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..."