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

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 !!!!!!!!!

Moody musing

I think for once I shall take a gamble
I think for once I shall see what follows
I think for once I’ll join the mad scramble
I think for once I shall not mind the gallows

My car shines with brilliant polish,
Carefully driven in rush hour
Through empty roads
In between reckless cars.

Mad mornings, reverberating screams
Punctured tires which I stop to glean
Careless drivers, ceaseless traffic,
Narrow alleys, busy streets.

Sometimes a sudden lull
In the afternoon heat
Rearview mirror dusty,
I wipe it clean.

Cars whiz past me,
Spraying putrid steam
I gasp, cough
And blink.

Revving my engine
To a tolerable pace
I inch steadily
Unwilling to race

Yet this pace bores at times
For a spirit like this
It stifles me fine
And one day it breaks.

Breaks free ?
Or ruptures ?
Plunging downwards
In an unceasing void ?

Or does it escalate new highs ?
Defy gravity
Defy rules
Defy signs ?

Or does the defiance bring a crash
An accident,
A shattering collapse ?
How shall I know.

No, it’s not a question.
A question seeks an answer.
It’s a debate
That seeks no resolve.

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.

My seduction style ? :O

WHAT ????

Clenched

Slowly, the moments slip,
Slowly, the potion drips,
Unhurriedly, bit by bit.
While I moodily sit

Restraining and waiting
To let go of restrain
Controlled refrain,
Or uncontrolled release.

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.

Utopia

I think I’m on a celebrate-the-self high. I’m quite kicked about it. Suddenly I see all the good in myself. I’m feeling immensely proud and pompous. I know it’s big-headed of me and not doing me much good… But what the hell :)

I still see all my faults but I’m suddenly proud of them too. Proud of being the person I am, no matter what my shortcomings. Arrogance, I might call it. But no… Not quite exactly. It’s more celebratory. Triumphant, the feeling. The euphoria one gets after riding in a bike with the wind in one’s face and the exhilarating laughter that accompanies it. When you find a sloping piece of grassy land which you can run down, arms flailing all directions. You can’t stop yourself from running down, and neither do you want to. We used to have that thing, in school. There was a massive tree there too, which split into two great branches and two could sit on either branch, and talk endlessly, secluded in a private world of their own.

I wonder how long this feeling would last. How long I’ll keep smiling to myself for no reason at all. How long I’ll keep skipping from one room to another and hug everybody on the way. How long I’ll greet everyone with an enthusiastic ‘hello!!’ How long I’ll look around and feel content, and blessed.

Mounting discontent

They call 'em mood swings. I used to like swings. I liked going higher, higher, higher until the structure groaned with the motion. Sometimes I would stand up.

I'm restless. I'm sure it's not because of the impending exams. For weeks I've been feeling that something's just not right. It should be August right now, just near my birthday, with Durga Puja to come soon. We should be planning the trip right now. The weather should be hot, and wet. I should be in Saket. I should be painting my room. I should have finished buying all the stuff on the list that's pinned to the board. The board should've been replaced by now. I should've let the potion spill by now. And after that, it should be summer.

I want. And I want NOW.

Heady

Sometimes I feel especially strange. Like right now. When I think I’ll blurt out things that I don’t want to, do stuff that I’d regret later. And I have virtually no control over myself and the only thing I can do is shut up and stay away from people. But then what if one day someone probes further? I’m weak enough at those moments to succumb, and I always dread it happening. Usually people feel odd prodding too deep so I always escape, unscathed. But what if one day someone who knows me better then I think or just innocently queries further? What if one day I cannot restrain myself anymore and explode? Everything that’s always been carefully arranged so that it lies in safe corners covered with deceptive veils would disintegrate in a second. Ruptured, I’ll be bared. I shudder. What baffles me further is that sometimes, in these moments, I'm not so sure whether it would be such a bad thing after all…




Update : Ignore this. It was one of my lunatic moments.

I've so much to be thankful for. I have always had more than an average share of everything good. Shucks. I should really stop wasting it. And act more worthy of it.

I’m angry. I’m annoyed. I’m provoked. But there’s a sense of great loss that always comes after these mélange of emotions. It is quite irritating. Can’t I just stick to feeling one particular way? Them together is disturbing. Gah.

Insomnia

Stream of consciousness, and thus almost grappling with... I dunno.


I tossed and turned, restlessly so
Waiting for sleep that took long to come,
I thought of a great many things,
That required none my attention though,
Carefully I pondered, wrinkled my head,
And thought of myriad things.
While I longed and wished for sleep to come.
But it seemed to ever take so long,
That maddened I pushed my way
Out of the stifling mosquito net,
Out of the claustrophobic maze.

I strode out into the dark that was,
Of my restraining room, out into the veranda,
I peered out in despondent gloom.
The birds I heard with the cries
Of the prophet of the mosque.

Around me the world gently slumbered,
While some of us woke.
Stealthily a rodent ran
Out from a flirtatious hole.
No longer did I long for the sleep that wouldn’t come,
Even as the rest of them around me snored on.
Except the few women that pattered, with their timid feet,
For their morning shift. And then they would have
Their noon shift and evening shift and night.
Except the men that washed the cars of our blessed fathers.
Except the girls who ran to homes, to help their mothers.
And oh of course the brave few who walked the morning like thunder.

A motor hurried on the wide empty road
As I watched on at the world of dejected dark gloom
I watched and I watched as the minutes ticked by
And sleep that was forgotten was shorn,
And I watched the sky pale into a roseate gold.

The sun rose like a mighty thing,
Proud of not being beheld without shielded eyes.
And I watched unblinkingly the gentle dawn
That came not as sudden as I thought it would
It wasn’t abrupt, uncannily unsudden unlike snow,
For it was like a drowsy dog that stretches its limbs slow.

The lazy dawn, it came like music,
That stirs slowly in one’s soul,
Like the gentle reminder that a pace so mild,
Would bring its own morning glow.

But I was watching this unqualified,
For hadn’t I seen the light too soon?
And from the unfortunate rear?
I had not woken to greet the sun,
I had cheated it of its due,
I had beheld a sight unwittingly,
And I was so unprepared.

As I looked up to see what was to be seen,
With a tinge of discontented regret,
At having not shut my eyes,
Like it would have better served.
But as I watched the sun watching me,
I kept aside my sudden dread.
It shone so bright, like a great big plate,
Put to dry by some wealthy host,
And the warmth that emanated,
Warmed me to the very core.

Adequately blessed, by nature’s great wonder,
I stumbled onto bed,
The net no longer stifled me,
I was asleep before I had lain.

Vanity will be the end of me. My downfall, and even that word is vain. Bloody peacock.

Catalyst

I sit on the floor, and look around. Piles of books, papers, memories lie scattered on the ground. I’m stacking the ones I need, in one pile. A few go to the trash. Most, I reluctantly toss to the pile that will go to the kabadiwaala. A notebook catches my attention. Studious nut, the cover says. Inside, there are some equations jotted down in a bored student’s writing. I turn the page. And laugh. There is a caricature of my senior Chemistry professor. Bulging biceps, flying cape, synthetic suit. D-man, I called it. Sighing, and thanking my lucky stars that I passed the darned subject, I push the notebook away. A few minutes later, the floor is noticeably clearer. A few minutes is all you needed to clear it all away, a voice inside me accuses. I ignore it. Though my hands are dusty, the work is half done. The pile of the things I need is small. For the pile of things I want shall be sold off tomorrow, or possibly today. I carry them to the verandah. It takes me four trips. And no, I may appear small, but I can carry a lot in my hands. Hands, did I say?

I go empty the trashcan into the big “Use Me”. There go a hundred things that I want to remember. Maybe I needed to throw them away, for weren’t they my cyanide? I hear them tumbling down the long slide. Tomorrow, the jhaaruwaala will come and collect them to take them away, before I wake. They will lie there, tonight. As I trudge back to the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I shall go have a bath, after this, I promise myself. I don’t wash my hands till the work is finished. I’ll wash it at one go. Not now. I stare at the few things that I haven’t yet sorted. I want to just bundle them together, and throw them away. Or maybe keep them now, and look into them tomorrow. Or some other day. But I don’t. I steel myself and patiently scrutinize each of them. Most of them, I toss to the now-empty dustbin. Sometimes I hesitate, but then decide it’s for the best. Half an hour later, the bin is full again and only the pile of things I need still lie, neatly stacked on the ground. That pile I go through again. It grows smaller, even so. By now the bin is overflowing. And down they go the slide. I used to like playing on the slide. “Gee! Whoosh!” All of us playmates used to scream in glee. One after the other. Slide.

I finally go take my bath. As the first spray of water hits me, I remember the last time I played in the rain. Three of us had squealed, laughing, while we jumped, up, up, and up. Gravity, notwithstanding. I hum to myself tunelessly.

Refreshed and clean, I come back to the room. Picking up the small pile, I put it away in its designated place. I had cleared the outside clutter, finally. To help clear the clutter that’s inside.

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??

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?

Acquiescent acceptance

“I watch you watch me. I want to belong. But every time you take that one step closer, something inside me tenses. Frightened, like a deer in the headlights. I watch you watch me watch you. Do you know the truth? I am terrified. I watch me lose you.

You could have been home to me.”



It strikes all too very close.



Except, much later, I see how it was the right thing that I did. I should have ran, like I eventually did. Its proven too often to be the correct way, for me to doubt it any longer. But I want to doubt it. But I cant. I cant, I cant, I cant.