an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy

..finally, you wrote me. subtly spelt in ink, your handwriting's an illegible mess. your hand's been missed, uncomfortably. the way it curves the y and splits even sentences in inefficiently riddled prose is overwhelming.

a few separations ago, we subsidized our familiarity for contempt - an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy. it outran us just like everyone overtook us, undoing pavement overtures. so what do i expect this envelope? what do i owe this effort? have you finally learnt to manage expectation? to what do we drink tonight..

the morning's grim. the rum evaporating your words. nouns pronounced to unsettle weeks. it demands a reply. maybe grotesque in prose and objective in satire. letters have a knack to unlearn easily. they twist and when unread by the author, leave open an imagination. this one's an exhibition. it simmers greed and inculcates desire - "you made my attitude suffered painfully that evening, cherished every night since". to post must've taken courage, a broken bone in reverence to every evening. its stuck in your whims and my fancies. the author doesn't take the reader for granted, for the author knows how to frame these lines. the sock's delivered before the calm, melancholy ridden ploy. a trait well embodied every time we exchanged back then. its a type i still cannot get used to. for the author doesn't challenge, she merely preserves the unbecoming. some of the best dialogue interchange has bent itself a beat, clawed and extemporized. surfeit in endearment, its unpunctuated to the best of her abilities. it doesn't confirm your company and strokes this heart weary. the enthusiasm is clapping and mending to that bone. a tranche settled out of interest. so i'd be grandiose in explanation too, chipping away on an open field.

she's lying on the grass, eschewing nondescript paragraphs. she clutches the thumb, now a conclave caught in critique. adulation is dressed up too, circumventing my opposition. an imposition one submits to. however, the sun ray's are at a preferred angle, the quickest draw vindicating any hope of harmony. that moment could have been forever, had the hills stood still. that tempting cache of inadequacy, a feeling of guilt she contains and won't admit. its holding us thin. its not the words that make a difference, its the tone. how often has vulnerability been? it needn't. a comatose privy to this despondency. calculating each stab by time, the sentences are deviously serenaded. ah, that uncanny ability to deceit, conjuring indecent theft. you're more than a metaphor in my most important phrase. sleeping on stoned grounds, sunburnt and clipped.

we will meet soon, i'll make myself and we'll hardly say anything at all.

finally, you've written me.

Essentially Wasted And Endlessly Winning.

There's this moribund Jameson bar coaster on his glass table. Quite explainig how today has been. Perennially under the weather, three sheets through witnessing wind. Absorbing every tense of well-built whiskey - satiated and sauteed, now incapable of speech. What made the difference? Having another clue oneself on never being evocative, that much again. For she forgot he wasn't replacement, haplessly frenzied nor awkwardly toe'd on optimism. Was much like stymied strains from an inebriated violin. A violin wicked in the afternoon, judgmental by evening, witless on the midnight and disoriented every minute hence. The coaster's frantic in the middle too, tepid under circumstance and meaningfully rude. They've seen, together, the sky change its colour and bend to placate. They've martyred competition and bundled unhappy thoughts a new bed sheet. At the same time, they have felt alone - lonely - uncourageous to admit missing an occasional sip.

Those were the weeks. Uncultured, rhythmic in enticing clamour. He used to row stories at dusk. Sit through cigarettes and cheap whiskey, tell - tale cars of riot and canvas a pretty picture of tomorrow. He had company, company which commingled interest. Not one to commiserate errors, it used to bring the best out of him. Evoke trains of would-be's and fragment illustrations of ideas they'd dreamt up, previous weeks. The visitors never complained, they'd fortify, rally broken bones. He'd believe them, light another, parading famous yarns. His dresses were incomplete but shoes clean as today. He used to cry, he used to laugh and he was kept on a pedestal in third party chatter, he wanted victory and he used to win.

She wasn't much alone. She did not demand him. She placed herself a step below to begin with, unhinging on his sub conscious, partaking asymmetric rhetoric. Her hair was uncombed, equal delight to disarranged studies. Clothes unmatched and eyes woebegone, pupils smiling on vertical curves. The lips curled at an obtuse angle and met each other in stricken harmony. Those lips knew how to brush themselves against, kiss a stone. They could hold him still, as much as command a cigarette. But it was her hands that mobbed, throwing stones and sticks to his unready melodies. She didn't demean though held him water to her decree. Satisfactorily, she took him out. He did not resent, resist or require. Suddenly, the films he so equated were comforting. Crushed leaves in a tea pot, their delivery was somewhat wrapped. Boxes covered in thought and tapes of hope. They could plot an empire, undo melancholy and unstrap each other at fancy's whims. Music, you ask? Never too loud and always special. The tunes they summarized could tackle a magazine and shame a critic. Of culture they accompanied, making nights memorable. The mornings may have been an aenema in denial, found in summaries best read by those atrophied by our neglect.

So today the coaster is split in between, one hand's a trail of anecdotes; the other side's a bottle of distress. He finds himself stitching possibilities of morning dust, unitching another week of work. See sawing a flute of chance on a vacation unslept, where she is today. He knows not but its somewhere he imagines himself each evening, borrowed mad to a hatter. Its not all crackers in sunshine, he calms his aching nerves while the scent of her awakens him. Weighing against, a combination of waning consolation. Yearning instructions, he shutters the company today as weak, toasted grim on fertile discussion. For stirred sentiment is as suffocating as summers in sorrow. Like spelling mistakes on your most important hand written letter. The need, the smell of unopened envelopes encompassing his mood today. Probably she is wasting time on better things, unhurried/ unworried for his disparaging comments. He pines till the last drop dries itself a dire death. Maybe she is unhappy too...

He knows not what it is he wants to be used to now. He in unsure but slowly, with each sip, getting there. Ideally, love and ideally, lust but its not an ideal world now, is it?

Courtesy.

We've got Cohen's quiet voice eagering us on and my stained sleeves have crumbs stitched wickedly from the lamp. If the song were to switch, it would be injustice to the mood right now. This mood is a cohort of submissions, each broken into little boxes. These boxes contain bearings from different days on which it felt similar. And to be able to dig into what those boxes contain, is the summation of our attachment. How the heart works and how these fingers fiddle, however nonchalantly, brings the memories tumbling down. Each beat renders obsolete and every touch retracts, extracting that unharmed bone. It toys with all the wrong muscles and suffocates our cache of unspoken needs. It asphyxiates me, strangles the stretch. For one should have said those things back then itself, instead of dragging all drab and drizzle. Those were salad days. An attempt to erase everything that happened the previous days. As we'd build, build, break - and soldier on again. For within those submissive tirades and sentences that were juxtaposed, the comparisons were nixed. Those boxes, soiled with gratitude and efforts of discourse, were misplaced. We'd strayed at sea, rapt and neglected in selfish interest. Who can be blamed? Its what happens as we think of then, all rinsed and tuned out - more to others needs than to impressions themselves. How we bunker ammunition at disparaged reflection and then we piece all our whims in rhapsody itself. You're no stranger to our intention, neither one to scrape on worried nerves. You are however wanted, to help me cast a debt furnished from long ago. Because madness has waned and my scheme's dilapidated by the particles from the box. They too've been wrung out and besmeared by jejune fancies we partook on. Its like the whole circus wound along, and we didn't have the decency or courage to settle our receipts. But don't think I'm parlancing an overreaction, I'm merely suggesting we may've obliged and made the lot of them win. Then those boxes, of ambition and vehemence, could have died a natural death. We're unsure of how we need each other today and in a way, that is our uncelebrated victory. Our triumph makes atrophy any sense of modern compassion. You far away, well settled, can afford an immaculate stride while I only coffee and pine for how things should have been. I'm helpless still, you know - forging on those crumbs, stitched perpendicularly on my unclean sleeves.

Passive.

You'll be gone, disappeared

in a couple of days

whilst your tune satiates.

If thats why

its falling in piece,

then this whole melody

of need

we succumbed to

is excused as well.

For its unequal yet,

a reciprocated set

murdered in jest,

nuggets dusted

dismissed

with distress

singing in comparison

to an overbearing display

of besottedness.

Maybe then we'd find

how alluring it became with

disdain where we started

while sentiment reign'd.

Therefore, and

because we're a long way,

celebrate a night of naivety

where I'll rinse all gratitude

and you dry us of worry.

The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean

Commonsense has trampled down many a gentle genius whose eyes had delighted in a too early moonbeam of some too early truth; commonsense has back-kicked dirt at the loveliest of queer paintings because a blue tree seemed madness to its well-meaning hoof; commonsense has prompted ugly but strong nations to crush their fair but frail neighbors the moment a gap in history offered a chance that it would have been ridiculous not to exploit.

Vladimir Nabokov, "How to Read, How to Write," 1980

I am the happiest man in the world and here's why: I walk down a street and I see a woman, not tall but well-proportioned, very dark-haired, very neat in her dress, wearing a dark skirt with deep pleats that swing with the rhythm of her rather quick steps; her stockings, of dark color, are carefully, impeccably smooth; her face is not smiling, this woman walks down the street without trying to please, as if she were unconscious of what she represented: a good carnal image of woman, a physical image, more than a sexy image, a sexual image.

Francois Truffaut, "Is Truffaut the Happiest Man on Earth? Yes," 1970

And, yes, you're married and, yes, maybe she is, too, but you are there, both of you, because you want to strip yourselves down to just this moment, this motel, this song, this bottle of wine, this bra strap, these panties over this chair, this light cutting through these curtains, this pillow, these deep sighs.

Anonymous

What's the point?

Who are you? Why don't you go to sleep? She bothers your dreams? How many people do you know to have used the word Oblique? Why don't you italicize your words? What's the population of Suriname? Economics? What's the point? Aren't you entertained? Do you detest Vodka too? Would you rather fuck Susan Hayward? Will you ever afford a Gucci Aquariva? Will you share a 30 year old Midleton? Have you ever drank alone? You really believe she loves you? What's the point? If I went to Beirut, would you come along? Is there cinema in Vietnam? Your favorite Ani DiFranco album is? Ever kissed an eloquent girl? Mountains or the sea? Did Monnet really help his cause? Who called Tarantino mad? What's the point? Symphony? Please accompany me for dinner? Italian? Does red wine make you cheerful? Will you have more of it? Are you grateful to her for an introduction to Herzog? Did she smoke your cigarettes? Are you willing to lose your virginity? New year's eve? Thom Yorke makes you unhappy? What about a quiet walk?Are they willing? Will they forgive? Can you paint the last leaf? Will they go to war? Politics? What's the point? No, seriously.

Music.

Don't you drink? I notice you speak slightingly of the bottle. I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure. When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky? When you are cold and wet what else can warm you? Before an attack who can say anything that gives you the momentary well-being that rum does? The only time it isn't good for you is when you write or when you fight. You have to do that cold. But it always helps my shooting. Modern life, too, is often a mechanical oppression and liquor is the only mechanical relief.

Ernest Hemingway

Brittle.

Wearily, wearing away. They're now scattered, a million little pieces - succinct in labor, tailored in love. Parcel of the same frame which once weighted, now fragmented to dissuaded chips. But isn't it easier to pick one now? You choose the most delicate and swim emotions away. The delicate deliquesce apace, the hardened disintegrating strongly. So what does that leave me with? Another frontier to claim? Or will this make delay conduct? To help habituate. 

Hello, unsure melancholy, intertwining those waking hours in hurried sunset, reaching beneath the dusted blanket -  without remorse, without any pangs of conscience, teasing away. And its not you, you wretchedness, that makes compunction reconcile. It once smacked of self confidence, now it annoys and riles. Quiet now, settle 'neath patient sentiment, this industry rejects riot. But racket did turmoil, tempting glum away, to the sway of astray warmth, dusting mud again. Ah, wounded, its not contusion that does you in! Its the weather commingled, stirred with an essay of haplessness.

Now, don't it hurt? Don't it discomfort effort? So you whack, shivering the glass, simmering the smug afternoon, a cleft ajar. And thus, you're like any one of them, rough against creases, fragility isn't fortitude, collecting a million many pieces. 

Residue.

She slaps her knuckles to the knees, her moves as efferent as her views. Then as if taking cue from my inability to strike conversation, she pioneers a discussion on the upcoming elections. The single malts arrive as neat as her luring hair and I find myself hazily looking into the semi brown state of affairs, bleakly blocked by hexagonally shaped ice cubes and an overdose of Dylan's stunning melody. On a better night, I'd wait for the blocks to semi melt and then drown the ethanol but tonight, I'm already running away. Half willingly through an embarrassed gaze, I let her run riot. The inequality in our comportment may seem disheartening to the waitress, as well as to the other regulars but her voice shall not run dry. Not tonight. She is over caffeinated, overly assured of her typical self. She's best dressed in the measured grey dress with black strands to support the thighs. The straps on her shoulder's casing are well supported by the tightness with which she holds her chest, which in turn, turn my attention onto her perfectly poised right hand holding the evident drink. I'd beg to differ and plead another, but she beats me here as well. As refills hurry up, the waitress further impatient at our neglect of the food menu, she plunges into another tirade of breaking news. She crawls the same sentences into how she feels at home at this place and I can only view such ho hum with disdain. A monotonous midnight, we have been humbled by a few pegs, and as deflated my ego is by her condescending, tiring dialogue towards the end, I do hold sway when it comes to a question mark. Every ridicule meets subdued disquiet and each of her fingers swivel, her hand gaining in confidence with every stench of alcohol that subtly berates her otherwise morose culture. She becomes surer as it goes and I, less confident of any sort of comfortable sleep. Its one of those nights when the mind keeps going back to how happy I'd be, if left alone with my own self, a pack, and the pole star. As time ticks, impatience grows and my frown is found breaking weary. Her elbow snares, dilapidated but blithe. In waspish, I lift an annoyed hand. She scowls, complete choler at locating her propaganda dismissed by my irascibility. These are the times when I wish we had never met, let alone come here in first place. Seconds stretch, and every blink of mine is a belated birthday wish. Riled, the rye my only consolation, I'm not just piqued in demeanor but in blur. Disinterest pales in comparison and she now begins to judge. It might be the high percentage in her blood stream, but for me, it has existed since before the first dram. Even the delight when vintage rubs against my neck cannot negate a swelling discontent. As the wrinkles twist, she seems to have had enough as well. Warbling herself, she ignores the last drink which she would have otherwise beetled and whizzed. For she has found her talk ignored as much as our resentment towards the food menu. Steadily the meaningful tone grimaces and a reprimanding one overtakes. Lowering her volume, she nods up and leans closer across the matted wooden table, all the while ensuring her breath does not seem a burden. She catches up on my heaviness and running her fingers across my restive hands, asks me why I feel tunneled and this apathetic. I'm almost apologetic for I have no answer. This conversation was the sole reason why I'd reveled then, celebrating her in first place.

An Ire For Attire - Chorus...

I'll add a line there and you add one word too,
chewed upon bitterness, and what we otherwise do.

Because in those lines, lay besotted with pain,
your resolute mirage, glum in unsettling rain.

That's wherein I'd emerge, arriving out of nowhere
held in randomness, upon our optical chair.

So don't make this hard, for I'll fall unintentionally,
much ado 'bout nothing, and harmless poetry.

For I am a simple man, who mostly thinkest least,
this hurts, it does, resplendent at one apiece?

Your toes, humbling echoes, an overdose of caffeine, 
who are I to read this to? For you cannot be seen.

Frames of your helpless arm, across my naked chest,
and your fingers sashayed, clinched in humorless jest.

One can dislike, you too may and leave me midways, 
tinker with the thought of mine, for I shalt always.

Now melancholy slays, you further make me dismal,
I'll quietly slip; then slit, undress, and haplessly sulk.

Whatever. The Salad Days.

Only because she deserves to get printed -

The greens stretch beyond me
A hook, a patch I see
He blabs
I concede defeat
Fake, I always can
Tonight though, the melee seems humongous
My vision limited
Pink bands I see
The blue I never can reach. 
The fascination will die
Psychedelia will vanish tonight
Soon enough
But never too late
Till then my pulp will suffice
The only thing of consequence.

Partake.

One discerned climate change
while the other resolved to stay;
because when vacant and free
you cease to exist, simultaneously.

Trees in swamps get quickly dated,
as wet mud steadily gets cultivated;
crustaceans go scared and supplicate,
for only does their venereal satiate.

For only does history speak
when theres need for sympathy
For poets which make verse of stories
less their macabre 'comes cacophony.

And at the end of a day
I'm not better than all I say;
doing unto them what's not right
sadistic pleasure, gratification, delight.
But even in thoughts I select
they are aligned to not intersect
with Poe's.

For my subtle thoughts are congenial; 
less profound, grotesque and unreal.
And in these thoughts lies her grudge
awash in slit and mire, lost in deluge.

A Number Of Connected Albums Penned Down Consecutively, Consequentially.

Life/ Blog/ Myself/ You/ 2008, 

I'v been meaning to do this since an era. So I sat down, arranged and re-arranged and got myself a fine December 18th gift, to celebrate many winters of randomness. Even though this one won't require a sweater, it continues to give me chills of a different kind. I feel smug, yet uncontent in the knowledge that it might not be positive all night along. After 2008's random run, 2009 shall not be a good year. Its one of those years you so know about. And when I say 2008 was not bad at all, you very well may take a clue as to how pathetic and downtrodden it might get, this January onwards.

"Because when within virtue, 

we lose every part of the clue,

a puzzle becomes static, 

and pieces stick like glue."

Here I go then. My 100 favorite albums and I don't give a fuck if you think I went wrong here or I spelt something incorrect or because you don't like something or love something that is not here. Well, fuck you because you have a bad music taste or opinion, whichever yields results. I would have included my favorite unplugged/acoustic, live, best of, collections too but these are all studio albums and I have heard all of these 20 times AT LEAST. I shall keep editing the same and the same shall appear in Red, sanguine, crimson RED. The Blue shall lose. And how am I so sure? I am not but I love to laugh, cry, win, live etcetra and this year around, I got much of nothing.

The/ MY 100 Greatest Albums Of All Time - 

1. Radiohead - The Bends

The dust settles, I close my eyes as Planet Telex starts off with rapturous monotone, seemingly the throat dries despite no intention to sing. Then the breathing slows and title song kicks in, equal melancholy and it only further pervades as fresh strains and simple beats pull the room in chorus with "two jumps in a week, don't you think thats pretty clever, don't you boy". Questioning my own wish for recognition or a life, Fake Plastic Trees summarizes what would have otherwise been a lost cause. Bones and (Nice Dream) are an easy prelude to what becomes toast with Just. While someone might dismiss the album at this point saying the best has been heard, the early tapes switched off and conked themselves around in format for only Side B to hypnotize. My Iron Lung and Bullet Proof (especially the Live CNN version) are more than good songs. They clean the purest part of you and remind you of the candle that will soon flicker out. Only so that Black Star can rip another heart, and Sulk can make perversion child's play. Street Spirit fades out, me slipping into sadness and Yorke saddling away, harping relentlessly, maybe pointlessly with or without Greenwood's silent drama. The Bends. That is it.



2. Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run


3. Rage Against The Machine - Rage Against The Machine
4. The Beatles - Revolver.
5. Pearl Jam - Vs
6. Red Hot Chili Peppers - By The Way
7. Tool - Lateralus
8. Oasis - Heathen Chemistry
9. Radiohead - Ok Computer
10. Pearl Jam - Ten

Sounds perfect at 10, innit?

11. Led Zeppelin - Led Zeppelin II
12. Moby - Play
13. Guns N' Roses - Appetite For Destruction
14. Foo Fighters - One By One
15. Bruce Springsteen - The River (disc 1 & disc 2)
16. Sting - Mercury Falling
17. Sigur Ros - ( )

18. The Beatles - Rubber Soul
19. Ani DiFranco - Not A Pretty Girl
20. Pink Floyd - Dark Side Of The Moon

21. Tool - Undertow
22. Bryan Adams - On A Day Like Today
23. Red Hot Chili Peppers - Californication
24. Incubus - A Crow Left Of Murder
25. Radiohead - Kid A
26. Alice In Chains - Dirt
27. Sting - ...Nothing Like The Sun
28. Bruce Springsteen - Born In The U.S.A
29. Nirvana - Nevermind
30. Jack Johnson - Brushfire Fairytales

31. Regina Spektor - Soviet Kitsch

32. The Smashing Pumpkins - Melon Collie And The Infinite Sadness
33. Nick Drake - Pink Moon
34. Audioslave - Audioslave
35. Matchbox Twenty - More Than You Think You Are
36. Muse - Black Holes And Revelations
37. Temple of the Dog - Temple of the Dog
38. U2 - Pop
39. Pearl Jam - No Code
40. Led Zeppelin - Led Zeppelin

41. Dire Straits - Brothers In Arms
42. The Clash - London Calling
43. Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubles Waters
44. Bon Jovi - Keep The Faith
45. The Police - Synchronity

46. Goo Goo Dolls - Dizzy Up The Girl
47. Radiohead - Hail To The Thief
48. Oasis - (What's The Story) Morning Glory?
49. Incubus - Make Yourself
50. Queen - A Night At The Opera

51. Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited
52. Counting Crows - August And Everything After
53. Soundgarden - Superunknown
54. Bruce Springsteen - Tunnel Of Love
55. The Verve - Urban Hymns
56. U2 - The Joshua Tree
57. Thom Yorke - The Eraser
58. Devendra Banhart - Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon
59. The Rolling Stones - Exile On Main Street
60. The Wallflowers - Bringing Down The Horse

61. Blur - Parklife

62. The Beatles - Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
63. Rage Against The Machine - Battle Of Los Angeles
64. Michale Jackson - Thriller
65. Green Day - American Idiot
66. Ben Harper - Fight For Your Mind
67. Metallica - Metallica (The Black Album)
68. Zero - Hook EP
69. Wilco - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

70. Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral

71. MGMT - Oracular Spectacular

72. Stone Temple Pilots - Purple
73. Limp Bizkit - Chocolate Starfish And Hot Dog Flavored Water
74. Rush - Snakes And Arrows
75. Bjork - Volta

76. Savage Garden - Savage Garden
77. Bon Jovi - Crush
78. Radiohead - Pablo Honey
79. The Shins - Oh, Inverted World
80. The Killers - Hot Stuff

81. Ryan Adams - Easy Tiger
82. John Mayer - Continuum
83. Red Hot Chili Peppers - Blood Sugar Sex Magik
84. Pink Floyd - The Wall
85. Dave Matthews Band - Busted Stuff
86. Foo Fighters - In Your Honor ( 1 & 2 )
87. Our Lady Peace - Clumsy
88. The Cranberries - Bury The Hatchet

89. Linkin Park - Hybrid Theory
90. Damien Rice - O

91. R.E.M - Automatic For The People
92. Eminem - The Eminem Show
93. Jethro Tull - Aqualung
94. Alanis Morissette - Jagged Little Pill
95. Incubus - Light Grenades
96. Creed - Human Clay
97. David Gray - White Ladder
98. Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That Is What I Am Not
99. Led Zeppelin - Led Zeppelin IV
100. Cake - Fashion Nugget/ Comfort Eagle

There, There

A Dime A Dozen.

This fire shall die its death,
sparks quickly giving way;
of all that did which combined,
has now silently all gone astray.

Seventy mindful placards,
a drive full of flowers;
and a nation kept glued,
for seventy eight hours.

But sensitivities mean the lonely,
and those who lost someone;
the rest shall solemnly walk today,
and in January, run the marathon.

Springsteen. My City Of Ruins. When It Felt Real. Mumbai, 26/11.

The last thing I thought was being able to relate to the lyrics of this song. I don't want to.

Theres a blood red circle
On the cold dark ground
And the rain is falling down
The church doors blown open
I can hear the organs song
But the congregations gone

My city of ruins
My city of ruins



Now the sweet veils of mercy
Drift through the evening trees
Young men on the corner
Like scattered leaves
The boarded up windows
The hustlers and thieves
While my brothers down on his knees

My city of ruins
My city of ruins

Come on rise up!
Come on rise up!

Now theres tears on the pillow
Darling where we slept
And you took my heart when you left
Without your sweet kiss
My soul is lost, my friend
Now tell me how do I begin again?

My citys in ruins
My citys in ruins

Come on rise up!

ignoring the indifference.

i know i called you more times than required. iv ever called you either whilst drunk or when i really needed to. tonight, i wasnt drunk. it was more than just another surge of emotions. even music couldnt do justice. i swelled, in the most unappropriated of ways. its like i was standing waiting to be picked up for a free ride home and i couldnt harness none. where are you? its not like i have been thinking about my life all of a sudden. im stranded in a sea, which is black, blank, and my madness does not add to all of this. i harbored promises to myself, i just sit writing besotted, not composed. everything moved apart so fast that i felt out of breath. i left home because i didn't want to be at home. im still in need of people who feel nostalgic about that imaginary home. my body wont take half the stress i attempt to subject it to. it refuses to let me get past first stage. so i drew myself a game. a hologram was stuck across my study table and iv spent evenings, not all uninterrupted, just staring at the silver dots that led inside. almost into their own portal. it was immense, the intensity making me feel not as out of place. and every time, just when i felt like a stop, some sort of emotion was re generated and it took me through this whole ocean of un fulfilled lies. almost like insanity prevailed despite the requirement for it to not exist. almost like people i know from another life meeting people i know from another life and they having only one common link to conversation. over judged and replenished, i was hardly ever counted, just lost in their descriptions. so having overdone the hologram and wasted, all lethargic and subdued to comatose, i surprised myself by prevailing head over else. i put myself to sleep, on a night your weather wouldn't allow me to pronounce as wintry. it still, at 12.5 degrees, held the whole awry yet requisite coldness your face exudes in my mind. i switched off my eyes and all i could see at a distance was everything. even if i envisaged noticing a wall, it seemed like a million miles away in its own finesse and moving away at a rate per second that was hardly my ability to follow. i somehow let i slip by. it took me back, in its own way, to how i had been led away from everything that did not have to be slipped, and which despite me being who i am, was mine. another surge. nonplussed by it all, it makes me contemplate. you wouldn't know. i am not so sure who you are with. the same person, most of the time, i assume.and i wouldn't estimate how much he holds to you. and adding, i wouldn't know how much you would be to him. don't take the stares you got for granted, they were, in all probability, just another factor of you coming in view of his eyesight. i don't know how you would make your way to here, which is soon. i await, in little distress. ill be done with my existence sooner or later. and ill mean much less than already. but the whole complexity which drives all devices compels, in a way unfounded and so confounded by this conundrum, a sea of distress. the web that now lies scattered in this flood which almost, or maybe next to, ruined it all. all in my predilection for yourself. i don't need an inamorata. i need you. im not smitten, maybe i dont idloize. it would make it all easier. its an endearment i cant explain. i somehow pray that would not be an explanation you would pin point it all to. come soon enough, soon. ill look good enough, as i can make myself suitable. take me for granted, if you can get over else. id apply intellect over feeling for you, but i wont let you down. i guess you wont require me once you have your groove, settled and all enjoying yourself in a new city. i maybe didn't have a bit all along, but even once you are visible in this city, ill continue to hold you the same. iv done a lot for you, in my own way. don't get any wrong suggestion. ill place myself at a pedestal below you, maybe a couple of steps lower, such that i am forced to shift incase you deter. ill hold on, ill hold out, you always stood the fact i couldn't understand the meaning of that word you wrote a mail back to me about once i said it to you. maybe i dont. but maybe i wont ever feel it this way again. ill be all i can. ill be all ill ever have. i could have instead sent you a song that would have changed your life, which you may have felt was nice. but ill just sit back hoping you would read this at night, rain hammering the window pane and get whatever iv meant in your own climate. im sure iv still left a lot unsaid, but i just could not let myself lie in ruins. this isn't a conversation about this being over. im not like, putting a period at the end of this. im putting like an omission from a speech that would otherwise have been superfluous to be understood by contextual clues..you know..i know you do..im hoping you did. night, you. i was talking to you all along.

Ebb & Flow.

Despair, when there's nothing to like,
vanity, the death of excessive pride.
And then you put yourself in my shoes,
trifling a matter, vulnerable an excuse.
Pique'd, I submitted to the uncombed tress,
it sounds naive but it was comfortable distress;
and the look matched more than your dress,
infirm with stress, inadequate in caress.
Lest we broke out of those confines
and made ourselves susceptible;
to the withering shadows of doubt that
only stretched to become as loud.
For nonplussed, excitement is as
demeaning, as you not responding.

Maybe the size did alter and you grew,
out of my shoes. Terrific, in effect. but,
it is this tranquil which ceases to exist.
Establishing calmer demeanor, dispirit;
one found slow nonchalance on self merit.
and that is what you came across,
cleaning all of the unbridled moss,
as what gathered by stones can be dusted;
unlike metal, they don't get rusted.
And the rust is what we pine for most,
when opposed, we slowly corrode and
become equal partners in dying minutes.

You realized then and struck a discordant tune,
slipped out of this desert, a steady sand dune.
I now know that we win little, overall we lose,
you could've stuck but for a fresh pair of shoes.

Anguish, In Talk.

6:37 AM
me: Its not that I want you back on gmail. I just need someone in this conversation.

6:38 AM
Its not really as simple as it seems. Life as we know it or atleast I did, does not exist anymore.

6:39 AM
you can have a cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, but it would not come to much. Its not again, like I dont know how you feel but it is the anonymity of it all that makes this want so complex.

6:40 AM
try not sleeping. i dont even self enforce it. it just becomes.

6:41 AM
moment after moment becomes engulfed in this..
i cant find those perfect words to finish sentences
dont even try wondering why i have been writing all this. as i said, and in the mail too, you just know there is eventually human existence on the other side

6:42 AM
but you dont desire response. the situation is such
i didnt wish to call you last to last night but somehow, i just did
and then what became might sound like you might think i was being foolish but i have to get out
its not the change in life. people dont get it.

6:43 AM
i cant even use the excuse that i am better off than most people. i cant. iv been living with below parity through the past 6 years atleast, i wont even say "i want to kill myself"

6:44 AM
however stupid it might sound, i just dont say it just because death sounds romantic to me. it doesnt. it most certainly is immaculately frightful, but when someone is mid way on the bridge, and knows it might crumble, he mostly turns back

6:45 AM
i am getting over most
i wont walk straight for sure
i will stand ground as neither way is enterprising anymore, neither way will wipe off none of the dissatisfaction that is being absorbed by me, from the environment

6:46 AM
reverse imges
*images. I had a lovely few minutes and that does not mean i feel good now

6:47 AM
superficial and technical lies are all around. all to see. glue. i know someone was talking to me. i am not retarded. i can sense
i feel like a reply when i do

6:48 AM
i tell you whats wrong with me. in a nutshell, everything. between the windows of this hall, where the winds are debarred from entrance

this whole fucking protection deal is a fucking gimmick. i am not even close to sensationalization

6:49 AM
i am not too close to home.
its been near to 15 minutes
but i dont mind it
its equal to 5

6:50 AM
think about sitting all alone, day after day, not wanting to communicate
i cant explain. there are so many yet no one. i will wait. im used to it. iv written enough and im happy you were not here.

please reply.

6:52 AM
ok, don't. I am never talking to you again.

6:58 AM
there?

Written.

What cannot be put to words, a tide of meandering times?
Resigned and happening, this funny pain of mine.
Raptures of cold wind flow sympathy breeze aghast,
a forth into the future, sliding anti ze past.

This zoic undertow of sadness, misery compounded to interest.
The speed at which it proceeds, described in incremental earnest,
Easily explained fallacies, these rapid rhymes of mine,
Slowing down in chorus and syntax of semantic designs.

Shrouded and subdued for sure, pondering in self-apathy,
Meaningless notions captured this disdain for mutual agony.
Silent questions that cease, impact on my heavy knees,
rapid stir in emancipation, a touch of unsettling ease.

Not warm in love, my pensive thoughts inclined,
she flatters for a moment, and then disappears in the light.
Holding off my charm, a sudden guilt to find,
Can't evict at most a yes, this want so turbine.

I lay in fate, ordained to fact, minimum reach,
miniscule doubt o'er self, inculcating these.
This matin lamp I make use of, say for you,
at night, blistering through the sodden tube,
extracting me, these dreams in portions,
these lucid tales and the certain stories all anew.

Prompt talk, she moves hispidity through sand,
she isn't who she thinks I am, a accompanying hand.
I confuse her to believe, via mutual diasyrm,
patronizing as slight dark becomes honorably dim.

My deluded eyes and falling lies, deaf on her ears,
she takes the most out of me, resolution for future fear.
Changing, as the dusk reives off my property,
this intrepid failure so potrayed and free,
Pungent on improvising dreams and sled,
Cancer rummaging through the off beat needs.

The northwestern earth, torrential rain,
anti season, an attempt to ridicule again.
Cynical touch to words, I write so juxtaposed,
Make my literature, uninspired and unopposed.

The sky could have a gay daughter he said,
agonizingly close to purulent watershed.
Haplessly arranged, so in arbit diagrams,
pursued choices, and abolished transient exams.
This thaw to break the mud, simple brush of arrogant paint,
nostalgic passage of beautiful days, this pain that I feign.
Dust off the needle, that sweeps through me hence,
rubbishing every claim, made for reference.

Graphic tabluex of living culture, discovered,
her writings in these sculptures I uncovered.
Ridden of this town for yore, sodden so in titillation,
tarnished, these words i use to exact sensation.

She must be sleeping, at this time of the hour,
My thoughts revolve, grasping as I tear me apart.
Words so golden, perched on enchanting cries,
mellow scripts, and liquidized highs.

The static determined, unmoved and grown,
riddled in coma, a sober state of stone.
Utmost literati ties, stale shrills in the vigil,
recall the savant's thoughts, what lives has to kill.

Truculent a taste, her imagination ever vivid,
grammar in error, ineffective and insipid.
I tremble too, because the misfortune is mine,
bellicose and immaterial, my celestial nine.

Stranded at place, those awful tar ridden streets,
a recluse in slow motion, to our handmade greed.

Many a person that never could a come,
these echoes of screams, paling and numb.
Said cessation of sensation, normal I perceive
banished ovation, what is not our to keep.

Is she that shall walk away, into the funny skies,
rounds of smiles sail, it's its gay daughter's delight.
Caused phobia through dyspeptics, my shalimar of choice,
gloom lifts over movement, as fickle minds rejoice.
Hardly could they make, acute tales so obtuse,
death in the darkness, when life becomes an excuse.
Blue concussion of dreams, narrow nerves intertwine,
a palpable amount of color, red to determine.

Her love cannot be seen, cachinnating through fake gloss,
lips numb in gratitude, conveyors fell the loss.
Rich Fur's delight, audible melodies of overture,
blood cell by blood cell, nutshell in a corpture.

Carrying this heart in cachet, limping to succeed,
her desire is but a want, requisition incase I need.
In sun soaked noon, temperamental vignette we share,
furnished forms of life, due diligence to care.
Minor reams of sanity, pursuing in these rivers,
streams with unfound solitude, autumn in this shiver.

Sad keeps similitude, an eternal repulsive life,
mere mortality bears forgiveness, a chance so denied,
Persisting juvenilia, probability to make knowledge,
her visage lifts gloom's veil, efferent and hedged.

Visual glossaries of time, pending crafted chimes,
Sadistic tilted jaunts, an end to these rhymes.
What's brought down in seconds, ogives burst at sight,
scared on narceine, arbitrary drug induced so tight.

Stiff and laden, with a shadow's glimpse of form,
subtle pursuit ex-gratis, acronym to the norm.
Cabinets of letters, niellist and decorated beneath,
Zenith in this emotion, this poetry I bequeath,

Not for longer, shall I write, these words don't make sense,
Naive glitterati so tepid, hallucination in essence.
Sunshine so bleak in the early morning clouds to feed,
I lie all ravished, prosaic and seemingly in need,
Collecting droplets of rain, harnessed to seem profound,
ever enamored by lexicons, and drowning in abstract sound.

Nicotine parade, old predicaments lost in choice,
An iota of truth, vulnerable and stuck in my voice.
Whispering to be heard, authentic depravity in lieu,
depiction of practicality, lost in the jilted queue.

Chronic facade that lifts me away, this unsettled chaos,
rifting through an exodus; of nonvascular, green moss.
Lunatic on the fringe, contemplating all from behind,
an overdone negativity, my pessimistic frame of mind.

Description anonymous, trying to get out of it,
residue of negligence, arranging pieces that never did fit.
Termined and ruled, laconically arranged in thy head,
Speculating sans options, growth so widespread.

Words become hard to come, losing out in scope,
my gripe is never ending, slipping in verbose hope.
Vernacular mention of the hilt, moral consolation,
her vitative thought of all, me running out of patience.

Steps about in askance, ze squint so timid and weary,
blindness in this study light, insight begs me merry.
Infected to vociferate, pleading with aware eyes,
color coded and caustic, nonchalant thaw in ice.

Spoken, laded with drama and compatible reservation,
reason my rhetoric style, stigmata from conversation.
Her obstinate resolve, an intricate need to be near,
seduced in alphabets, semi content in behaviour.
No subtance in talk, dispersed in the same abstract sound,
happiness appears only to get lost, life's merry-go-around.
Effective expression in words, horrid facets of sleep,
nimiety of particulars, a stoic appearance she keeps.

Rumination in delight, impassiveness in atheistic doctrine,
dilapidated concerns, in tandem to existing needs.
Listen as I submerge, this inconsistent elliptical hypocrisy,
ridiculed in a fist to calumniate, what is this, isn't explained easily.

Opaque.

Some homes do not have a window and if they do, it won't look into the street. And then there are people who like to cling on to other people for everything. The extent is such that they need a shoulder in solitude. They become contingent, and hinge upon certain talk; come weather, color television, Pepsi, plants, a bright room, or in stark contrast, mangoes. For them, a opening overlooking a street becomes everything for when they need out of life, they simply stare outside. For slowly the crackle of cars, shimmering rain, ventilation, a train of shops, thin air, and most importantly, overheard conversation provides what was otherwise lacking - Human harmony.

Taciturn.

She is unhappy. She feels left alone. She locks her hand between the door and the wall to calculate the pain. She stares into the cupboard mirror waiting for her eyes to swell. She slips beneath bed sheets and cries herself to sleep. She scrawls in disconsolate fashion and every paragraph she scribbles has ink botched by a tear drop. Her frame is frail and her hands thin. The clinical look has gone further morose and her view is as cynical as a moon's during solar eclipse. It takes her time to go to sleep at night and her clothes are as wary, weary, and sluggish as she is. In bed, she lies without effort and refuses. She believes intention does not exist and her sole escape is music, as melancholic as she is. She only walks out when the sky is grey for only then can her skin match the weather. She will only neat a dark rum for that is slow vacation from everything woebegone. She is crestfallen and nothing amuses her. Her anemic, ashen lips destroy any hint of a better day. She goes blanche and her insipid fingers and toes move lifelessly on the carpet. She talks of death and a better place afterwards. She talks of what could have been. She knows not what she wants. She believes I love her. I am unhappier.

Letters.

Circa January 2007. An old Australian traveler we met over beer and food in Khajuraho.

In Cold Sweat.

What has passed never ceases to exist. It disturbs, despite my unique ability to let it all go, forget. This lingers on, especially because one is still alone in the midst of a million, vulnerable despite nothing happening. The third worst thirty minutes of a life should be but a joy to stutter home with yet they hardly can encapsulate more than enough. I myself concede defeat when told to paint a picture in words. It never does happen. Diasyrm, his life has passes like that. In mutual agony, he resolves to not behave so. Yet with each passing thought, it holds him, a ruptured chest in need of solace that begs forgiveness, it takes him past what it is. 25 movies since the minute Karen falls to her knees, he has moved to drop, a single passing thought sent from elsewhere in his mind. She has maybe else on her mind and he somehow cannot fathom and if given an option, would rather just avoid. Her willingness to spend time and unwillingness to climb on with him disturb but he does not know why he still moving back and forth. Then.

He moves frail, the tears unsettling those eyes, Leaving her behind, he moves back in cold sweat. It drenches his cord and he pulsates by local shops wishing upon a cigarette. He doesn't want one but he sure does need a flashing drag. He needs enough smoke to submerge at least the given give aways. It is no more about what he could want. He stifles from shop to shop as they ignore to stock his preference, finally ending at one who cannot help but quickly change the note provided. He slips his hands, albeit carefully, through green leaves kept on pale ice. The sweat is becoming colder still and a juvenile request and rejection later, the quickened steps begin to subside. They become mere tunes to the sound of clutter, drowning his skull back and forth. He gets one of those flashing headaches again, each hitting as if the body temperature just pushed up by another degree. He gets dragged, by his own toes to familiar yet unchartered territory. In pliable thoughts, he is becoming a victim of his own ego. The timber to his right stands same while he is imagining it rotating beside, one spaces to zero and he makes that dash to get where he required to, as the north bound vehicle chugs in, mesmerizing everyone into sudden push and all surge ahead to make way for themselves. Their short term goals hold no meaning for him as he makes by hitting every incoming shoulder with his, slowly pained by it all. The mental hit turns physical as he finally steps the last and overcomes a bench, weird in logic, he stammers while asking for a hand. Inside, he engraves his fingers to the railing all the while figuring a place. He gets a seat, and as he leans, the back falls on warm steel, devoid of emotion, and heavy with the now satiated cold sweat. Colorless and deteriorating. Broke and broken, it all begins and ends with the same monotonous steps, repeated since he stepped out today. A shiver rummages through the spine, an unconscious dilemma, teeth clenched to fend others in dismal harmony. Laziness begins to make him weary, he slowly dips below another's neck length, getting trapped in this new house of cards. He could narrate himself a story, the iron is still, the irony frozen into quiet by the chatter which inevitably is talk. He is shallow for believing, behaving the way he did and cannot tell himself enough as to how he does this all the time. If she accused him, he would take it but that is not the point at all. He shall do more for than ever would be told to him. You look around. A casual glance. There is something behind. Maybe something you left, now languishing all by its own. A casual glance. It permeates through the very unpleasant well being of the day. Delicate.

Eyes peer from vivid corners, looking down like there never was, as if i had the choice not to believe they were not but yet i waited to let them shine and cast a spell upon the miseries floating abound. Eons came as time flew by and then I heard the next. Get out, comes a scream and the retort is unusually solemn. Sounds like a plan, I could tell myself only to be further pushed into flashback. This is certainly not depression of the nostalgic kind, that I let go off. It comes and hands down wins. But this time, I am positioned in a new zone, which is blindly pouring over. A fast station and crowd rushes in like blood sucked into a nozzle. Darkness turns further grey, struggling to find voice, asking where I am. I follow indication and he cannot become me. He is in his own world, dancing to almost nothingness. He cannot abase no more, abated by the way his words are graved. He would not discredit another writing for simple pleasure. He does not want to be himself anymore, he feels he is hated, and trying to make the least of it. Gratification in his own world, an assumption he made with the first step, quivering like a crashing wave, subsiding in generic decline. He does not know what joy is, the last time he let himself be alright is faded like the jeans he never wears. His memory will slowly become out of touch with even this, paddling through sheets of written down material. Heaviness trickles down, responsibly, taking its time as it us uncalled. Every time he does try, with all honesty, to read to himself, he stops short of that very instance.

That extra limb which stood deprived and feeling unimportant slowly cachinates into modern sleep, paralysis into coma, and waking up only to get back to sleep again. He will have to keep thinking out his toes so they do not get abused. He becomes less noticed as he settles, unsettled, into a resolute but sober night, people leaving and getting on, tragic and insignificant. He plays, as she says, with words which are nothing but cumulatively described sentences purposelessly arranged in various formats. He has heavy doubt, laid upon himself, inculcated into his brains as if it were enough to confound him for a couple of minutes. It seems like all these people are spoon fed on the heroic exploits of Hercules even to this day. I don't think there is society that can be properly and fully justified, somewhere round the corner some glitches are visible. Our discord is evident, I'd rather it ended and we played it better. Happier. There is a disjoint between who I am, who I am by the time I reach, and by the time I do leave your company. And it is because there is something wrong with me. I need not be. I'll register only the better moments.

I'm still moving away, faltering step by step. Grim eyes chastening the already been, sans the sentences that create a scene. I can sense more contrasting movement, shadows which delve upon their own selfs, as they compare themselves to the others and the being from which hey permeate, glancing strangely to release their ticket home. Why does he feel sorrow, he knows not. His face is synonymous of the sweat which is now painting a ridiculous diagram on his back. The diagram is clean, but the touch is chilling, it has to be meandered on its own, he wishes he never did ask for more. Lifelessness. For once, there's the disturbing presence of a primed fist, and secondly, it usually sounds a trifle inappropriate. That said, I'd maybe still give the end of this a hard time. Ideally just have a proper discussion instead of breaking out my frustration at my pathetic levels of comprehension. Reality is stress and I am not apprehensive at being in touch with it. More thoughts play prejudiced as I let parallels discuss the fortunate. Incapable of putting extremities to work or word, I hardly glimpse to correct an error, regarding every tinge of warmth as just another errand. Consumption at mention, this is detention of the worst sort. You remember the quote about how people respond only to incentives, the rest is just commentary? I will reside ever the same and still plain in appearance, an unusual grin over a grim face. Forlorn and despising activity, a smile takes effort. All I can take.

My eyes are now open and thoughts disclosed. The train is shivering, with happiness in paucity. I rise, watching people parade as the platform passes, and I veer and go stand by the open exit. The wind strikes, blows my clothing, me aback, and helps evaporate the cold sweat, the residue ever unkempt.

I'd die the day I found someone as plain as black coffee.

Awaiting Myself, If Not There.

Because I know how it always happens. Because this is how it always has been. Because this is how it will continue to be. Because come the management or come small minds with little consideration, history repeats. Because budget always falls into place, because we are sensible, because we have been through a lot, because most of us love to give it back, because we are who we are, because we are still better off than politicians, because we are honest, because it did happen, because we hardly give a fuck about you. Because traditions shall...

I always felt it was pretty evident what the whole point of this exercise was. The event was supposed to mislead them, make believe it was meant for better things. Whoever fell for it paid the price. Whoever did not came out unscathed, at the price of what? At the price of nothing? I personally intended it different and so did everyone. But then came a strike. Whose side to take? Our batch or theirs'?

So after slowly grooming our minds and punching our own faces, we came out okay. I hate the whole incessant barrage of unnecessary emotions post that. It happened. Big fucking deal. Live with it. Stop crying your hearts out as if the world just succumbed to your plight. Nobody cares, nobody died, and hardly could anyone stop to bother. Live with it...!

Click Here -
Because when this happened, nobody heard me out. I know how someone in the other batch felt when I told them that one of the prescribed plays (which would have worked) was not to be displayed. I hated breaking the news, ruining their day more than mine. But I knew I had done worse before.

At the end of day, I hardly give more than I want. I have much on my mind and thus, little to action, much less to imagination. I am not harmed and all of a sudden, even slight depression gets ridiculed in my own assertlly, overyly patronizing sentences. Mind your own self.



In other news, I am bothered why Bharti's scrip continues its upward side. While down on the upside, they deserve to be ripped for fault in services, I honestly thank Airtel for what were brilliant 3 days away from urban (disturbing) civilization as I have come to realize. Fuck you anyway.

I am in a not too forgiving mood. And I shall now listen to dance music. Or Foo Fighters. Whatever breaks the dust. My gift of selfish rain. Goodnight, known you.

We Chase Misprinted Lines..

I have been reading on the internet a lot and cannot fathom the amount of seriousness with which some people are actually doling out information on the internet and entire episodes of daily activities. How would they be comfortable to live with it when a google search links them back. I am such a fuckin' hypocrite. I shall refrain from disdain, wait, that rhymes. *Makes mental note*.

How does one let go of another person without trouble? Should I simply shun the thought of it (which is not happening as every time the name resonates on air or television, it strikes)? Or should I simply increase communication levels with new people (that does not work much at times because if they know, they somehow bring back the flood and if they don't, I begin to hate the oblivion that not exists for the initial entity I was trying to run away from? I could absolve myself in total activity or recreation that would make me stay away but I would need a lot of that to fill my day. In a nutshell, its hard and I could do anything to get away, and help my mind slip away but to no avail. So now I move forward, one step at a time. As goes "my gift of selfish rain.." I have decided to refrain from doing anything similar to the things I did then but music is one thing hard to forego and it is more or less, a cumulative of all activities. I am done with.

Inadequate.

At times one remains faithful to a cause only because its opponents do not cease to be insipid.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

I do not do much. I do promise a lot though. I have never meant the words "yup, i'll take care of it". It should suffice to say, that I do say it often. Somehow, the whole laziness reaches zenith and I find myself not doing anything, minutes ticking away with due diligence. But yesterday, I found myself arguing about arbit positioning of stuff, and I have been doing that for weeks now. I realized I have actually fought for some very useless things through my life, that were of no specific value addition but I did them only because I had made up my mind to. I wonder if that is exactly how those foolish NGOs feel. That now that they have dedicated their cause despite being suppressed by a superior someone, they might as well continue as they have not much to do otherwise. So they sit in protest, stand in unison, collide to mock the others, and then go back to rest. Similarities apart, I am on this whole drama creation spree all alone and I am now beginning to get very sick of the whole abundance of cliched conversations and arguments. Soon, sanity will prevail and I will dedicate my time to things that will make my life a better life to live.

For long, I have done unto others what has not been done to me, but what constitutes mere amusement. The austerity with which I approach can leave them baffled for a few minutes. Sublime verses are said galore and I manage to take control. Going from underdog to dictatorship can encompass a whole set of emotions. And it is when I look down upon those, those whose life is at its nadir, I heave a sigh of relief, and tell myself I could not have possibly done a better job. Thinking in the negative has always come easy to myself. The whole pessimistic approach to life eventually helps get me more brownie points than I could have otherwise sought. Now when I sit down, total and see how many i did manage to accumulate, I get a sense of satisfaction but at the same time, I end up resigning to the sameness, the stillness, and the gloom that has now condensed. The clouds of which resonate. They shriek and shout and scream. And they burst in agony. I will not fall for it.

Because within, I know I will continue to ruin, myself more than what I do to others. Somber an existence, finite is this living.

Veneer.

And finally your fingers clipped
trying their best to win
and your hand studied my face
from the forehead to the chin.

So today i cut my fingernails
and clutched my face when
i did my best to figure out
what you had learnt back then.

A lonesome day.

Wet Behinds The Ears.

Her neatly folded hair get spread across her forehead. Immaculately clean finger nails further pointing towards the same. I wonder why she is not amazed at herself. I let myself get carried away. A bag she keeps by the wayside and her eyes seem stuck on the pleats of her shawl. She holds a musk sweater between her left arm and body, tightly held to ensure it will not slip away as easily as my eyes have. With a look so forlorn that at times it begins to scare me, she has a nose that is slightly skewed towards the left, with eyebrows pinched as if they mock those who stare. Her ears seem quiet and her sneeze would embarrass Mozart. A faint demeanor and nonchalant hands that speak of her quaint disposition. She stares now as if there is a sense of disassociation with dissonance in the outside world. In the quivering light of the room, I can observe the shadows her straightened legs make, encompassing the entire spread. They move incoherently as if they await comfort and she lets them settle on the brown pillow at the other end. The thump of the conditioner dissolves in her heartbeat and she feels comfortably mine. Another may cut a ridiculous position but she is numb in her stride, almost ignorant with a pale yet condescending thought. This impudence of hers may be criticized by the disinterested but I can steady my fill tonight. Her sturdy knees link her body to my chest and she quietly turns her head away to stare at the paint and my thumb and index finger twitch between her spine and the back of her head. She further moves only to turn around and stare at me in full force, arousing faint hope. The sweater lies dropped between us and the result is near comatose, combined with her intention to agonize tonight. Her wit overcomes my dryness and she lights herself a cigarette. Caught safely between her two fingers, she inhales providing much needed solace. Her toe nails are now hurting my feet but I am too pulsated by her limited looks to notice. She then quits halfway, pushes the ash intro the tray and faces me straight, her eyes fastening to a close, yet tenderly awaiting touch. She is now as quiet as death and she comes as close as she could without help. I raise my hand and I'd wish to intrude but something stops and refuses to infuse the last of my finite being. Her sanguine, so cardinal lips speak a language which I may oversee on look but sure could comprehend if needed, but as tired I am to work my mind, I am equally frazzled. I give her now well lit frame a glimpse, but enervated by movement, I grimace and shift away from the palpable niceties of life. Sometimes, sleep beckons with such weightiness that one forgets to read the headlines. Tomorrow, I shall get the news. Night.

Being Incorrigible.

"Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act"
- Truman Capote

Since I was a child, I have had my father tell me "you are incorrigible". It is 2008 and I certainly feel that it is the only means to prove your point. There are times and instances when one should be outright and approach the steps of plain refusal. Listening is a means through which we show our inclination to comprehension. But then we stumble over ourselves and I for one, feel that being unenthusiastic about what lies ahead shall always be dealt with better. Everything which is to be done by me in order of importance is done. But therein I somehow manage to unconsciously forget so much. Especially having developed this habit of double checking everything, but only after knowing its relevance is passe. A sudden reluctance hits and I feel tired of being repetitive.

Most of the things I do right are my fault.

It Is No Powerful Force.

I switch off the tube light, draw the curtain, switch on the air conditioner and the yellow bulb at the table lamp, and pull supplies close enough such that I will not need myself to shift much to reach them. I proceed to push the blanket such that it stays below my knees and read to myself Keats. To call him ordinary would be a misnomer but I am already inundated with mundane thoughts behind what the purpose of an insincere tonight would be. I could haplessly reorganize similar thoughts and wish they would placate momentary sadness but the fear burrows me to further lows and the only hope is tomorrow's Sunday Express crossword. I have made it a habit to complete it, come what may. Half of it takes 15 minutes, the rest I do at ease taking till the evening to put the final touches. It looks grand when complete.

The Flicker By The Bedside Fails To Help.



Something from a year ago. Starts with something Trent Reznor said and carries as I like it..

"I wrote some words and music in my bedroom as a way of staying sane, about a bleak and desperate place I was in, totally isolated and alone. [Somehow] that wind up reinterpreted by another with a different era of thought, from a radically different mind and still retains sincerity and meaning - different, but every bit as pure.

I will drown in this black chair of leather, bit by bit. Beneath the movements of time, these feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am right here. Trying to move myself away from who I was and who you are, I will let you out.
People think its funny. How we resolve consequence. I am in every bit not arbit. What is done randomly is just another excuse of going through it without a proper explanation.

Needles have become needless now. I fall back on every bit of talk stored in frozen places. This requirement to talk does not exist.

- My hands on these thorns, the keyboard of broken thoughts. I cannot despair. I cannot. -

This was not needed to be sent. You did not have to read it. I am still right here.

This depiction of traits overlapping circumstance. Henceforth was a decision always, hence forth is a word of hope of defeating the idea of 'this' could last longer. The probative principle is to silence the itch and all the words you attach with the word 'if'. Nicely bundled up in a cozy little room for one too many, you just light it up and when you do, the fire is warm in that cold, and that gleeful smile on your face at having done something 'sensible'. Construction starting with destruction, hammers blowing away at the remains of the old structure, the hammering, and in the community center they are playing something at a function, of a more puritan taste though, with a harmonium and the kind of voice you hear at mosques. It's sunny outside, but it's not hot, it's dry. This place is small, this little corner of wounds and trepidations, no triumphs and tribulations of late. A lot of people I come to hate and a lot come to hate me, it's easier to hate when you start to hate where you lie. It's noisy. I haven't slept in a long time; my system has been subject to a harmonious rhythm of nicotine and spirits, everyday, without lunch. A lousy breakfast of one boiled egg in the morning. And a decent meal in the evening followed by dinner. I have stopped bothering about getting rid of my animalistic dissent. I act coy in front of my colleagues giving the impression of an innocence which starts to hurt, there are moments that kill who you once were and then there are moments which kill who you will be. But I am quite right here.

I wrote a lot and then realized none of it woud actually make sense to you. Let alone make sense to me. For starters, I hate boiled eggs. But again, we become so dilapidated in our own conscience that we change from crimson to blue, as the day progresses. I have come to accept, us become haplotypes. I still think why I do not get it all on a platter. I wish I was someone's malediction, to spoil their day. Quench their happiness and shroud it to pieces. This verbose insanity, that I attempt to emit becomes so intense that I lose out on that basic facade that separates. We look at every thing so meticulously and with such a straight face that it confuses the other person's independent thought process. Think about it. They look at you. And then request the trip you are on. Vicious circle, food chain? Whatever. We are stuck at the absolute end point, the depressing one. And we just make it worse. Maybe you do not deserve happiness. Maybe its not supposed to come for the next few weeks. Maybe. Embalmed in this quincunx. You sometimes want me quiet, sometimes listening, your anomaly. I've been reduced but I'm still right here. The only problem is, this isn't happening.."



On another level, I have work to do. Having been given the job to come up with themes evolving around "change", my mind has hit a roadblock. I cannot get myself to accept change, let alone put it in a funny manner. And I was supposedly good at such stuff. What is left of me anyway, I despair.

Cricket and my general displeasure with the shortest form. I cannot stand this version. Yes, I do make it a point to check out the matches if I can get myself to Wankhede but that is about it. Somehow, this makes me realize I will not be able to stand an ODI ever again and I will have to get myself to enjoy this form of entertainment.
It is also funny how people complain the "cricket has become entertainment" and become commercialized and everything else in the same vein. But is cricket not a sport and has not sport always been around as a source of entertainment. What is my gripe anyway.


And I could have written much more, a lot more than what has been presented. But most of all of this ceases to make sense anyhow. There is no point to anything anymore. We live in a cruel world. Where we are made to believe that all things unessential are sacrosanct. But there should be certain method to madness, I need a life wherein I am free to proceed like I wish and free to be whoever I, whoever I want to be.

Hello Newspaper, Goodbye Lifelessness.

What Has This Become..#2.0

I saw the news today, oh boy.

As preliminary despair breaks into unease, a pale disquiet comes to surround the whole area. It is one thing to be punched, another to be pulverised into submission. I am mostly torn between wanting rain and pining for certain moments to repeat themselves. While those who may be considered unlucky or not worth it make the most and become happy, I find myself further relinquishing the little drops of joy. Somehow, I do not hate being tired, which in no way suggests that I ought to be, lest my body take this blog seriously. While my bones are thin, and weakly attached to the joints, it is the girth with disturbs. Not exactly a lot but I had a point to make. And this is not even equivalent to "getting something off one's chest".

I'd hum in autumn but I have funny ink traces all across my white shirt and vague hands. They spell hard work and thus, i would not wash my hands for quite a lot. I sought myself but got caught in this opera where an era seems to cascade upon millions. Many minions surface, making one bequeath beneath the grim undertow. Eschewing and ruing over the little brittle pieces that now lay squandered and rendered useless. Chastening one to be of some use, in lieu of what they could have otherwise done. In this act of miser usage in age with words that pertain upon certain tones that bring a ubiquitous serenade that fades. It satiates and then permeates into this rhyme. I could be stabbed bad but I would rather have the intestine pine for the knife to thrive through and be turned and undone once it is within. I have come a long way today by chosen profession. As I grew, I went from being a scientist to a table tennis player, from being a financial analyst to being a poet and from starting my hotel chain to making do with a scam. Now, I find some peace though it is a disease in such context wherein text is hardly a measurement of vent that i could spew anew. Colliding with the bathroom wall, I stand my full tall to make myself feel comfortable.

I hate some things I did when I was young. I remember flicking some money off the dining table a couple of times to eat at the canteen. I once picked up Rs. 20 (which i felt was a lot) and was scared to bits for a few days every time my mother entered the room thinking she might sense, Now, that I think of it, I understand that it was just a score of money and hardly worth her trouble, I might as well have asked her for it. I then recall the next day taking the same money to the canteen and bought myself a drink and something to eat and asked a random friend to share it with me. I saw my brother walking past and I never offered. It is not of much consequence now and neither did he know that it was my money and little did he care but somehow the guilt edged me wants out. I have not come close to death and I already feel like I have seen life flashing in front of my eyes. I have to pen all of this down for myself, before I fail to forget.

I am desperately trying to maintain social order here.

Drops Of Jupiter..

I step into the train for forty minutes of agony, the impetus coming from daily routine. Haggard and brought down by the endless load, my eyes refuse to stare at the afternoon news I picked up. Today must be lucky, for I have a seat. Today must be lucky, for I have a pretty girl sitting opposite me. Her hair, assembled across her forehead, the length of which delights is further braided into prose. Her eyes barely capture her lovely face and she barely smiles. All the while looking out, she firmly settles herself closer to the window. My thoughts hover from her nonchalant gaze to the reasoning behind her not being in the ladies compartment. The engines pull.

The weather is ameliorated by her presence and she only observes me with a quick glance, wherein I see no sense of disapproval. I implore myself to words but without success. Everyone around becomes inconspicuous to my lost mind, despite the whole cacophony in revelry. Her office skirt is dark blue while she isn't too indignant to all those staring at her, for I guess that is why she chose that seat. I detach these earphones every instance her head tilts away from the window, Incubus to infatuation. A movement in her lips breathes conversation and I believe the dark circles represent ache. Her earrings are silver and her feet agonizingly close to mine. Close such that a strike might lead to an exchange of sentence. Her phone suddenly rings, and much to her amusement, a half dead lot of the homeward bound Bombay working class tunes in. She removes the sound from the brown bag and slips it through her fingers, her words faster than this train.

She eventually senses my inability at conversation or else she needs information. My nearly dry throat botches up a reply, my face ever cumbersome. The moment of truth begins sourly but ends with an exchange of well framed lines. I come to know her exit is the same as mine and I begin to brace myself in hope for a happier expresso today. We get up in chorus as the train leaves the penultimate stop and manage to reach the gathered crowd for Santa Cruz. While the men make space for her, I am peculiarly, or maybe typically left behind by three rows of sweat. I can hardly jostle to move ahead by telling them I am with her, so I stay back. As the train slows, twenty push to drop out and I face an incoming barrage of people getting on before I can finally manage to stifle myself onto the platform. I brush my shirt, check my wallet location and look up to find her missing. After an unsuccessful few moments, I do see her already off the stairs and moving towards the East. I am too tired to run and catch up with her, I would not shout for fear of being admonished and because I have no name due to my not being pedant.

Her frame in my sight subdues as I make way towards the West, slightly calm, tranquil, and with the smugness of having done a pleasant train ride.

razzies.ppt

My faltering sense of humor is taking its toll on me. The lack of ability to make myself laugh makes me laugh more than anything anymore. Id just write about a hectic few weeks than a monthly adventure of what has actually been.

The Razzies 2008, NMIMS.

The most controversial night for my batch. Everything side, it was staged to be the perfect evening. Id accept here than I was involved from the very beginning. Ill start from the very first time I heard of it.. (oft mentions un-included)
Stark and falling off on alcohol at the Annual Alumni Meet in Juhu, I am forced to meet some 'popular' seniors. I behave typical rude, much to my own amusement and their shock. They hold me by arms and tell me about the whole ceremony that eventuates Euphoria. 4 years of splendid recordings stare me in the face all throughout. Who should host it? Who all should be involved? Etc are just some of the questions that shall not let me appease the whole aura of them. Started off in '04 by a couple of enigmatic seniors, they took the whole event to the very extremes. What seems now like constipated fun was surely the rudest shock for many of their own batch. Two fellows with a very much in common surname staged the first ever, filled with lesbian drama to announcing the nominations on everyone's desks. Id glee in delight on first mention, but it seemed like a herculean task to own. It is followed by 2 more years of the same before my senior batch did it to themselves. An awkward yet sweet evening, with the "(no) offense meant at all" tagline attached (or not).

I was first given the responsibility with due diligence a month ago. When first told, I could hardly encapsulate excitement, let alone walk around with a tad unbecoming smile. Amused at the whole charm of them, I started pondering over the creative stuff. In came two more fellows and out went two others from other divisions who I wished had been involved (only back then, they did not know what they had been asked to leave dinner for and come, and thus, they skipped). The first major meeting happened in the Quad., total silence as the last year's show played on a borrowed laptop. After viewing, we called on a classmate to be this year's host. More for his command of vernacular tones than his subtle yet sexually laden sarcasm. A team in place (a fifth member from my batch was there yet not in focus - one of those people who would never end up contributing much but was there was the sake of being there).

Two weeks prior to the night, we settle on some categories. What starts off with some bangs turns into a whimper but we are down to quite a few minutes already that shall let us survive a happy journey. Bunking classes and meeting in hushed voices over 'cutting chai' keeps us from selling the drama. We slowly start selling the rumors though, to great affect. My Marketing mind hits Sahil's as the first in a series of A4 sheets hit campus.

M1 - We take a series of randomly rhyming clues as we post 3 of them with the final clue pointing towards the show night.
M2 - "Every Award Is Special" - A new campaign is released, albeit enthusiasm. But it works wonders as people actually begin to think of the same. Ishan Awasthi becomes a brand ambassador, free of cost.
M3 - Involves the A4 Smiley on word with the simple "One Expression You Will Not Remain - The Razzies 2008".
M4 - All The Emotions campaign.
M5 - The brilliant CV by Sid. "Bending over" attracts finite attention.

And a few more..!

These sheets have a the buzz going as we regularly meet, but differences crop up every now and then. I become the 'bakra' per se, to ensure that Razzie Night plays to a level headed evening. My nominations are quite a few eventually (to be cut down later though) and I do it myself. It is the paucity of time coupled with other responsibilities that holds us from meeting in a proper way. While all of this is on, RC is quite one up on the script, which has mellowed sarcasm and some witty humour, that promises to leave no stone unturned. Sahil is busy adding and subtracting picture a week prior as the presentation is yet to take off. Tension starts building as we realize there is not much time left. We scrape up the final few nominations for various categories. Lecher, 69 (which was initially supposed to be a take off from a senior couple caught out but got reduced to ashes), Draupadi (which eventually ended as 'sati savitri'), Khudkhushi etc are on the table. At an international conference a week prior, it reaches crescendo when we come up with stuff like "placecomm ka alumni" etc which are finally vetoed by the same senior who initially proposed the same. let us not glorify, tada..! The two associated seniors drop in every once a day and ask random questions and they believe that our show "is not class enough" while at the same time, being reluctant to really stand up for what it is. A moment's contradiction surfaces into lifetime hypocrisy as they can do no better than argue over everything.

A twist comes in the unusual reasoning behind not involving another set of courses in the award. Though it has not been the norm, it should have come to change. But personal vendetta and egos clash as some deserving people are left out. My team and I can do little but stay worried about the outcome, for no fault of ours, for no fight that we has ensured ensued.

The drama begins to unfold on the penultimate day. We have nothing in store. As Zero and Indian Ocean close their sets, we rush to realize we have not much in hand. The next day's early morning is full of anticipation while we have not done as well as we thought. The categories have to be trimmed, nominations finalized, this sounds bigger than anything, Indeed.

Five hours to go and we have little or no picture left. Me, Sahil, and RC gather in one room after the other, as we are shunned out on anyone taking seat's possession. Short of pictures, we move through people's facebook and orkut profiles, which is to eventually become a bone of contention. But the stone retains moss as we are not quite there. Sahil determined to make a good show out of it, we are eventually met by the two seniors. They make us cut, saw, chop, and edit a lot. From saving face to keeping grace, one of the best ideas is shredded down, while somethings not in public interest are added. Not to popular choice but anyhow. "I have to save his girlfriend" becomes the new tagline. Tempers fly high an hour prior as I refuse to stand down on some of my nominations including getting this year's elects off the list. Some of this is what some would never know. People would never know the extent of humiliation they were never made to see. All in good fun, but there was some bad blood for the taking and we never got enough. At the same time, our apprehensions about not backing down come true. Still undecided, I leave with 25 minutes to go, searching for various accessories to give away as the award. We settle on "bananas" and a "maala". RG to do the honours.

In all hurriedness, we go change into the night show time dress. Once back, there is a smoke break wherein we catch up breath and defuse pre show nervousness. A bite half my hand off chewing my nails, as I look at faces who have little idea that they might end up there.

Last moment stupidity - with the songs and slides in place, last moment tinkering to get some people on board and remove friends becomes talk and a helpless us can do not much but to stifle, especially on the 'pastry'. We take our the deserving and put in the undeserving, the cream has left. I seem next to crestfallen but manage to get the pack going. The music in place as Sahil takes his seat next to the presentation. AM checks the lights for the night as last year's host climbs the stairs to the wonderful stage with a simple background, RC seems excited but should make the night tonight and Sid is willing. RS has the garlands ready and all the help is there..

The seconds pull close as the ex host calls upon this years show to begin. Faltering lights do not add to the damage and Razzies 2008 are go..!

Sid and RC make their way. I with a microphone stand next to the console and Sahil checks himself again. This is what it all comes down to. There is a reasonable crowd, nothing less than 300 people and the Quad. has had it long since it was so full. But this is more than just the people who are there to witness. Alongwith these awards, there is the whole college drama being sold, personal vendetta being eroded, and intensity at an all new level.

Admist random shouting at people, I notice Sahil brilliantly working his well made powerpoint with the music. And RC at his witty best with an amazingly well done up introductory speech. They rip..!

One Razzie after the other, it happens. This is something I'll skip. 17 in total, if I recall correct and a commercial break to along with it. Bananas are eaten, strewn, thrown back into the host's face and even shared by two guys on stage. The sport, we are all, innit? People seem awfully pissed and the undoing shall be tough, I can feel it. Sahil gets on stage for a bit of fun and they all look cheerful as apprehensiveness about next day's farewell and everything else is still making my head go weird. This is it..

It all rolls perfectly, including the end with nostalgia. And videos they make to tell other how good their two years have been. The camera and lights switch off and the ignored or neglected step up and an unnecessary ruckus emerges backstage. I see a couple of people shouting at me and one who almost hit me. All of this is being taken too far but parity is soon resolved. We head off from their to the safety of Asiad and liquidate our nights away.

A lot has happened since. I have twice been surrounded by groups and asked to explain, I have had a 26 year old fellow sitting in my room and crying his heart out, I have been called an "eternal asshole" by a girl, who in all her high handedness did so with neither rhyme nor reason. I have apologised. Sahil, Sid, and RC have borne quite the brunt of it too. I can be blamed, they scrutinized, we murdered, but I wont ever forget the 'best presentation we ever gave'.

No more apologies. You reap your rewards. A big fuck to those who took offence when not required, an apology to those when we took somethings personal too far, loads of blame on those who made us edit the good, and a smile and another 60 ml to the four of us :-)