that if we ever cross paths again, you will not recognise me.
Something like the ending of Butterfly Effect?

Maybe I passed you in the metro or in a mall or at Hauz Khas Village.

Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.
Year after year.

I prefer the mask to this. I prefer anything to this. This raving and ranting and silent screaming. As if the inside of my throat is full of splintered wood. The effects of eating sawdust.

I am 23 and I am not dead yet. Everything is a lie. You know it.

I take on the identity of the man I am with. I am nothing. I morph into what He wants me to be. And the worst part is that I know it.

But I am a coward. And I am not free. So I read French poetry and try to taste you on my tongue.
Coppery blood. And only Keane and Blind Pilot is soothing. But this will pass.

It has to pass. I am normal now. I have healed. I do not care about You or Him or the Only person who will read this post and get the references. Yes, I may have loved him someday. But he knows me to well now so I wont.
I have healed.  I am normal again. I do not love You any more. No I don't.

But then again I don't want to be Me. I want to be You. And I want to live as You and die as Me.

'Non, non ! pour Elle, tout ou rien !
Et je m'en irai donc comme un fou,
A travers l'automne qui vient,
Dans le grand vent où il y a tout !
Je me dirai : Oh ! à cette heure,
Elle est bien loin, elle pleure,
Le grand vent se lamente aussi,
Et moi je suis seul dans ma demeure,
Avec mon noble cœur tout transi,
Et sans amour et sans personne,
Car tout est misère, tout est automne,
Tout est endurci et sans merci.
Et, si je t'avais aimée ainsi, 
Tu l'aurais trouvée trop bien bonne ! Merci !'

( I got the reference three years too late)

This is why I do not like being alone. Its too damn loud.

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.

Now I need a place to hide away.

Siesta

The midnight blue sun bleeds feebly outside my window.
"Love me tender, Love me true, all my dreams fulfill..."

Your warm silhouetted figure passes gently by the bed.
I reach out with my fingers to touch you.
Cold tipped fingers brush against a warm palm.
I shudder involuntarily.
"I knew I'd find you here."

I feel the pressure of your knee as you shift your weight onto it to climb into bed with me.
I have waited for this day for a very long time.
 I feel a buzzing in my ears as a heavy weight settles in the fold of my breasts.
I savour the weight nostalgically.
It is where my heart used to be.

And then the phantom weight is replaced by your arm as you wrap it around my breasts from behind.
Trapped. A love-grip that I never want to escape.
Instinctively I turn towards you in the dark and my lips finally find yours.
You taste like smoke and a vanilla star.
And your hands struggle through my hair and my breath is hot and my tongue is parched
And I don't know what I want but I know I don't have it yet.

You briefly prop yourself  up on your elbow and lazily draw a pattern down my breasts and my stomach, stopping precariously.
I can't see your face but I know what you're thinking.
Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place.

Your body presses into mine slowly, probing, slowly, too achingly slow.
Throb. Throb. Throb.
A dull pain that doesn't seem to stop.
Till you part my quivering thighs and penetrate me with your tongue.
A love-cure.
And all I can do is close my eyes and squeeze my toes together and...

"Take me to the place where you go
Where nobody knows if it's night or day."

I squint up as my bedroom door is flung open, flooding my room momentarily with a harsh morning light.
"Did I wake you up baby?"
I smile weakly at my boyfriend.
You have fled again, before I had a chance to ask you your name.
Someday...
Till then this is our little secret.

"You may say I'm a dreamer..."