I miss you my love
And all we were sure to be
I can't stop reliving
Rerelishing, redrowning
I stare at the strangers around me
Drinking their coffee
My eyes and my heart
Filled with anguish
Silently screaming
Until they edge away, puzzled
Unsettled by the nameless pain
That rips out of my skin
Writhing in the agony of maybe
Every time I think of you.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Footprints
I recently spent some time in the Ashram of a particularly popular Holy Man. I am not going to name him, because I genuinely mean no disrespect to him and have no desire to offend his followers, many of whom I have grown to become exceptionally fond of.
My reasons for visiting and staying at the Ashram had nothing to do with a need for spiritual guidance, or even a curiosity about it. It was a business trip for all practical purposes. Nevertheless I had heard a great deal about this guru, and was promised many times that the visit would change my life forever. Perhpas it will be a more gradual change.
For the moment at least I came away deeply unimpressed. Not with the guru himself, who I only saw once at a distance, but with the Ashram and the majority of the people there*. Can you spell petty? (I can it seems). It was ridiculous. The guru's right hand man, who was to help us with some of our arrangements, lied to us, to our faces and not very well, since we caught him in the lie a few hours later. This from the man who is the most devoted disciple of a guru who preaches truth and honesty above all. It was embarassing. The women who are in charge of seating within the hall where prayers are conducted are entirely power mad. For them, the ability to refuse a chair to a sixty year old woman who couldn't sit on the floor, was clearly exhilarating. Where is all that compassion now?
The other thing that bothered me, and actually bothers me about all religions, is the overwhelming belief of the guru's infallability and omnipotence. I was told many times that I had not come to the Ashram of own my free will, but because the guru had summoned me, a caim I found disturbing and rather demeaning too. It implies that the followers of this man have no free will, no ability to make decisions or chose the path they are on, even if the path is this particular branch of spirituality.
What perhaps bothered me most of all, was the money. The overwhelming mountains of it. I met people who have given up everything to live and work in the Ashram, and still had to pay rent. I saw electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon drool. I saw enough air conditioners in the offices of the higher officials to cool four football stadiums (Renunciation is also a tenet by the way). The purpose of this sect is to help the poor, but they spend crores of rupees on their guru's birthday celebrations.
What was missing, most prominently, was the feeling of peace I had expected. Having embraced the lifestyle preached, the people in the Ashram weren't above pettiness and politics. They were rude, they pushed, they cut in front of you in ques, they lied and fought and were the same human beings that they have alwasy been, except each and everyone of them was a hypocrite in the worst way. Having embraced the tenets of this guru, they seemed to believe that they are somehow better than the 'non-believer' (my word not theirs), whether they adhered to the beliefs of their faith or not. It felt more like a frat house, than an Ashram of a divine being.
I don't doubt the faith, I don't even doubt the man. I just think that his followers are destroying his reputation and need to practise some serious introspection, which is ironically, also a basic tenet of the faith.
*I did mention earlier that there were people I was fond of, and there were, but just a handful. And I may not understand their faith, but I do wish to respect it.
My reasons for visiting and staying at the Ashram had nothing to do with a need for spiritual guidance, or even a curiosity about it. It was a business trip for all practical purposes. Nevertheless I had heard a great deal about this guru, and was promised many times that the visit would change my life forever. Perhpas it will be a more gradual change.
For the moment at least I came away deeply unimpressed. Not with the guru himself, who I only saw once at a distance, but with the Ashram and the majority of the people there*. Can you spell petty? (I can it seems). It was ridiculous. The guru's right hand man, who was to help us with some of our arrangements, lied to us, to our faces and not very well, since we caught him in the lie a few hours later. This from the man who is the most devoted disciple of a guru who preaches truth and honesty above all. It was embarassing. The women who are in charge of seating within the hall where prayers are conducted are entirely power mad. For them, the ability to refuse a chair to a sixty year old woman who couldn't sit on the floor, was clearly exhilarating. Where is all that compassion now?
The other thing that bothered me, and actually bothers me about all religions, is the overwhelming belief of the guru's infallability and omnipotence. I was told many times that I had not come to the Ashram of own my free will, but because the guru had summoned me, a caim I found disturbing and rather demeaning too. It implies that the followers of this man have no free will, no ability to make decisions or chose the path they are on, even if the path is this particular branch of spirituality.
What perhaps bothered me most of all, was the money. The overwhelming mountains of it. I met people who have given up everything to live and work in the Ashram, and still had to pay rent. I saw electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon drool. I saw enough air conditioners in the offices of the higher officials to cool four football stadiums (Renunciation is also a tenet by the way). The purpose of this sect is to help the poor, but they spend crores of rupees on their guru's birthday celebrations.
What was missing, most prominently, was the feeling of peace I had expected. Having embraced the lifestyle preached, the people in the Ashram weren't above pettiness and politics. They were rude, they pushed, they cut in front of you in ques, they lied and fought and were the same human beings that they have alwasy been, except each and everyone of them was a hypocrite in the worst way. Having embraced the tenets of this guru, they seemed to believe that they are somehow better than the 'non-believer' (my word not theirs), whether they adhered to the beliefs of their faith or not. It felt more like a frat house, than an Ashram of a divine being.
I don't doubt the faith, I don't even doubt the man. I just think that his followers are destroying his reputation and need to practise some serious introspection, which is ironically, also a basic tenet of the faith.
*I did mention earlier that there were people I was fond of, and there were, but just a handful. And I may not understand their faith, but I do wish to respect it.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
At Home - Bill Bryson
I don't usually write book reviews, because I don't read books I don't love. So if I begin a book and I am not passionate within the first chapter or two, I simply stop reading, and thus reviews of books tend to be a bit pointless. However, there is an exception to this rule, as with all rules, and the one author to make it through the tiny loophole that presented itself, is Bill Bryson.
I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.
Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.
So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.
It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.
See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.
Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.
I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.
Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.
So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.
It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.
See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.
Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Stone
There are huge glass windows. In every perfect afternoon, there are always huge glass windows.
We sit. In leopard print chairs, facing the street, watching traffic and the odd glint of glass through rough jute blinds. The wooden floor squeeks under my feet as I kick of my blue brocade sandals, I reach for my Iced Tea, with too much ice as usual, I brush the hair out of my eyes, I reach for the soot between your fingers.
And then I look up at you. You smile and I wonder what you're thinking. You look overawed. As if you're watching something you've never seen before.
You kiss me. Gently, you brush your lips against mine and grimace as they come away sticky with lip gloss. We laugh and you tug at my hair making me ash all over the floor, but we dont notice.
The ravioli rears its head and we lean away. You pick up your beer, the bottle catches the tired sunlight and reflects stars over the white walls and dark brown wooden doors. You take a deep drag and lean back into the light, and I see myself in the huge glass windows, looking at you.
I look overawed. As if Im watching something Ive never seen before.
I wrote this on the 13th of September, 2006. I remembered it suddenly, a few days ago and felt the need to re-post it.
We sit. In leopard print chairs, facing the street, watching traffic and the odd glint of glass through rough jute blinds. The wooden floor squeeks under my feet as I kick of my blue brocade sandals, I reach for my Iced Tea, with too much ice as usual, I brush the hair out of my eyes, I reach for the soot between your fingers.
And then I look up at you. You smile and I wonder what you're thinking. You look overawed. As if you're watching something you've never seen before.
You kiss me. Gently, you brush your lips against mine and grimace as they come away sticky with lip gloss. We laugh and you tug at my hair making me ash all over the floor, but we dont notice.
The ravioli rears its head and we lean away. You pick up your beer, the bottle catches the tired sunlight and reflects stars over the white walls and dark brown wooden doors. You take a deep drag and lean back into the light, and I see myself in the huge glass windows, looking at you.
I look overawed. As if Im watching something Ive never seen before.
I wrote this on the 13th of September, 2006. I remembered it suddenly, a few days ago and felt the need to re-post it.
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Gripes.
Of all the things placed on this Earth to annoy me, (and damn are there a lot) the following have really got my goat recently.
1. People who walk on a jogging track as if they are the only people using it. I mean for God's sake, try and comprehend the fact that there may be people who walk faster than you, or God forbid run, and if you meander across the path lost in conflicting day dreams of being thin and eating Gulab Jamuns, you are being seriously inconsiderate to the person trying to overtake you. And if they subsequently step on the backs of your shoes, accidentally on purpose, you have absolutely no right to get upset. Just bow your head in meek apology and stay out of their way in the future, or the Dragon may be compelled to eat you. Okay?
2. Facebook. Oh dear God, how I hate Facebook. I wish I could substantiate this hate with a high and mighty boycott, but the truth is Facebook has now become essential, in terms of basic social etiquette, and not being on Facebook is tantamount to not having a cellphone number or an email account. It has its uses its true, but it also encourages menatlly unstable Dragons to obsess about the deeper meaning behind an ex-boyfriends latest profile picture change. Even worse to my mind is how people have now started talking in status messages and picture captions. Its bizarre. No actually, its evil. EVIL.
3. Telemarketers. Or whatever those people who call you and try to sell you stuff are called. And the text messages advertising some god forsaken lump of undeveloped real estate at the edge of world. I HATE them. Luckily the Dragon has a thin veneer of civilisation covering her primitive, violent, merciless self and has managed to not rip the aforementioned nincompoops limb from limb. So far.
4. Children. I am aware that Dragonfly and MinCat will probably tell me I'm being unreasonable, but children are just annoying. Though to be fair, its not entirely their fault, their parents have a lot to answer for. I have never been able to understand why a parent would bring an infant to, oh off the top of my head lets say, a play. I mean really??? What exactly did you expect? That your six month would appreciate a spoof on the bards greatest works and NOT cry during the entire performance? Or movies. Or restaurants that don't have table mats you can draw on. Or any public place where people may wish to enjoy themselves even slightly. The Dragon is not completely without a heart however, so if they annoy me excessively I will eat the children. The parents however are simply too revolting. Yech.
5. MTNL. I don't believe this needs an explanation actually.
1. People who walk on a jogging track as if they are the only people using it. I mean for God's sake, try and comprehend the fact that there may be people who walk faster than you, or God forbid run, and if you meander across the path lost in conflicting day dreams of being thin and eating Gulab Jamuns, you are being seriously inconsiderate to the person trying to overtake you. And if they subsequently step on the backs of your shoes, accidentally on purpose, you have absolutely no right to get upset. Just bow your head in meek apology and stay out of their way in the future, or the Dragon may be compelled to eat you. Okay?
2. Facebook. Oh dear God, how I hate Facebook. I wish I could substantiate this hate with a high and mighty boycott, but the truth is Facebook has now become essential, in terms of basic social etiquette, and not being on Facebook is tantamount to not having a cellphone number or an email account. It has its uses its true, but it also encourages menatlly unstable Dragons to obsess about the deeper meaning behind an ex-boyfriends latest profile picture change. Even worse to my mind is how people have now started talking in status messages and picture captions. Its bizarre. No actually, its evil. EVIL.
3. Telemarketers. Or whatever those people who call you and try to sell you stuff are called. And the text messages advertising some god forsaken lump of undeveloped real estate at the edge of world. I HATE them. Luckily the Dragon has a thin veneer of civilisation covering her primitive, violent, merciless self and has managed to not rip the aforementioned nincompoops limb from limb. So far.
4. Children. I am aware that Dragonfly and MinCat will probably tell me I'm being unreasonable, but children are just annoying. Though to be fair, its not entirely their fault, their parents have a lot to answer for. I have never been able to understand why a parent would bring an infant to, oh off the top of my head lets say, a play. I mean really??? What exactly did you expect? That your six month would appreciate a spoof on the bards greatest works and NOT cry during the entire performance? Or movies. Or restaurants that don't have table mats you can draw on. Or any public place where people may wish to enjoy themselves even slightly. The Dragon is not completely without a heart however, so if they annoy me excessively I will eat the children. The parents however are simply too revolting. Yech.
5. MTNL. I don't believe this needs an explanation actually.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Venus + Mars = Vers? Manus? Marnus? Venars?
So I love tags, I really do. Especially when I'm suffering from writers block, as I am at the moment and I thought this one, from Mincat, who got it from the Bride, was a particularly good one. However, I was rather thrown by the complexity of their disclaimers, it wouldn't have occured to me to include one. They do make excellent points however, so instead of writing my own, I am directing you to their lovely pages.
Thusly, the following are my Manly Traits:
1. I LOVE Football, passionately. Being Indian, I am compelled to watch Cricket avidly, but my heart belongs to Football.
2. I am a devoted gamer. And I'm not bad either. Also in this vein, Star Wars fanaticism, as well as avid interest in most Sci-Fi and Fantasy.
3. I own three pairs of shoes. No really, just three. I have an anti-shoe fetish.
4. I am a power shopper. I simply can't browse (the only exception being bookshops, where I could spend eternity. Heaven for me would be an enormous bookshop with comfy chairs and a coffee shop), and I hate malls. Clothes shopping is an absolute nightmare, and I avoid it as much as possible. As a result, many of my clothes are more than ten years old, and I'm happy to say I can still wear some of them.
5. I do tend to be protective and chivalrous, though I can't stand simpering, damsel in distress type women. This is probably also a manly trait though. However I have just realised that I don't particularly like being on the recieving end of chivalry, I find it insulting if men think I can't carry my own bags or open doors without their help.
6. I am not terribly particular about clothing. I often wear things that have holes in them, or are crushed, and am not terribly fussed about what I am wearing. I also have low maintainance hair and make-up habits, so I'm perfectly happy walking in the rain.
7. I LOVE food. And am very capable of eating vast quantities of it, unapologetically.
My Womanly Traits:
1. I am obsessed with my weight. A great deal of my happiness depends on how much I weigh, which is deeply sad.
2. I love to bake.
3. It takes me forever to get ready. I dont know why it is so, but I simply can't rush the process.
4. I love to talk, about feelings. I'm not one for mush or sentimentality, but I'm not one to feel something and not share it either.
5. I LOVE Sex and the City. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on this.
(I can't seem to think of anymore girly traits, though I'm sure they exist. Feel free to make suggestions!)
Also, Happy Budday Mincat. TheDragon loves you madly and hopes you have the best year ever.
Thusly, the following are my Manly Traits:
1. I LOVE Football, passionately. Being Indian, I am compelled to watch Cricket avidly, but my heart belongs to Football.
2. I am a devoted gamer. And I'm not bad either. Also in this vein, Star Wars fanaticism, as well as avid interest in most Sci-Fi and Fantasy.
3. I own three pairs of shoes. No really, just three. I have an anti-shoe fetish.
4. I am a power shopper. I simply can't browse (the only exception being bookshops, where I could spend eternity. Heaven for me would be an enormous bookshop with comfy chairs and a coffee shop), and I hate malls. Clothes shopping is an absolute nightmare, and I avoid it as much as possible. As a result, many of my clothes are more than ten years old, and I'm happy to say I can still wear some of them.
5. I do tend to be protective and chivalrous, though I can't stand simpering, damsel in distress type women. This is probably also a manly trait though. However I have just realised that I don't particularly like being on the recieving end of chivalry, I find it insulting if men think I can't carry my own bags or open doors without their help.
6. I am not terribly particular about clothing. I often wear things that have holes in them, or are crushed, and am not terribly fussed about what I am wearing. I also have low maintainance hair and make-up habits, so I'm perfectly happy walking in the rain.
7. I LOVE food. And am very capable of eating vast quantities of it, unapologetically.
My Womanly Traits:
1. I am obsessed with my weight. A great deal of my happiness depends on how much I weigh, which is deeply sad.
2. I love to bake.
3. It takes me forever to get ready. I dont know why it is so, but I simply can't rush the process.
4. I love to talk, about feelings. I'm not one for mush or sentimentality, but I'm not one to feel something and not share it either.
5. I LOVE Sex and the City. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on this.
(I can't seem to think of anymore girly traits, though I'm sure they exist. Feel free to make suggestions!)
Also, Happy Budday Mincat. TheDragon loves you madly and hopes you have the best year ever.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
(Untitled)
The key to forgetting,
Someone said,
Was to start small
Like your keys, your library books
To stop making associations
Like the way you smell
That song you loved
Your favorite term of endearment
Lie (to myself)
I will see you again, Its not really over
We would have been great together
(And to you) I hate you
Throw away the random things
That we made together
That business card, the red dragon tissues
The newspaper we read on Sunday
Then to get to the point of forgetting
To stop seeing you everywhere
To spend a few idle moments,
Without caressing you with my thoughts
My cardboard boxes are packed
I await the empty space
That comes with forgetting
The way you loved me
*With apologies to Thoughtspotting
Someone said,
Was to start small
Like your keys, your library books
To stop making associations
Like the way you smell
That song you loved
Your favorite term of endearment
Lie (to myself)
I will see you again, Its not really over
We would have been great together
(And to you) I hate you
Throw away the random things
That we made together
That business card, the red dragon tissues
The newspaper we read on Sunday
Then to get to the point of forgetting
To stop seeing you everywhere
To spend a few idle moments,
Without caressing you with my thoughts
My cardboard boxes are packed
I await the empty space
That comes with forgetting
The way you loved me
*With apologies to Thoughtspotting
Saturday, 19 June 2010
*some text missing*
I've been thinking of what to say to you, that will make sense for us. I want to tell you that I miss you, and that I really want to see you again, but the professional help I'm finally getting tells me that this is just a delusion. Apparently all this turmoil and pain inside me isn't real, its just my part in a play, the script for which was embedded in my sub-conscious when I was a child. A play in which you must break my heart and I must let you, just like I've let it happen a hundred times before, when the only thing that changed was the person playing your part. Except this time I mustn't.
I want to tell you how much I loved touching you, how much I loved falling asleep with you curled up around me and waking up knowing you would still be holding me. The way you'd kiss my fingers. I so want to call you, to ask you how the move went, how you like the new city, what the shop looks like and how much he's messed it up. To tease you about how badly your country is playing in the World Cup. I want to tell you that though I say its too late, I'm really hoping it isn't, that you still want to fight for us. That I hate that we can't talk to each other anymore. That though they say what I feel for you isn't real, that its just a result of my childhood trauma and self destructive nature, I am screaming for you on the inside.
But I can't say anything to you, not until I'm no longer broken. So even though I pick up my phone a hundred times a day to reply to your message, I won't.
You were right though, we would have been great.
I want to tell you how much I loved touching you, how much I loved falling asleep with you curled up around me and waking up knowing you would still be holding me. The way you'd kiss my fingers. I so want to call you, to ask you how the move went, how you like the new city, what the shop looks like and how much he's messed it up. To tease you about how badly your country is playing in the World Cup. I want to tell you that though I say its too late, I'm really hoping it isn't, that you still want to fight for us. That I hate that we can't talk to each other anymore. That though they say what I feel for you isn't real, that its just a result of my childhood trauma and self destructive nature, I am screaming for you on the inside.
But I can't say anything to you, not until I'm no longer broken. So even though I pick up my phone a hundred times a day to reply to your message, I won't.
You were right though, we would have been great.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Frankly Scarlet, I Don't Give a Damn
I should be upset, but I am strangely relieved. The thing is, I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure that what they had said was true, I wasn't sure that I was making the right decision, I wasn't sure that they were right about you.
And then you left, for the very reason that I was afraid you would, for the reason that they said you would, for the reason that you know is the nameless terror that doesn't let me sleep at night.
And I can't stop laughing, because despite everything you said you were, everything you said we were, all the times you lamented the other men in my life who had done terrible things to me, despite how much you said you would never hurt me, you're just the like the rest of them.
So now I'm sure. And no matter what changes, even if I am no longer broken on the inside anymore, you and I are done.
*GRIN*
And then you left, for the very reason that I was afraid you would, for the reason that they said you would, for the reason that you know is the nameless terror that doesn't let me sleep at night.
And I can't stop laughing, because despite everything you said you were, everything you said we were, all the times you lamented the other men in my life who had done terrible things to me, despite how much you said you would never hurt me, you're just the like the rest of them.
So now I'm sure. And no matter what changes, even if I am no longer broken on the inside anymore, you and I are done.
*GRIN*
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
The Leap, to Death
Why do men have to lie?
I have always trusted the men in my life, simply because I believe that attempting a relationship without that basic element in place is stupid. If you can't trust the person you're with you're going to be miserable, and so its not worth being with them at all. And this worked very well for me, I had numerous relationships where I was never plagued by the stress of having to worry about what my partner wasn't telling me. I believed that I was being told everything relevant. Until of course I discovered that I wasn't.
Being on the receiving end of that kind of dishonesty is heartbreaking. God it is so painful you want to rip your heart out and set it on fire just to make the pain stop. It isn't the infidelity as much as the knowledge that something you gave your heart and soul to was a lie. That every time you smiled at the person sharing your life they were smiling at someone else in exactly the same way, that the love which enveloped you and made you believe you were a part of something magical was just a ruse to trick you into letting your guard down. That the time you spent curled up together, speaking softly late into the night, fingers entwined, your heart bursting with the intensity of your feelings for each other was just a hollow pretense, tainted by their absolute disrespect for something that should have been sacred. That the way your heart would leap at the thought of seeing them and touching them was a farce, it was just you being a fool in love with someone who was pretending they felt the same way. The emotion, the feeling, the promises that you make to someone you are in a relationship with should be sacrosanct. They should be pure and unsullied by the sordidness of lies and deception and sexual gratification. And when you find out it wasn't it kills you, slowly, piece by piece by you can feel yourself dying inside. And you can never trust the way you used to. That's the worst part of being lied to by someone you trusted completely, you are cursed to a lifetime of wondering if you are being made a fool of again.
I have never felt this kind of panic, never felt this lost or used or swamped by a nameless terror. I have no proof that I'm being lied to again, all I have are the smallest rumours, and I find myself cold and shaking with fear. I am terrified that I am going to have to go through that hell one more time and the thought makes me want to curl up and cry my heart out. The way I refused to do the first time it happened. This time will be so much worse.
I have always trusted the men in my life, simply because I believe that attempting a relationship without that basic element in place is stupid. If you can't trust the person you're with you're going to be miserable, and so its not worth being with them at all. And this worked very well for me, I had numerous relationships where I was never plagued by the stress of having to worry about what my partner wasn't telling me. I believed that I was being told everything relevant. Until of course I discovered that I wasn't.
Being on the receiving end of that kind of dishonesty is heartbreaking. God it is so painful you want to rip your heart out and set it on fire just to make the pain stop. It isn't the infidelity as much as the knowledge that something you gave your heart and soul to was a lie. That every time you smiled at the person sharing your life they were smiling at someone else in exactly the same way, that the love which enveloped you and made you believe you were a part of something magical was just a ruse to trick you into letting your guard down. That the time you spent curled up together, speaking softly late into the night, fingers entwined, your heart bursting with the intensity of your feelings for each other was just a hollow pretense, tainted by their absolute disrespect for something that should have been sacred. That the way your heart would leap at the thought of seeing them and touching them was a farce, it was just you being a fool in love with someone who was pretending they felt the same way. The emotion, the feeling, the promises that you make to someone you are in a relationship with should be sacrosanct. They should be pure and unsullied by the sordidness of lies and deception and sexual gratification. And when you find out it wasn't it kills you, slowly, piece by piece by you can feel yourself dying inside. And you can never trust the way you used to. That's the worst part of being lied to by someone you trusted completely, you are cursed to a lifetime of wondering if you are being made a fool of again.
I have never felt this kind of panic, never felt this lost or used or swamped by a nameless terror. I have no proof that I'm being lied to again, all I have are the smallest rumours, and I find myself cold and shaking with fear. I am terrified that I am going to have to go through that hell one more time and the thought makes me want to curl up and cry my heart out. The way I refused to do the first time it happened. This time will be so much worse.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Blah Blah Blah
I have spent a lot of time with myself of late, trying to figure out a good way to deal with some of the issues that are crippling me right now. What have I realised? I don't need time with myself, I need time away from myself. Of course this realisation has come at a ridiculously inconvenient time. I have exams starting very shortly, which means that I will have to spend even more time with just me and Maroon 5. A situation that is not conducive to life changingness, let me tell you.
So anyway, I did what any mature adult would do and booked a flight to see my girlfriends for a weekend. Three days before my first exam. I am in so much trouble. Six feet from the edge and all that. I don't care though. I know, or rather hope, that at some point I will start to care again and then I will feel very stupid.
If only real life came with a reboot option. I suppose if you believe in rebirth and all that it does. Blah I say, Blah.
So anyway, I did what any mature adult would do and booked a flight to see my girlfriends for a weekend. Three days before my first exam. I am in so much trouble. Six feet from the edge and all that. I don't care though. I know, or rather hope, that at some point I will start to care again and then I will feel very stupid.
If only real life came with a reboot option. I suppose if you believe in rebirth and all that it does. Blah I say, Blah.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Afraid of the Colour Blue
You didn't just kiss my lips
I felt you breathe
Against my heart
And from that moment
I belonged to you
And nothing has changed
Even though you've left
You're still here
My heart still trembles
When I think of your kisses
*An attempt, at a love poem. Alright, a rather amateur attempt at a love poem.
I felt you breathe
Against my heart
And from that moment
I belonged to you
And nothing has changed
Even though you've left
You're still here
My heart still trembles
When I think of your kisses
*An attempt, at a love poem. Alright, a rather amateur attempt at a love poem.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Too Strange to Title
I have always known that I was not the most ummm, emotionally balanced person. I have crazy mood swings, am often crippled by sudden, inexplicable terror and driven by irrational and obsessive emotions. This has been a problem of course, but having developed my psychosis at a young age I also managed to develop great strength of will, so as to keep myself under control and my insanity a secret from everyone. I have gotten so good at it, that I managed even to fool myself.
This last year, 2009 was not a good one. Many things happened that were traumatic and disturbing, though I have no wish to go into the details, even just with myself. However, I managed to keep it together ("with a little help from my friends", without whom I would have killed myself years ago. This is a tangent and a rather random one, but these people, in my life who love me despite how terrible I often am at being their friend, I could never frame the words to explain what they mean to me. Which is rather depressing as I believe I am a writer.) and as the New Year progressed I felt that things had stabilized. I even managed to convince myself that some of my more serious obsessions were in fact harmless, that I was taking only a brief hiatus from the world of the living and the thinking and as soon as I got myself together I would be back out there, as happy as I have always been.
Late in the year 2009 I became single for the first time since I was sixteen. I told everyone, and myself, that having jumped the sinking ship that was my last relationship, I had no desire to see what else was swimming in the sea with me. Almost a decade of near constant boyfriends had given me a craving for the single life, and perhaps I would emerge on the other side of it with an ability to fall in love with something other than scum.
It turns out that was all an elaborate lie. I don't mean that I am desperate to find a boyfriend and can't stand being alone (Oh I'm not saying I'm not lonely, having been 'with' someone for most of my adult life I find it very difficult to adjust to a 'single' mind frame, though I think that its just a matter of practice) I find now that I am terrified of starting a new relationship. I am, for the first time since I was fifteen, scared of boys. Of talking to them, of saying the wrong thing, of making a move or taking the next step. And I have met a few lovely men who I believe, in the calm, safe moments in front of my computer, would have been incredible to have in my life. But when they are standing in front of me, asking me to have dinner with them I feel an inexplicable urge to run. And then I do.
Today, I was faced with a poignant wake up call (in a rather becoming blue t-shirt) and it occurred to me that I was in fact, completely mental. I seem to have left the world of reason, of even caring for the concept of reason, far behind me. And I know that I could sort it out, but I don't seem to want to. If I take a step back, and try to analyse why it is that I am losing my mind, the image wont stay still. It will twist and shimmer and dart around, not wanting to be scrutinised. I am not sure what it is, that my subconscious has so determinedly repressed and why it is so afraid of my trying to dig it up. But I am afraid too. It must be really terrible.
My apologies for the rant.
This last year, 2009 was not a good one. Many things happened that were traumatic and disturbing, though I have no wish to go into the details, even just with myself. However, I managed to keep it together ("with a little help from my friends", without whom I would have killed myself years ago. This is a tangent and a rather random one, but these people, in my life who love me despite how terrible I often am at being their friend, I could never frame the words to explain what they mean to me. Which is rather depressing as I believe I am a writer.) and as the New Year progressed I felt that things had stabilized. I even managed to convince myself that some of my more serious obsessions were in fact harmless, that I was taking only a brief hiatus from the world of the living and the thinking and as soon as I got myself together I would be back out there, as happy as I have always been.
Late in the year 2009 I became single for the first time since I was sixteen. I told everyone, and myself, that having jumped the sinking ship that was my last relationship, I had no desire to see what else was swimming in the sea with me. Almost a decade of near constant boyfriends had given me a craving for the single life, and perhaps I would emerge on the other side of it with an ability to fall in love with something other than scum.
It turns out that was all an elaborate lie. I don't mean that I am desperate to find a boyfriend and can't stand being alone (Oh I'm not saying I'm not lonely, having been 'with' someone for most of my adult life I find it very difficult to adjust to a 'single' mind frame, though I think that its just a matter of practice) I find now that I am terrified of starting a new relationship. I am, for the first time since I was fifteen, scared of boys. Of talking to them, of saying the wrong thing, of making a move or taking the next step. And I have met a few lovely men who I believe, in the calm, safe moments in front of my computer, would have been incredible to have in my life. But when they are standing in front of me, asking me to have dinner with them I feel an inexplicable urge to run. And then I do.
Today, I was faced with a poignant wake up call (in a rather becoming blue t-shirt) and it occurred to me that I was in fact, completely mental. I seem to have left the world of reason, of even caring for the concept of reason, far behind me. And I know that I could sort it out, but I don't seem to want to. If I take a step back, and try to analyse why it is that I am losing my mind, the image wont stay still. It will twist and shimmer and dart around, not wanting to be scrutinised. I am not sure what it is, that my subconscious has so determinedly repressed and why it is so afraid of my trying to dig it up. But I am afraid too. It must be really terrible.
My apologies for the rant.
Hair Today
I spent two hours in a High End Luxury Salon having a Hair Spa Treatment yesterday. There are two hours of my life I'm never getting back.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure the treatment was very good for my hair. As the polished lady in charge told me, the intensive dura-enhancement therapie would fill in the gaps between the protein in each strand of my hair caused by the uneven tilt in the Earth's axis, which is worsened by the increasing frequency of the solar storms on the surface of the sun. Okay she didn't really say that, but her explanation was just as incomprehensible.
I emerged from the experience rather bemused by the whole concept. Classified as a luxury treatment, and certainly priced as one at Rs. 2600 (but we will come to that later), the entire process involved a man with rather extravagant hair rubbing various types of goo into my tresses while I tried to read an outdated Vogue with my neck in an unbearably awkward angle. He then proceeded to tell me I was graying at an alarming rate, something I already knew but always appreciate being reminded of by complete strangers. And why do these places believe that if the air conditioning isn't low enough to make penguins don parka's and mufflers they will lose their luxury status? They may not be aware of this, but freezing your clients balls off (I know this doesn't apply to me exactly, but 'freezing your tits off' just doesn't convey the scope and suffering of it quite as well) is not considered a hallmark of luxury. Though they did offer me tea OR coffee and I suppose variety in the free beverage department is a step in the right direction, and there were a multitude of Plasma TV's showing... Well I don't know know what they were showing because I spent the majority of my two hour treatment staring straight up at the ceiling. Now if they had a Plasma TV up there I would have been impressed. Instead I now know exactly how many lights there are on the ceiling of the therapy room (six), how many of them work (five), where the plaster is cracking (top left corner) and a number of other irrelevant details I am afraid I may have committed to memory forever.
Anyway, the goo came on, there was a little head massage which was nice, and then the goo came off. And that was it. Oh admittedly my hair is now all sleek and shiny (see image below), so I suppose it's not all bad, but I simply cannot comprehend how someone, ANYONE, would be willing to part with two and a half K to have goo rubbed into their hair and then rinsed off. I, of course, was there on a freebie, but I can assure you that had I been paying for it I would have been cranky. Err. Crankier.
I suppose I am being unkind, it wasn't completely unbearable. The staff were by and large lovely people, and they were attentive and accommodating and clearly very well trained. I just think our concepts of luxury are irreconcilable. When someone offers me luxury I imagine, at the very least, being draped in satin and being fed fat free yet delicious chocolate cupcakes by scantily dressed male athletes who proceed to rub warm, aromatic oil all over me. Though in retrospect I suppose that may be asking too much of any salon not based out of ancient Greece.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure the treatment was very good for my hair. As the polished lady in charge told me, the intensive dura-enhancement therapie would fill in the gaps between the protein in each strand of my hair caused by the uneven tilt in the Earth's axis, which is worsened by the increasing frequency of the solar storms on the surface of the sun. Okay she didn't really say that, but her explanation was just as incomprehensible.
I emerged from the experience rather bemused by the whole concept. Classified as a luxury treatment, and certainly priced as one at Rs. 2600 (but we will come to that later), the entire process involved a man with rather extravagant hair rubbing various types of goo into my tresses while I tried to read an outdated Vogue with my neck in an unbearably awkward angle. He then proceeded to tell me I was graying at an alarming rate, something I already knew but always appreciate being reminded of by complete strangers. And why do these places believe that if the air conditioning isn't low enough to make penguins don parka's and mufflers they will lose their luxury status? They may not be aware of this, but freezing your clients balls off (I know this doesn't apply to me exactly, but 'freezing your tits off' just doesn't convey the scope and suffering of it quite as well) is not considered a hallmark of luxury. Though they did offer me tea OR coffee and I suppose variety in the free beverage department is a step in the right direction, and there were a multitude of Plasma TV's showing... Well I don't know know what they were showing because I spent the majority of my two hour treatment staring straight up at the ceiling. Now if they had a Plasma TV up there I would have been impressed. Instead I now know exactly how many lights there are on the ceiling of the therapy room (six), how many of them work (five), where the plaster is cracking (top left corner) and a number of other irrelevant details I am afraid I may have committed to memory forever.
Anyway, the goo came on, there was a little head massage which was nice, and then the goo came off. And that was it. Oh admittedly my hair is now all sleek and shiny (see image below), so I suppose it's not all bad, but I simply cannot comprehend how someone, ANYONE, would be willing to part with two and a half K to have goo rubbed into their hair and then rinsed off. I, of course, was there on a freebie, but I can assure you that had I been paying for it I would have been cranky. Err. Crankier.
I suppose I am being unkind, it wasn't completely unbearable. The staff were by and large lovely people, and they were attentive and accommodating and clearly very well trained. I just think our concepts of luxury are irreconcilable. When someone offers me luxury I imagine, at the very least, being draped in satin and being fed fat free yet delicious chocolate cupcakes by scantily dressed male athletes who proceed to rub warm, aromatic oil all over me. Though in retrospect I suppose that may be asking too much of any salon not based out of ancient Greece.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
The Time of SItara
PROLOGUE
The land of Sitara had been the blessed jewel of the ancient gods for centuries. Divinely patronised and guided it grew in prosperity and happiness- Three great nations ruled by a line of kings descended from the gods themselves. However, men touched by the blood of the gods are still only men, and nothing will go well for long before some men feel they are more blessed than others. Sitara dissolved into civil war. The divine royal house of Arth was all but destroyed and the great land of Sitara splintered into smaller kingdoms that soon began fighting each other. The laws, magic and government of Sitara faded from the memory of its war ravaged people. It passed into myth and legend. And their greatest weapon and treasure, the true secret of their success, the flame of their peoples hope was forgotten, awaiting the return of the true kings of the stars.
The greater continent of Sitara had changed dramatically over the thousand years after the war. Not only had the invisible borders devised by men twisted and re-positioned themselves, but the land itself had changed. Coastline had submerged, new islands were created and mountains were thrust up towards the ever watchful eye of the green Sitara sky. The ancient kingdoms of Samarth, Tur Kirrin and Adila passed into myth and legend, and their ancient lines of kings disappeared into obscurity. Khalikha and Isiijekh, the God and Goddess of the beginning and the end hid in their homes in the sky. Their children, numerous and quarrelsome, reigned over humans, animals and amars, indulging in war after war to satisfy their sibling animosity.
So one thousand years after the fall of the mighty kingdom of Samarth and her sister kingdoms of Tur Kirrin and Adila, the continent of Sitara had splintered into five smaller states and the divine blood that flowed in their royal houses disappeared into the dust of oblivion.
One Thousand Years Later
One thousand years later, there was movement in the middle of Uth-Vardentull, now called the Isle of Nothing. It was here; a thousand years ago the last king of Samarth had been killed. A mischievous wind began blowing, and in its wake was revealed the last true artefact of the long forgotten kingdoms. A plush velvet padded chair- it kept solitary vigil from the top of a large moss covered rock. No one ever passed through this particular part of the deserted island, but if they had they would have stopped and goggled at the sight. The chair was so strange that one may just have missed the old man who sat hunched amongst its purple cushions. He wasn’t really much of a sight, a toothless old man in a brown sack with a stick, but those people, if they had ever made it to this part of the island would have been deeply moved by the look of determination on his face. It is hard to imagine being determined about a stick and a chair, no matter how nice the chair is, but this man had a purpose. He was a watchdog, left behind by an ancient police force, to wait for the birth of a catharsis. And it is on the day that his wait finally ended that this story begins. The old man left his chair for the first time in seven hundred years and began to walk slowly toward civilisation.
The capital of Isharth was the lively city of Athakhaan, and two days into the old mans journey it witnessed the birth of a new and rather unimportant prince. The gluttonous and self-indulgent king of Isharth had numerous wives, and a son born of a lesser queen was rarely regarded as something worth getting excited about. Worse, the lesser queen in question was Ithaca, a vaguely noble girl whose bloodline was cluttered and unclear and whose sea blue eyes were completely vacant. The day was warm and the delivery difficult and Ithaca endured both the heat and the pain without expression. She struggled with the contractions, and a few moments after giving birth she died as quietly as she had lived. The child however was a different matter.
The old man trekked across the island and with the same calmness trekked across the sea. He reached the northern shores of Isharth, after a brief stop at the Frigga Islands, and found himself in the newly destroyed fortified city of Lytalia. Lytalia had been rebuilt and destroyed numerous times, because it was very susceptible to pirate raids. In fact she was raided so often that she had stopped functioning as a trading port centuries ago. There were no merchants in this part of Isharth; there were no tourists either, because they all went to the port of Wardhak three kilometres down the coast, but the city port of Lytalia was rebuilt every time it was destroyed. The old man, who we shall call TOM, reached its harbours after a particularly successful pirate raid and watched its rebuilding in a wise stupor. He didn’t offer the obvious advice to the bedraggled Lytalians, because TOM was a man who knew a good curse when he saw one. The Lytalians were doomed to rebuild their city and watch it be destroyed until someone somewhere in the endless bureaucracy of Isharth surveyed the area and told them to move the hell on out. He knew that common sense would not prevail over the glitter over of a notarised document, so he held his tongue and moved on. It had taken him 10 years of steady walking to reach Lytalia; another three days brought him to the wealthy town of Cromagna. Cromagna was an immense glowing point of humanity. It sprawled endlessly around the palace of Luskara Samitha Derish, and extended for kilometres in every direction. Cromagna was the city of the rich and wealthy. There was no place for the poor. The rich were not to be troubled by the plight of the poor, and the result was a city eerily free of the downtrodden. The wide tree lined boulevards were occupied by impressive large white buildings and their purpose was proclaimed by thick golden letters painted on the front. Cromagnians used the elegant curving script of ancient Sitara (well actually not so ancient, but it wouldn’t do to admit it), and because it looked so very grand on their white buildings their names tended to be much longer than necessary. For instance, the library was known as the “Great Hall Of Numerous Sheaf’s Of Paper Bound Together And Stacked On Shelves” and so on. The gates of the massive white city were guarded by tall Amars called Lambais
Friday, 12 March 2010
TAG (Feel Free to Take it On)
A
- Available: I'm never really sure.
- Age: 25
- Annoyance: Shrill female voices.
- Animal: Dogs and Dragons
B
- Beer: YECH. We hate Beer.
- Birthday/Birthplace: November 13/New Delhi
- Body Part on opposite sex: Chest and Shoulders
- Best feeling in the world: Ah. I believe I will keep that to myself.
- Blind or Deaf: Blind. (I think, I'm not sure what this is about really)
- Best weather: Rain and stormy, gray skies.
- Been in Love: I would like to think so.
- Been on stage?: Yes, often. I love it.
- Believe in yourself?: Hmmm. I am reserving judgment.
- Believe in life on other planets: Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt.
- Believe in miracles: Ummm. Maybe? I'm open to the idea.
- Believe in Magic: Ooh yes. Wizards and Jedi type people.
- Believe in God: Err. Unconsciously.
C
- Car: BMW
- Candy: Milk Chocolate.
- Color: Black, Orange and Purple. Not all together though.
- Cried in school: Hmmm, you know I cant remember crying in school. I must have, but I cant remember.
- Chocolate/Vanilla: Chocolate.
- Country to visit: Greece, Egypt, South America (I know its not a country, but there are too many there).
D
- Day or Night: Night.
- Danced: Only in private.
- Dance in the rain?: YES.
- Do the splits?: No. Ick.
E
- Eggs: Scrambled, with cheese and toast and bacon and sausages. Mmmmm.
- Eyes: Yes Please.
- Everyone has: Eyes?
F
- First crush: Abhimanyu Chopra, In First Grade.
- First thoughts waking up: Gaaaaaahhhh.... chai...
- Food: Oh god, the love of my life I think is food. It shows too.
- Greatest Fear: Anonymity
- Giver or taker: Sharer?
- Goals: A few, the most embarrassing was an own goal in the eleventh grade.
- Get along with your parents?: Always, they are my best friends.
H
- Hair Colour: Brown/Black
- Height: 5'10"
- Happy: Meh.
- How do you want to die: Hmmm... Happy? No too general. Asleep.
- Health freak?: Nope.
- Hate: Often, but for short periods of time.
I
- Ice Cream: Chocolate chip cookie dough hot fudge.
- Instrument: Tambourine?
J
- Jewelry: Rings!! I love my rings.
- Job: I don't believe in them.
K
- Kids: Never. Will rip my own uterus out first.
- Kickboxing or karate: Neither?
- Keep a journal?: Does a blog count?
L
- Love: I will never turn it away.
- Laughed so hard you cried: Yes, and I grin every time I think about them.
- Love at first sight: I didn't used to believe.
M
- Mooned anyone?: Flashed people, does that count?
- Marriage: Very bad idea.
- Motion sickness?: Yes, any kind of motion at all.
N
- Number of Siblings: None
- Number of Piercings: None
O
- One wish: If I say it out loud, it wont come true.
P
- Place you'd like to live: Sicily.
- Perfect Pizza: Every kind of meat possible with extra cheese and jalapeno peppers.
- Pepsi/Coke: Orange juice.
Q
- Questionaires: Kinda fun.
R
- Reason to cry: Vaguely soppy movie/book/Ad/emotion
- Reality T.V.: Stupid.
- Roll your tongue in a circle: And then?
S
- Song: Lips of an Angel - Hinder
- Shoe size: 9
- Slept outside: In a tent?
- Seen a dead body? Yes. I live in Delhi.
- Smoked?: Yes. Often
- Skinny dipped?: Heeheehee noooo.
- Shower daily?: Yep
- Sing well?: Nope.
- In the shower?: Occasionally
- Swear?: Wait, do I swear in the shower?
- Stuffed Animals?: I am a stuffed animal. Can't you tell?
- Single/Group dates: Both?
- Strawberries/Blueberries: Strawberries. With sugar and cream and mmmmm....
- Scientists need to invent: A head and heart separator. Because mine are too close. I don't mean a neck. I mean a metaphorical Head and Heart separator.
T
- Time for bed: Usually post 2 AM. Sigh.
- Thunderstorms: Yes. Lots. All the time.
- TV: Bones, House, How I Met Your Mother.
- Touch your tongue to your nose: Why?
U
- Unpredictable: Cows. I know it doesn't make any sense.
V
- Vegetable you hate: All the Lauki-Tinda family type. And the Karela.
- Vegetable you love: Bhindi. Mmmmmm.
- Vacation spot: Europe, Somewhere in.
W
- Weakness: Husky voiced, broad shouldered... Weakness? I don't have any weakness'.
- When you grow up: Never!
- Worst feeling: When you now you're out of smokes and there is nothing you can do about it.
- Wanted to be a model?: A model what? Aeroplane? Citizen?
- Where do we go when we die: King's Cross, obviously.
- Worst weather: Muggy cloudy-ness.
X
-X-Rays: Errr... No thank you?
Y
-Year it is now: 2010
- Yellow: Buttercup?
Z
- Zoo animal: None! There shouldn't be any animals in zoo's. Zoo's are bad.
- Zodiac sign: Scorpio.
- Available: I'm never really sure.
- Age: 25
- Annoyance: Shrill female voices.
- Animal: Dogs and Dragons
B
- Beer: YECH. We hate Beer.
- Birthday/Birthplace: November 13/New Delhi
- Body Part on opposite sex: Chest and Shoulders
- Best feeling in the world: Ah. I believe I will keep that to myself.
- Blind or Deaf: Blind. (I think, I'm not sure what this is about really)
- Best weather: Rain and stormy, gray skies.
- Been in Love: I would like to think so.
- Been on stage?: Yes, often. I love it.
- Believe in yourself?: Hmmm. I am reserving judgment.
- Believe in life on other planets: Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt.
- Believe in miracles: Ummm. Maybe? I'm open to the idea.
- Believe in Magic: Ooh yes. Wizards and Jedi type people.
- Believe in God: Err. Unconsciously.
C
- Car: BMW
- Candy: Milk Chocolate.
- Color: Black, Orange and Purple. Not all together though.
- Cried in school: Hmmm, you know I cant remember crying in school. I must have, but I cant remember.
- Chocolate/Vanilla: Chocolate.
- Country to visit: Greece, Egypt, South America (I know its not a country, but there are too many there).
D
- Day or Night: Night.
- Danced: Only in private.
- Dance in the rain?: YES.
- Do the splits?: No. Ick.
E
- Eggs: Scrambled, with cheese and toast and bacon and sausages. Mmmmm.
- Eyes: Yes Please.
- Everyone has: Eyes?
F
- First crush: Abhimanyu Chopra, In First Grade.
- First thoughts waking up: Gaaaaaahhhh.... chai...
- Food: Oh god, the love of my life I think is food. It shows too.
- Greatest Fear: Anonymity
- Giver or taker: Sharer?
- Goals: A few, the most embarrassing was an own goal in the eleventh grade.
- Get along with your parents?: Always, they are my best friends.
H
- Hair Colour: Brown/Black
- Height: 5'10"
- Happy: Meh.
- How do you want to die: Hmmm... Happy? No too general. Asleep.
- Health freak?: Nope.
- Hate: Often, but for short periods of time.
I
- Ice Cream: Chocolate chip cookie dough hot fudge.
- Instrument: Tambourine?
J
- Jewelry: Rings!! I love my rings.
- Job: I don't believe in them.
K
- Kids: Never. Will rip my own uterus out first.
- Kickboxing or karate: Neither?
- Keep a journal?: Does a blog count?
L
- Love: I will never turn it away.
- Laughed so hard you cried: Yes, and I grin every time I think about them.
- Love at first sight: I didn't used to believe.
M
- Mooned anyone?: Flashed people, does that count?
- Marriage: Very bad idea.
- Motion sickness?: Yes, any kind of motion at all.
N
- Number of Siblings: None
- Number of Piercings: None
O
- One wish: If I say it out loud, it wont come true.
P
- Place you'd like to live: Sicily.
- Perfect Pizza: Every kind of meat possible with extra cheese and jalapeno peppers.
- Pepsi/Coke: Orange juice.
Q
- Questionaires: Kinda fun.
R
- Reason to cry: Vaguely soppy movie/book/Ad/emotion
- Reality T.V.: Stupid.
- Roll your tongue in a circle: And then?
S
- Song: Lips of an Angel - Hinder
- Shoe size: 9
- Slept outside: In a tent?
- Seen a dead body? Yes. I live in Delhi.
- Smoked?: Yes. Often
- Skinny dipped?: Heeheehee noooo.
- Shower daily?: Yep
- Sing well?: Nope.
- In the shower?: Occasionally
- Swear?: Wait, do I swear in the shower?
- Stuffed Animals?: I am a stuffed animal. Can't you tell?
- Single/Group dates: Both?
- Strawberries/Blueberries: Strawberries. With sugar and cream and mmmmm....
- Scientists need to invent: A head and heart separator. Because mine are too close. I don't mean a neck. I mean a metaphorical Head and Heart separator.
T
- Time for bed: Usually post 2 AM. Sigh.
- Thunderstorms: Yes. Lots. All the time.
- TV: Bones, House, How I Met Your Mother.
- Touch your tongue to your nose: Why?
U
- Unpredictable: Cows. I know it doesn't make any sense.
V
- Vegetable you hate: All the Lauki-Tinda family type. And the Karela.
- Vegetable you love: Bhindi. Mmmmmm.
- Vacation spot: Europe, Somewhere in.
W
- Weakness: Husky voiced, broad shouldered... Weakness? I don't have any weakness'.
- When you grow up: Never!
- Worst feeling: When you now you're out of smokes and there is nothing you can do about it.
- Wanted to be a model?: A model what? Aeroplane? Citizen?
- Where do we go when we die: King's Cross, obviously.
- Worst weather: Muggy cloudy-ness.
X
-X-Rays: Errr... No thank you?
Y
-Year it is now: 2010
- Yellow: Buttercup?
Z
- Zoo animal: None! There shouldn't be any animals in zoo's. Zoo's are bad.
- Zodiac sign: Scorpio.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
GRRRRRRRRR
Stars shining bright above you,
Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you,
Birds singing in the sycamore tree,
Dream A Little Dream Of me
Just say goodnight and kiss me,
Oh, hold me tight and tell me you miss me;
While I'm alone and blue as can be,
Dream A Little Dream Of Me.
Stars fading, but I linger on, dear,
Still craving your kiss;
I'm longing to linger till dawn, my dear,
Just saying this:
Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you,
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you,
But in your dreams whatever they be,
Dream A Little Dream Of Me.
Dream A little dream of you and me.
Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you,
Birds singing in the sycamore tree,
Dream A Little Dream Of me
Just say goodnight and kiss me,
Oh, hold me tight and tell me you miss me;
While I'm alone and blue as can be,
Dream A Little Dream Of Me.
Stars fading, but I linger on, dear,
Still craving your kiss;
I'm longing to linger till dawn, my dear,
Just saying this:
Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you,
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you,
But in your dreams whatever they be,
Dream A Little Dream Of Me.
Dream A little dream of you and me.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
(Your Silence) In Couplets
If in time you feel I'm cold
My hair's too long, my form too old
You can say goodbye without a fear
For I'm too proud to shed a tear
I won't scream, or shout or sob or yell
When next we meet I'll never tell
That for a time my heart was yours
I'll keep sheathed my hidden claws
The time we spent will stay between
The things you said and didn't mean
I'll seal my lips and play along
We both know you did no wrong
You never said your words were binding
And I asked for nothing and you were obliging
You and I are done and I won't grieve
I always knew that you would leave
*inspired by conversations with Vogon Prose
My hair's too long, my form too old
You can say goodbye without a fear
For I'm too proud to shed a tear
I won't scream, or shout or sob or yell
When next we meet I'll never tell
That for a time my heart was yours
I'll keep sheathed my hidden claws
The time we spent will stay between
The things you said and didn't mean
I'll seal my lips and play along
We both know you did no wrong
You never said your words were binding
And I asked for nothing and you were obliging
You and I are done and I won't grieve
I always knew that you would leave
*inspired by conversations with Vogon Prose
What is wrong with me? And other questions
I need release.
I feel compelled to write something beautiful. That I can reread every time I feel the pit open at my feet. Something to take away from the ugliness in my head.
Its a four letter word, Hope.
So is life.
I feel compelled to write something beautiful. That I can reread every time I feel the pit open at my feet. Something to take away from the ugliness in my head.
Its a four letter word, Hope.
So is life.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Stage Directions
I should be in a white dress. The wind, it should be blowing, flinging my hair into my aura, wrapping my dress around my ankles, and then blowing it away.
I should be at the beach. Not the bright, sunny, colourful flotation device beach, but the crashing waves, steep, crumbling cliff and scraggly grass kind of beach. Walking along the edge of the cliff, staring down at the churning sea, unconcerned by the fate of my white dress in the vicious wind.
Perhaps I should clarify. I mean a white dress, not a White Dress.
I should be barefoot, having lost my shoes somewhere along the way. I could not recall where. Or what shoes. Or if I had ever worn shoes at all. I should be crying. Though, I always find that difficult. Knowing that I should be crying, I am suddenly incapable. I might cry. Let's leave it at that.
I walk, barefoot in my white dress perhaps in tears, to the edge of the cliff. The clouds, for the sky is gray with them, they pick up speed. Rushing by, blown away by the vicious wind, I should almost be able to hear them screaming. I should think, Just like I can almost hear myself screaming.
There should be rocks, in the ocean below me. The water around them should be white, and frothy. The rocks in contrast should black, slimy and jagged. There should perhaps be some sort of poetic echo, between the rocks and the water, and my white dress and my black hair.
I should step, to the very edge, with it crumbling beneath my toes and falling to the rocks that welcome it below. I should think, Just like it will welcome me.
I should lift my eyes to the sky, I should extend my arms as if pleading for salvation, I should turn my eyes into the wind and close them, I should lift myself onto my toes.
And then I wait. I wait.
I should be at the beach. Not the bright, sunny, colourful flotation device beach, but the crashing waves, steep, crumbling cliff and scraggly grass kind of beach. Walking along the edge of the cliff, staring down at the churning sea, unconcerned by the fate of my white dress in the vicious wind.
Perhaps I should clarify. I mean a white dress, not a White Dress.
I should be barefoot, having lost my shoes somewhere along the way. I could not recall where. Or what shoes. Or if I had ever worn shoes at all. I should be crying. Though, I always find that difficult. Knowing that I should be crying, I am suddenly incapable. I might cry. Let's leave it at that.
I walk, barefoot in my white dress perhaps in tears, to the edge of the cliff. The clouds, for the sky is gray with them, they pick up speed. Rushing by, blown away by the vicious wind, I should almost be able to hear them screaming. I should think, Just like I can almost hear myself screaming.
There should be rocks, in the ocean below me. The water around them should be white, and frothy. The rocks in contrast should black, slimy and jagged. There should perhaps be some sort of poetic echo, between the rocks and the water, and my white dress and my black hair.
I should step, to the very edge, with it crumbling beneath my toes and falling to the rocks that welcome it below. I should think, Just like it will welcome me.
I should lift my eyes to the sky, I should extend my arms as if pleading for salvation, I should turn my eyes into the wind and close them, I should lift myself onto my toes.
And then I wait. I wait.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Valhalla
*footsteps echo*
Ummm, hello? Sir? Are.. are you here?
*silence*
I have a problem Sir, a big one. I need your help.
*more silence*
I know you'd probably say that since these conversations happen in my head, the reason you aren't here is because I don't really know what to ask you, but I would really like to speak with you.
*yet more silence*
I'm sad, and I need guidance. A reality check. Something real, something true. Something, something I can use to bounce back from rock bottom.
*nothing*
Please?
*The lights dim. The curtains close. The stage door shuts*
*footsteps echo*
Ummm, hello? Sir? Are.. are you here?
*silence*
I have a problem Sir, a big one. I need your help.
*more silence*
I know you'd probably say that since these conversations happen in my head, the reason you aren't here is because I don't really know what to ask you, but I would really like to speak with you.
*yet more silence*
I'm sad, and I need guidance. A reality check. Something real, something true. Something, something I can use to bounce back from rock bottom.
*nothing*
Please?
*The lights dim. The curtains close. The stage door shuts*
*footsteps echo*
Thursday, 14 January 2010
This will make no sense.
How deeply ironic, that as I compose myself to write, 'Pay For What You Get' begins to play.
It has always been special, this song. I must have listened to it a few hundred times in the last ten years, but every time it plays I discover its message anew.
How apt, that the man who introduced me to it seemed to never stop paying.
I am afraid. Of everything.
I live at the edge of life. Almost there, but never quite able to take that one last step, and really live. Afraid that I may not be cut out for life after all.
If only, I could escape. The small things that keep me here, make me happy, temporarily.
Am I searching for a fix. Another fix. The tragedy, of giving up drugs to embrace the far deadlier addiction of want.
I could eat the world and hunger still. I could be filled to gorging and hunger still. A perpetual resident of Satis House.
The art of repression. Which I had mastered. My mind is regurgitating all that has been forced into it since I was four years old. And I am covered in vomited anguish. Decades of it.
I thought I was unhappy because I didn't fit into that dress anymore. The time I spent, wanting to be this thin again. It never changes anything really.
My best friend isn't here, for me to drown my sorrows with. Tonight I must find another way. To hide. Forget. Feel loved.
And I want. More than anything, to not want. I crave the absence. The silence. When my mind was peaceful. Empty. What will happen, when I have nothing to think about.
Ants. Mindless. Marching. Ants Marching.
Meet my magnifying glass.
It has always been special, this song. I must have listened to it a few hundred times in the last ten years, but every time it plays I discover its message anew.
How apt, that the man who introduced me to it seemed to never stop paying.
I am afraid. Of everything.
I live at the edge of life. Almost there, but never quite able to take that one last step, and really live. Afraid that I may not be cut out for life after all.
If only, I could escape. The small things that keep me here, make me happy, temporarily.
Am I searching for a fix. Another fix. The tragedy, of giving up drugs to embrace the far deadlier addiction of want.
I could eat the world and hunger still. I could be filled to gorging and hunger still. A perpetual resident of Satis House.
The art of repression. Which I had mastered. My mind is regurgitating all that has been forced into it since I was four years old. And I am covered in vomited anguish. Decades of it.
I thought I was unhappy because I didn't fit into that dress anymore. The time I spent, wanting to be this thin again. It never changes anything really.
My best friend isn't here, for me to drown my sorrows with. Tonight I must find another way. To hide. Forget. Feel loved.
And I want. More than anything, to not want. I crave the absence. The silence. When my mind was peaceful. Empty. What will happen, when I have nothing to think about.
Ants. Mindless. Marching. Ants Marching.
Meet my magnifying glass.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Seeing is Believeing
And I light another cigarette.
The blackness in my heart. The blackness in my lungs. The stillness in my hands that brings you to my mind.
And I light another cigarette.
The rush of nicotine in my brain. The need that consumes me every few minutes. The absence of thought that bends my conscious to you.
And I light another cigarette.
The back of my mind, that thinks about you without asking. That wonders and replays and relives though my hands and my mind are busy. That fuels the need for something more.
And I light another cigarette.
And it doesn't change a thing. At the end of a day spent in motion I turn to switch of the lamp, and the light catches my ashtray. Brimming with ash and cigarettes smoked to the bitter end. A reminder of every time my hands and mind and heart reached for you.
And I will light another cigarette.
The blackness in my heart. The blackness in my lungs. The stillness in my hands that brings you to my mind.
And I light another cigarette.
The rush of nicotine in my brain. The need that consumes me every few minutes. The absence of thought that bends my conscious to you.
And I light another cigarette.
The back of my mind, that thinks about you without asking. That wonders and replays and relives though my hands and my mind are busy. That fuels the need for something more.
And I light another cigarette.
And it doesn't change a thing. At the end of a day spent in motion I turn to switch of the lamp, and the light catches my ashtray. Brimming with ash and cigarettes smoked to the bitter end. A reminder of every time my hands and mind and heart reached for you.
And I will light another cigarette.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
I am a Bloody Rock
So in light of my age and general coolness, I have decided to not go completely insane.
This was not an easy decision to make of course, it required much thought and calculation. Though having lost most of my mind already I am not entirely sure that thought and calculation are my best skills, at the moment anyway.
Anyway, the point is, I must behave like I have lived for a quarter of a century, rather than just a sixteenth of it, and it starts now.
In other news, boys suck.
This was not an easy decision to make of course, it required much thought and calculation. Though having lost most of my mind already I am not entirely sure that thought and calculation are my best skills, at the moment anyway.
Anyway, the point is, I must behave like I have lived for a quarter of a century, rather than just a sixteenth of it, and it starts now.
In other news, boys suck.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Age is something that doesn't matter, unless you are cheese.
The Dragon turned 25 recently, though she wasn't happy about it. Apparently one has no choice in the matter of aging, no matter how bitterly you might complain about it to the relevant authorities. So, I decided instead of brooding to accept it gracefully, and embrace all the wonderful things that are supposed to be the plus side of rushing headlong to your death.
There weren't very many, and some of them did sound suspiciously like old people trying to hard to sound cheerful, but there was one certainly that caught my interest and that I was very eager to incorporate into my aged-ness.
I was told that as one got older the drama, the incessant love-lust drama of ones youth faded away, and was replaced with calm, rational wisdom. The raging emotions (or hormones, lets be honest), the do or die compulsions, the deep, soul-wrenching anguish, the uncertainty, the triple guessing, the 'should I fucking call him or would that be too needy' debates that keep you awake at night would all disappear. You wouldn't have to wonder, you would know.
HAH.
What rubbish. There are no advantages to growing old at all.
(So seriously, call him? Not call him? Call him? No, maybe not. Or perhaps I should. No, no stupid idea. But...)
There weren't very many, and some of them did sound suspiciously like old people trying to hard to sound cheerful, but there was one certainly that caught my interest and that I was very eager to incorporate into my aged-ness.
I was told that as one got older the drama, the incessant love-lust drama of ones youth faded away, and was replaced with calm, rational wisdom. The raging emotions (or hormones, lets be honest), the do or die compulsions, the deep, soul-wrenching anguish, the uncertainty, the triple guessing, the 'should I fucking call him or would that be too needy' debates that keep you awake at night would all disappear. You wouldn't have to wonder, you would know.
HAH.
What rubbish. There are no advantages to growing old at all.
(So seriously, call him? Not call him? Call him? No, maybe not. Or perhaps I should. No, no stupid idea. But...)
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