Impatient tapping.

There are times when everything suddenly seems to shush. When everything around you seems to slow down, when voices become an incoherent dull thud in the background. It’s the same way when a tape gets stuck in the recorder and the singer’s voice becomes distorted in to a meaningless stretched jumble. And you can’t yank out the tape because it would damage it. And you can’t bring the slowed down world around you back to its original pace. There’s a scream that seems to pierce through the sudden lull but nothing changes. The scream’s silent. It’s in you, and you know you are screaming on and on, your throat aches but no one seems to hear it. The background din seems to go on, unconcerned. While you scream.

There are times when you feel that you are teetering over an edge. Not just one edge, with one fall, one danger. When you’re on the brink of something big and you just don’t know what it is. And you probably have an inkling of it, but it’s too frightening to acknowledge. Sometimes you think about it and can’t decide what it is. It seems to elude you, leaving only a sense of deep dissatisfaction and unease behind. Sometimes you forget it, when you’re laughing at a joke, or listening to something. Sometimes, in sudden moments, it comes back to you. And every time, it hits hard. Sometimes you stagger, sometimes you feel angrily frustrated. But it ever seems to loom, just out of reach, just a few paces away. In your restless mind, it almost assumes the sure solemnity of a cataclysm.

You can’t decide, you want to, so bad. Kicking things doesn’t help, frustration mounts. While you scream.

What do I really want ? Strange, I thought I would have a million answers to that. But I don't know. Not anymore.

Scars

Silvery lines, traced with a finger,
Smooth, crooked, they still linger.
Constant reminders, of pain withstood.
Gentle hope that at least I could.
Do they remind you of pain and dread ?
Or like me, of the courage it bred ?

Smooth, silvery lines, a part of me.
Not ugly, they were worth the fee.

Gnnnnngggggghhhhhhhh

This has gotten monotonous. I’m sick of exams. I want to go to CP and eat ice cream. And sit in Central Park with the gang. And go to Café Coffee Day with the other gang and drink four Devil’s Owns. And I want to paint my room with two of the most important people in my life. And then make Maggi with them and go skateboarding at two in the morning. I want it to rain really hard and then dry real fast. I want to run with a friend who I’ll now never see again. I want to tell him that he’s the nicest guy I know, and that I love him dearly, and he shouldn’t go away. I want to sit and listen to all the songs on my player again and again. I want to forget its Sunday night, and my course is far from over and the exam’s on Tuesday. I want to play Scrabble with Baba, and then pound on a set of drums until I’m hot and tired and want a nice long shower. I want to get drunk on chocolate mint vodkas and then dance crazily. I want to learn how to swim. I want to listen to silly jokes all afternoon and laugh hysterically. I want to fly to Chicago to kiss my 21-hour old nephew. I want to eat Slim Jims and watch A Walk to Remember. I want to cut my hair and have them grow back in a day. I want to pour water over some dirt and make a cave-maze. I want to hug someone really bad. And go to sleep, content.






Update : I've done 11/20 things I listed here. YAY !!!!!!!!!

Launch

I’m sorry.
It’s true,
I’m bitter,
I’m angry,
But I’m sorry too.

Sorry for not seeing
A few things I could have
Sorry for being shortsighted
And cryptically following a meter.

But I’m still sorry
That I didn’t see
What I had to see
See the real that I look at,
Now wondrously.

It’s a pity,
That you suffered that way,
And yet surrounded by what
You’ve always deemed necessary,
It prevented me from probing towards
What could’ve been home to me.

--------------------------------------------------

I’m working to better it,
In whatever ways possible,
But it’s not through you
That I’ll achieve that fable.

I have to stay away,
I’ve caused enough harm
Though you called it an anchor
It was just a further crippling arm.

I hope you would never see it,
Never see the final aid
Because if you do
The earlier endeavour shall fail.

It’s a horribly vicious circle,
And it never stops spinning
You have to step outside it
To fight the dizzy feeling.

And now that you’ve been forced out,
Though you’re unaware,
I pray for your feet to steady
You’ve tottered enough here.

--------------------------------------------------

Maybe you’d still argue
That the decisions were wrong
But there can be no more questions
Because the curtain’s been drawn.

Just... wrong.

It's true. People are selfish. In myriad ways. They inevitably always want something in return. And it doesn't surprise me anymore. I flinch, but it's momentary. Metal has it's benefits. Except dents weaken.

It surrounds, and sometimes it's not so crude. Sometimes it's so gentle that you never know until you've examined the damage. Or when it hits you brutally, one day. You've to ready, expectant. It's wrong somehow, this constant alert. It takes the pleasure out of things, or atleast lessens it. It makes me cautious, and I tread softly. Almost too softly, and one day I can't take it anymore and go back to striding. And then I recede in horror, inevitably. Sometimes I'm surprised, pleasantly, and it's almost a reassuring feeling. Almost. I hate being aware. Actually I don't. I just hate the ugly truths. They shouldn't be truths. They don't deserve to be. They should be done away with, and I'm not wistful of any sort of utopia. It's just that I know that things can change. Have I not lived that difference ? Am I not living it, in so many ways ?

Everytime.

It's a pretty feeling, this. When you look at a rotting apple and your nose scrunches in disgust and then the slow realisation where you look at it in wonder and realise that it has seeds. Which breathe.

Poisoned Rationality

Dusty, in the heat,
There’s dust in my face,
Dust in my gullet,
And dust in my clothes.

There’s dust around me,
Rising like a whirling cloud,
Ready to engulf me,
In its dusty clout.

And my legs weary,
Trudge through the dust,
Every step resolute,
In their ever moving thrust.

There’s dust in my shoe,
Dust in my pane,
Dust in my self,
To the very vein.

And then there’s the sound of the cloud,
That seems to rear like a horse,
And bring with it rain,
That washes my very soul.

The rain washes my eyes,
It washes my face,
It washes my lips,
It washes the pain.

But o dear rain,
You halt my steps,
You make it all the more difficult,
To walk the bit I’ve left.

Your force so strong,
And tender to boot,
It washes my fears,
But cripples me soon.

For the rain once gone,
Would leave me wet,
And the cunning dust
Would stick to me instead.

Urgent

Tired, dusty, silent, furor,
Sagging load carried forever,
Like rotting thoughts
That seem so clever.

Denial, logic, cracking voice,
Faltering air of assumed poise,
Accumulated mass of nothingness,
Trash, if not anything less.

Disconnected acts,
Stringed together,
Sordid facts,
I seem to gather,
Disconsolate yearnings,
The living proof,
There's something burning
Smoke's never aloof.

Flawed, blemished, inconsistent, unsound,
Something’s wrong, I’ve found,
Parched thoughts in the dusty clout,
Sometimes a drink of water’s the way out.

Disconsolate

Fidgeting, squirming, yearning, sighing,
Doubtful wanting, apprehensive reaching,
Hesitant doubling, denial, reasoning,
Weighing every side, to cancel with a pencil,
For I can’t decide; the same old stencil.

Sudden remonstrances,
Uttered in need
Elicit disbelief
Battered lies in a new canvas
Will this never end?
I wait, not in vain

Dialogue.

How differently people react to the same things. What you told me meant the world to me. It gave me a sense of empowerment. And the same made another cower so weakly. At one point of time it would have invoked contempt, or pity in me. Now I feel just a strange wonder. It’s like seeing different endings.

That’s true. It’s funny how even two people who are extremely close can react vastly differently in the exactly same position. Who’re you talking about, though?

S__. She says she wants to go back to school. How everyone knew her and understood her. Just because she doesn’t get her way like she used to, in school, where everyone indulged her because they had grown up together so they could make allowances for her. She says that she has always chosen to be the sufferer. Which is in no way true. Because she’s always been selfish and people have seen through it and not overlooked it because she has never earned it. Harsh, but true.

Lol. Yes, well, some people are weak. You can’t inspire, or motivate them because they wallow in self pity all the time, and are destined to lose.

These were very harsh truths which I wouldn’t care to explain to her. Because she wouldn’t acknowledge them nor have the insight to realize their weight.

Its like what A__ says. Survival of the fittest, eh, what ? Saale kutte =)
Oh fuck, you know. This too, shall pass :)
Don’t brood over a weakling. She’s not your type.


No, I don’t agree to THAT doctrine :)
Who decides who’s the fittest ? It sounds so… Wrong. I meant those who will NOT be helped, try as one might. They are just… Just masks. And the only reason I’ve stood by her for so long is because I think Darwin is wrong. Yeah she’s not my type :) You’re too cute :D

...

Words so hollow,
That they echo in their blankness,
Unsought by me,
Uttered in vain.

Brings a lethal dread,
Of other artlessly spoken lexis
That they make one tremble
At their venomous vein.

Phew... And the epiphany that comes with it.

Lately everything was getting to me. REAL bad. Random, transitory things that seemed horribly permanent infuriated me. Things that I could handle, had been handling for years suddenly seemed terribly tedious and tiring. Arbitrary things that would make me lose my cool and snap at every living creature who so much as joked around with me. I was suddenly this tart, acerbic female who couldn’t handle fleeting situations that needed almost no effort. I could no longer mechanically distance myself from harmlessly meant acts that should have excited no other response than amused laughter or indulgent rejoinders. It was exactly that; I could no longer be mechanical anymore. I was tired, almost tragically defeated in a way. Except it made me angry, and so it was anything but heartrending, or the like. It was annoying, and cumbersome. I wasn’t used to feeling that way, I had no right to. And yet I was, and it puzzled me no end. And suddenly, yesterday, I snapped out of it. Like that. Over a chance remark. It was bizarre. But thankfully now I feel more in control, and powerful. And it feels good, and I value it more, now that I’ve seen how it is to be the other way. Control lost can be quite sucky.

...

Continuing from what is perfect, I realised some more things I ought to have added. People aren’t perfect. But moments are. For they are just that, moments. So momentarily, people can be perfect. And it’s even more satisfying a feeling for you’ve probably known them before and never expected them to be ever perfect. And they suddenly surprise you. I feel content, in those moments. Though I don’t expect them to continue being perfect then onwards, I at least am left with a hope that they can be, they might be. Which is almost good enough. Ah, the joys of perfect moments. Bliss.

'Tis a puzzling world, Mr. Tulliver declared.

Delusion. Such a pregnant word. We live a delusion, everyday. We interpret, we create, we understand, we relate. What is the real that we not see? What is delusion then? Delusion can be defined only through “reality”. Delusion is when we see anything that is not reality. An imagined reality, then? So what is this reality? You have a situation. Or any event, lets say. The event happens. Four people witness it. Three think the same. One perceives something different. What is the reality? The cautious say they have to witness the event themselves to decide. Or at least get a “non-coloured” view. Bah. It will again, ultimately, be interpretations. So you decide your interpretation. And if it matches the one that the solitary one decided, that is reality. And so the solitary seeks solace in the acceptance of his reality. While the three comfort each other saying that the others are deluded. What if the cautious outsider sided with the reality the three interpreted? The four are content in thinking that the solitary deludes himself in fanciful interpretations of apparent situations. He is wrong. He is blind. He is crazy. The solitary either trembles in rage or doubts his reality.

What if the four agreed in their interpretations of the event? They live happily. If an outsider doesn't agree with them, they dismiss him with an indifferent laugh. What if all four disagreed? We have a fight.

What if they disagreed, but respected each other's realities calmly calling it “difference of opinion”. And left it at that. Easy. We do that, but where we call realities “opinions”. But what about when we are passionate about our opinions? What about when we can’t call it an opinion anymore but a reality? What we call has “no questions” regarding what happened? Like, we say, India was partitioned in 1947. It's a fact, a reality. But is it? Most of the people were bewildered. Standing in the same place as yesterday, they were suddenly transported to another place. A new name to their soil. A surreal “reality”? Another argues, it was a reality that they became two different nations. How? One person felt he was not an Indian. The other felt he was one, but he wasn’t, “really” speaking. He was in “Pakistan’s” soil, a citizen, though he had lived in the same place for decades and been a citizen of that soil. His reality says he is an Indian. But who is to say his reality isn’t real, to him? To him, the keyword. Just as your reality is real, to you. When the many people’s interpretations of reality match, it is reality. Real. Fact.

A schizophrenic lives in a fantasy world. He lives an imagined reality. He conjures up people and places that don’t exist. But all this is very real to him, this world. He is a schizophrenic because they aren’t based on facts, his world, and his interpretations. So he is a schizophrenic. Our difference from him is that our interpretations, our realities are based on facts. Which is about it.

I wonder?

Whenever you're having a conversation with others, there's usually one basic problem that keeps occuring. One we commonly term as a "misunderstanding" or a "communication gap". It usually stems from differing definitions. I say "mature", thinking of my definition for it. The other interprets it as "mature", using their definition for it. Unnecessarily confusing. But gloomily certain. It helps, i guess, if the definitions are clearly understood by all parties concerned, before any further discussion. But it isn't always possible. Which is why sometimes it is so essential to be around like-minded people. But that discourages growth, after a certain point. Oh well.

Hesitant.

Have you ever, when you're hurting, wanted to inflict all the pain you can, upon yourself? Wanted to undergo through it all, all over again? And all at once?? So that you can feel it all again? You feel like experiencing all those things that hurt you, anew, so that you can feel all that pain all at once; and get it over with? So that there's nothing left? So that you know that you have achieved going through the maximum. And still come out of it?? That you can? It’s not masochistic. It heals, somehow.

What is it that makes me doubt this particular way? It has worked, and it will. But is it somewhere like cyanide? Is it??

Tinted discontent.

I think in colours. And they console. Pat me on the back, promising me that they too, share what I feel. I cling on to the reassurance, blindly, desperately. But then there are moments when they too, desert me. Instances where they make me suffer, with their false hopes.

Yellow, green, blue, violet
All the colours of my rainbow;
Blue, black, silver, white
All the colours of my sky;
Maroon, pink, orange, red
All the colours of my heart;
But colourless my world.


This i wrote exactly a couple of years back. And its come back to haunt me. Is it this way, its supposed to be? Will everything, someday, disappoint, thus? What is this curse thats come upon me?

I submit to this; do I have a choice?

Slowly it mounts.

I don't like feeling vulnerable. I blurt out things i intend to keep to myself.

January 6 : I said we will have a fight.
Earlier, i told you how i always manage to convince people that they dont like me. Without them realising my active role. It's eerie, how i'm always right.
"Just a friend" is not enough, you think. To me, it can never be "just" one. You are wrong.
It was as intimate, as you could get with me. You never realised that, did you ? You always wanted more, aspired to grab more. No. Firmly I say. I decide what i want to share. If you have a problem with that, then go fuck off. If you can take me for what i have to offer, and no false pretensions about what i choose not to offer, then, then you deserve me. "I wish that had a consequence" you say. You have the consequence in front of you. Either live with it, or reject it and move on.


When i'm at my most vulnerable, it's curious how seemingly nondescript things help me. Talking about school. Drinking hot milk. With Bournvita. What disconcerts me ? Recalling conversations that remind me of long forgotten things. Reliving some moments and looking at them, now unhappily.


I shy away from people at these moments. Finally, i may have found your cure. Brooding doesn't help, we knew. But talking to oneself, it does, in a way. Then talking to others some. Then ending abruptly and going back to writing. Maybe its still not a cure. A temporary analgesic, like you said.

Why is it that people take my concern for love? I mean, it is love, but not the kind they construct it to be. I love you. I'm not in love with you. Is it that hard to accept it? Is it really so rare? This love? It comes to me as the most natural thing in the world. Does it not, to you?