A-lone

I don't like this place. It's cold and eerie.

(Tiny squeaky 'Yes')

Is it okay to want to possess every bit of you?

Can we do it in the name of subversion?

So, I make lists very often (in my head, that is). I am too scared to write them down, for the fear of acknowledging them and storing them (for posterity?) is a little too overpowering.

And 'this' is included. Non-chalance/confidence or tact, however I address this, it remains on the wish list -- old, torn parchment with almost-invisible ink. The same, the same.

I always knew that originality is a utopic dream. But this -- the predictability, the pattern -- is just horrifying.

I just want one feeling/emotion/experience (for the lack of a better word) -- real or not -- which is only 'me' and is not shared by thousand other people on the planet.

I would've written something dripping with soppy-vanilla syrup. Hence, I logged in.

But, got caught up with dresses and blog updates. Consumerist yearning beckons, as usual. and as usual provides to be an escapist haven.

So, I'll skip the emotional (diary-entry like) post for another day.

And since I have kissed the third-person address goodbye, I rejoice in zero-readership. (and relax for a bit as I experience 'pseudo-personal' in a consciously-public move. :)

Period

The finality and the way things ought to be planned, is it weighing you down a little?

Don’t let it bother you so much.

I am surprisingly a 'non-victim' sometimes.

She... (yet again)

... has lost all the poetry. and the way words coiled around the neck and choked her.

she beckoned them, still, and comforted in misery.

The want -- abstract, conspicuously present.

and there was rhythm.

Now, there is happiness.

and the void which remains undone.