Missing

There I was. In a flimsy white slip, hand stitched lace at the hem, kiddy pink panties. Didn’t have a swim suit. Ma did not think I needed one for one trip to the beach. Sitting on my haunches next to the pool. Baba was in the pool- asking Ma to give me to him. I could not swim. Baba’s out stretched hands took me into the blue water. Then I was running on the wet sands to the sea.

There again. Amidst the rolling valley. The bluest sky and the darkest green. I threw a stone at a lamb. It butted me down. I rolled down the tiny hill, sat there and wailed till my parents finished laughing and came and told me- nothing happened. The sky was still blue, the grass still memory green.

Look at me. In the white snow- a blotch of red. Ma never let go of my tiny fist wrapped around her finger. I took a handful of snow and ate it. I wish I knew then what a snowman was- orange candies were more important to me. I knew a poppy though. Innumerable stars, being fed sitting on the log cabin stairs, blue woollen dungarees, I looked like a boy. The yellow tent blazing in my mind’s eye.

Why do I remember so little?

Where did Ma and Baba leave me and go?

The Imaginarium

Everyone thinks that their problems are bigger than anybody else’s problems. Everyone wants everyone to understand. To love them. To like them. To hold them when they sleep at night. How am I any different?
Do I not miss the feel of someone next to me when the person gets up and leaves?
I.
Someone who could not share a bed. I now share my life with people who may not exist tomorrow.

I write with the fear of losing all that I have ever written. Retarded Rhymes from the time I was 12. In minuscule, neat alphabets, with pencil on paper yellowed with age. an old note pad that belonged to my grandfather.


Words rhymed, the poems were small, painfully simple lines. Innocence perhaps, more complex feelings had not yet assaulted my words then. Love still rhymed with dove, blue with you, sky with why.

I wrote of love- without ever being in it. Wrote about imagined pains. Drama as always. No colours, no visions, no time lapses and no morbidity. How difficult can black graphite on paper get?

There is no going back to that oblivious innocence. I have lost those poems. Words, oft used, ever abused- rhymes, without knowing about passions, about desires, about sins.

My mother wanted to keep those poems- but I lost them. Maybe because I was growing up. This grownup life had no space for such simplicities. If I knew that growing up was such a scary process- I would have kept those poems forever.

Aboard the Flying Dutchman!

I have decided to get back to blogging. Since I have partially stopped maintaining a diary. Heartbreaking. For those empty pages I had been longing to feel. They have been violated. It disgusts me.

I am waiting for something stunning. To write about. That little beacon of hope that gets brighter and brighter as the words are created- and then it blinds you. I want to blind people with thoughts. For some people I feel- have not had one worthy thought in decades. Waste of brain, waste of space.

I also hate people who leech off ideas. When I hear them talk to others they go-
For example-
"Oh! I love Simon and Garfunkle...the cover for Watchmen...ooo...so nice...makes the song stand out more..."

Hello! Did you not hear of Simon and Garfunkle from my Ipod!??

Another-

"In Lord of the Rings- I love the way the elves look...and the place they live in...so pretty! And I can't believe that there is a reading of LOTR that reads homosexuality into the text...CAN you IMAGINE???"

Excuse me- You don't know where the elves live...and the essay you are talking bout is in MY laptop!!!

This is usually done to impress men- men who have a sliver of intellect. Just a sliver.

Digression. But then.

There has to be a brilliant idea hovering around somewhere. I just need to catch it, when it is resting unaware on a mossy branch. I hope it looks like one of the fairies from Pan's Labyrinth.
Catch it and pin it down in ink on handmade paper. Then it would look perfect.
Or I could sit on the helm of the Flying Dutchman and dangle my legs till something better came along.

And then I could write.

Ordo ab chao

I have decided to get the word 'chaos' tattooed. Below this other symbol. It makes sense to me to add something more to that symbol- for apparently, both me and the other person in question who got it tattooed- didn't give it too much thought. We just picked a design that looked cool, remotely related to 'love'
So I have decided to add the word 'chaos' to it.
Chaos is a permanent state for me. Nothing else makes sense.
My mind is never at peace. I never have dreamless sleep. It never rests, I can get back to a dream, just where I left it off, in case I am not satisfied with how it ended. I can follow it, manipulate it at times.
My concentration span is lesser than that of a sparrow.

So now. When the word is done- the symbol will read- chaotic love.

For a change. Perfect.

Love and then pretence

I just wanted to write. Rant actually.
I have been told quite a few times in the last few months that I must find something else to write about besides love. I just can't seem to find it.
It. That one elusive little 'topic' that will free me of 'love' for a while.
Lately, my life has been reduced to this odd cycle of monotonous tasks, inter spaced with moments of complete forgetfulness and meaningless conversation that do nothing to my head.
Intrinsically. I must say- it is vital that it does something to my head.
I have no time for myself anymore. Literally.
If you don't make me think- you won't exist in my life very much longer.
I was told to try and concentrate. Long moments have passed with me holding an open message template in hand- and completely blank about what I wanted to write and who I wanted to send that message to.
Mornings have gone, after bad, tough nights, when I have woken up and almost managed to convince myself that nothing happened the night before. Not convince in an 'optimistic happy go lucky way' but convince myself by blanking out episodes and people completely for a few moments.
I fear the worst.
No. Not the morbid quiet yet.
It is vital.

:X

"...Why is it… you think I wrote this poem to please you? ? ? When I know, I wrote these words, to bring your curiosity to a point, to question, what did I just say and what did I mean when at the end of this poem I stated: you can’t unread a poem of substance whether you agree or disagree once you read it."

I have decided.

Decided that I do not need approval for poetry or prose or whatever I write. Even if it is a doodle I make- I don't need a nod, a smile, a smirk or anything remotely affirmative. A lot is dying in me with the fear that if it comes out it will shock you, it will make you wonder how warped I am, how evil I can secretly be, how many great things I can manipulate and how many sad souls are there who I CAN manipulate- and already am bending and breaking and twisting into strange foreign shapes.

If you hate me after you read me- you probably have always hated me inside anyway.
So- I am not keeping anything in. I will write when I want and what I want- and in any way I want- Mind you.

If you don't get me- you weren't meant to- I am not writing text books to be comprehensible to all. If you care enough to ask me I will explain with all my heart. But most are too egotistic to ask. They can criticize but they can't write.

I can write. And I will.

And I did not write this to please you either.

Things on Wardrobe Doors

LUST

(I think I love you. Who are you anyway?)

Here it is, the big "Wow," the big "Gee," the big "Yesyesyes" you've been waiting for. This is where you find something or someone and believe they are better, greater, cuter, wiser and more wonderful than anything you have ever known.
Lust isn't a sin, it's a necessity, for with lust as our guide we imagine our bodies moving the way our bodies were meant to move: We can do marathons with our feet, lift pounds with our arms, have stars in our eyes and do a nifty tango. And you think:
I have no need of food, I have no need of sleep, I have no needs other than occasionally chewing a breath mint. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me, probably because you haven't happened to me yet.

FEAR

(Also known as :Uh-oh)

This is where the doubt begins, where the mind comes back home from shopping, yells at the heart, binds and gags it to a nice lounge chair and allows guilt, failure, and remembrances of things past to sit in for a nice game of bridge. This is where you fear what you need most. If it's a person you love then you fear appearing foolish in front of them. if it's a sport, you fear being foolish in front of many, many people at the same time. And you begin to think:
Oh no. What if I am wrong? What if this stinks? What if my heart has blinders on, it's had blinders on before, in fact it had dark heavy patches taped all over it. I mean, I love myself, there are just parts between the top of my head and the bottom of my feet that could use some improvement. I am not demeaning myself, I have relatives who do that.

THE TRUTH

(Love is hard work. And, sometimes, hard work can really hurt.)

Love is a game. If they didn't tell you before, we will tell you now. Love is a game and if you play you either win, lose, or get ejected before the game is over.
There are no ties.
Maybe you'll lose and learn some great meaningful answer from it all (Like if it looks too good to be true, it is). It;s easy to love someone when you don't have to work at it. it's harder when it asks something of you, you just might be afraid to give.
Give it anyway.
The heart is the most resilient muscle. It is also the stupidest. So if this love you've found is good to you, hold it, keep it, shout about it. If it isn't, then maybe you should just become very good friends.


I had this written on my wardrobe doors from the time I was 16. And I am still learning from it.

I cannot write without a heart ache.

Beloved. Be my heart ache.

Of jelly balls and stupidity

Long journeys allow a lot of introspection. Especially when you are all alone. Flights are easy- a couple of hours just pass in the tiresome process of trying to get comfortable enough to sleep and then trying to get some sleep before the flight is ready to land. Why can I not be asleep when the flight lands? If my seat belt is tied then what may be the problem in my state of stupor? Or is it that if they crash they want you to be awake enough to face the pain and the terror full throttle. And then…every one wants to die in their sleep. So- a plane is not the best place for it. Try a train. And if that dratted train is 16 hours late- even better. All the people who may have out of all love and affection come to meet you have probably passed out or gone home out of sheer boredom. So, go ahead and die…no one will even know.
However such morbidity is not a part of this rambling. It is actually introspection. Someone very dear to me told me that I needed deep introspection so I headed home. On a 23 hour journey that turned into a 13 hour wait and a 28 hour train ordeal. Life is such.
I didn’t think much on the train. I slept half the journey and then spent the rest refusing food and playing Ages of Empire and watching one episode of House. I thought far more while standing on the station, while travelling in the fog, while facing the chilly winds to and from the station twice.
Clearly a journey home was not a requirement. But as long as I can…why not?
One person you cannot lie to is yourself- you can pretend to lie but it never really works. I can pretend to convince myself of so many completely absurd things but it does not work. Some part of my rather frequently dysfunctional thinking organ catches me and slaps me across the face every time I do. What we can do instead is – lie to others. By that rather sweeping statement I do not mean that we ‘lie’ to them literally about things that concern them- like whether you cheated them, on them, with them, whether you watched the movie you said you did not…and such. This lie that I talk of is a lie we become to others. What we really are never completely gets across to people. If it does then those people are frightfully boring. We all have some secret avatars hidden in the deep recesses of the Fight Club type caves- that never really see the light of day. I do not know about others. Mine surely never will.
I can’t even deal with my own dark self. How can I expect you to?
I had tried to explain this to another person I love and he didn’t understand. They don’t need to- you don’t need to. Can’t you be at peace by knowing that you may never completely understand some person?
Then I thought about confessions. Confession we selectively reveal- wanting every person hearing it to know that this was our glory and we would revel in it till we died. In our sleep. When that happens we never think while we hear our friends confessing their so called deepest darkest secrets- how calculated these moves really are. It’s not a crime. It is ok to not want the world to know you. Am I justifying it because I do it?
Yes.
They take out their vices, their defects and faults and roll it into a sticky ball and throw it at you when you aren’t even ready. And it smacks you on your cheek and all you can really do is try wiping some of it away. It reminds me of a sticky ball of jelly I had bought once from one of those prank shops. It left an oily mark on my dad’s newly painted wall. The mark is still there- what caused it has been lost somewhere and forgotten about. Dad does not remember it. I do. I had flung that ball at the wall just to see whether it stuck there.
These confessions are like that. You will brush it away because when honesty- even a partial one- hits you square between the eyes- we always look away. When someone is honest we forget, when they lie we remember. That is how it is. In days like these we value lies enough to memorize them. And the honesty- half baked or otherwise- is just a statement. It is that sticky ball that was thrown at you in jest and you laughed it away.
So, if you really want to hide- be honest. They won’t remember, and they will forget it like dad had forgotten the blue sticky jelly ball.
You will- for you threw yourself at them.