I almost sent this to you instead

But let it remain anonymous.


I want. *gathers up and loves*

I think when I hate everybody, and I would want no one, you'll be still around. To love. Maybe its how disconnected you are. Maybe it would go away if I spend enough time with you. Maybe you are just a construction of who I think you are. Maybe not.

Maybe its only me who feels it. A parallel conversation where we are confessing so much. Maybe it is just my imagination.

Relentless

A special kind of madness. The kind of madness that we hide everyday, in our little homes, in our big cars, in our little hearts.

It envelops us one day. This kind of madness. We cry out, a piercing shriek resonating loud between our ears which we only hear, we suffer, we live with--day after day, month after month, sometimes submerging in the tiny fragile lives we have created on our own and sometimes we are dead.

How many of us keep living in this shrieking world where there is no peace, no quiet, no sanctified part of our life just spent cluttered with nothing.

* * *

And then at times there is this absolute quiet. No more noise, and dead, deathly silence. Does the silence pound into your ears making this momentary respite from--what do they call it--madness a strange sort of a test? Sometimes they plug your ears with ear wool. Sometimes they put you in those things they call asylums. Special cells, where all that screaming is supposed to stop because they strap you in a straitjacket & give you periodic electric shocks your senses are to be numbed to a sense of quiet. You rant and you scream, telling them its not working can we have some milk in here I'm really hungry and no one cares & no one listens and this dense quiet with the relentless screaming envelops you & soon you become quiet, struck dumb by the constant non-respite.

why would you do that. cant the screaming stop. why. who suffers this much. and the tell you its you, its you and you cant believe them because it cant be, it cant be...

Spinning meaningless tales

After attempting a conversation for a while, both of us relapsed into silence. We couldn't find out if the silence was strained, there was no opportunity. People thronged around us as we desperately tried to find words that had always somehow never managed to find their way up the ascending wall of unfamiliarities that we had created for each other and ourselves. Sometimes its the finest thing to be stuck in an over loud, over crowded public function. Atleast it saves you from finding out uncomfortable truths about erstwhile close relationships. Sometimes things left in a closet serves best. Sometimes silence is best.

05/02/08

She smelled of cheap perfume and sweat. The sickly sweet kind, with the sour, decadent odour of real, human sweat. It filled the air around her, causing people to wrinkle their noses as she hurriedly elbowed them out of her way. This was not her time. Her black purse noisily clanged against its metal strap as her heels clattered to the rhythm she walked to. She looked around once, twice, decided something, shook her head and hurried on. She paused by a corner tea shop, glanced at the surprisingly expensive looking watch on her wrist and turned the corner.