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June 21, 2011


And thus, it begins.
Out of the blue, like passing a homeless person on a street who doesn’t ask you for your money.
Arising from the spaces linking our fingers, where we conceal all our secrets.
It draws me in deep. Then it immediately pushes me away.
The frosty winds came too early, this year.
Plenty of birds dying in their nests.
We gazed at stars and peeked at fireflies.
Everything was painted the colour of silence.

She licks her lips again, slowly this time. The droplets of sweat that were present are now the salt on her tongue. My eyes are glued to the ebb and fall of the dice she wore around her delicate neck.
Her eyes blinked to the beat of leaves falling from the tress, becoming one with the earth.

She doesn’t utter a word. Not a single one. Just keeps me waiting.
Testing my patience.
Please say something. Anything.
Cross me off that list of yours and name this our last kiss, I say.
She laughs out loud. Bloody hell.

I turn around and walk away to find a new her.
I leave because she is too gorgeous.
More than anything, I leave because I love words too much.

And it is tough to be in love with a mute.

June 19, 2011


So, here I am playing the stare game with my laptop thinking that it’s been really long since I’ve written a post. And I still have nothing to write. So just like any self indulgent person, I am going to write about something that I know very well – me! It’s not a very appealing topic. And, in my defense, I did state the words 'self indulging'.

So, where do I begin? As a child I spent so much time on a collection of certain ideas about life, love, existence and well, the most over-rated actor – Salman Khan. But then, I grew up. Salman however, didn't.

I believed that growing up and becoming an adult would mean inconceivable freedom. It would mean finally being cool and famous and surrounded by happy people. I guess this was the case of most of you guys. But hey, I never said that I’m special.

Time as a youngster was spent eating Maggi noodles in front of the television, literally one foot away from the screen watching Small Wonder and I Dream of Jeannie. I remember playing cricket in the living room with my bro. And my clothes, oh dear god. I ranged from looking like a princess to a street gangster. Rangeela, KKHH and Gulaam were my fashion guides. And the pictures are never going to see the light of day.

Why am I telling you guys all this..? Damn I should have thought of it before writing all this shit. I don’t want to delete it now because, face it; nothing is scarier than a blinking cursor.

As a child I believed that life just happened. People fell in love. People stayed in love. Damn I wish my parents took some videos of me as a child. I would have at least something to look at whenever I cry that I’m growing up too fast and that I miss my childhood days.

I believe kids of today are too aware and too snobbish and too self absorbed. Even more than me. And believe me, I am really self absorbed. I feel sad that they do not get to enjoy Parle Poppins, Goti Soda, Rola Cola and Jolly Jelly (If I don’t get a single comment concerning this, I swear I’ll change my name to Anna Ramdev)

My shrink tells me to be open and honest with people. He tells me to share stuff. I love to keep everything to myself. I don’t see anything wrong with doing that. But, I’m the one on the chair and he’s the one with the degree. So here I go. And hey I’d be completing Chocolate Lover’s tag in the process.

*Each tagged person must post ten things about themselves*
*You have to choose and tag ten people*
*Go to their blogs and tell them you tagged them*
*No tags back*
*Have fun*

  1. I never knew how to dance properly until I was 15. I looked like a person doing the Robot dance and the Chicken dance simultaneously.
  2. Cockroaches petrify me. I literally freeze and almost pass out when I see one.
  3. I tend to classify people as those better than me and people I’m better than. Hardly do I ever find an equal. I guess that’s because I don’t know where I stand. Don’t ask me where you stand. I won’t tell. And stop thinking about it.
  4. I have freakishly long fingers and toes. I think I belong to another species.
  5. I have read all the books in the Princess Diaries series, Harry Potter series and the Twilight series.
  6. I would love to believe people like Edward Cullen and secret worlds like in Harry Potter exist. I’ve tried my best. And then I feel stupid.
  7. I feel stupid most of the time.
  8. I crack jokes when I’m nervous. I’m not funny. I just want to fill awkward silences.
  9. I’m really bad at Maths, Physics and Statistics. I literally suck.
  10. I really really really love Mc. Donald’s potato wedges. But everytime I finish overeating them, I hate myself.

And…I would like to tag---

Scribbling Gal
Blasphemous Aesthete
C'est Moi

June 5, 2011

Dead Poets Society

"O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."

He read these lines over and over again, day after day. There was something magical about Walt Whitman that he could not give words to, something that gave him a celestial inspiration, something that reached into him and egged him on to write more and more.

He glanced at the scattered papers all around him.
‘Souvenirs’, he called them. 
Souvenirs that mocked him. 
Souvenirs that mirrored his erudite incompetence.

He thought about the recent novels that had been published. They all revolved around the same trash- technologically advanced world, about spies that belong to secret organizations, about children superheroes. He thought about the death of literature. He mourned for the world’s loss. He thought literature surely deserved a eulogy. He sat down to write one.

He wasn’t worthy enough to write it. He knew. But still he continued writing.

He wrote for hours, days, weeks. He never stopped.

He mourned though his words, he wept about the words that were no longer an inspiration to many, and he grieved about his cherished writers and poets. He kept writing.

But he ran out of words. He wasn’t tired. His pen still had ink.

But he had no words.

He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.

It was rather funny.

He was grappled by a paroxysm of laughter. He chuckled and snickered. He howled and roared. He laughed like a maniac and tears began to flow.

In a fit of glee, he drove his pen deep into his wrist and watch the blood rush out like ink.
His hand jerked and he knocked over the ink pot. 
Red and blue merged together, giving rise to one of the most suitable metaphors.

Blood and ink, wasted.

All in the view that he had no words…