Today

A day of would-have-been(s).

If I manage to find a gateway into the other series, would I switch?

(N)either/(n)or

18 May 2012
Why?

• Because, perhaps, despite my avowals, I think about the future and I don’t see any. If I do, it scares me.
• Because your bouts of anger are capable of the unthinkable, if not for real, in my imagination.
• Because I worry. And I can’t recall how it feels to not worry about your routine, practicalities, etc.
• Because I hadn’t found myself till I found you, and then I turned into an appendage.
• Because the thought of being alone - without you to fall back on for accusations, or emotional support - is unthinkable, and this is Not how it should be.
• Because I shouldn’t lie anymore.

Because I love you. But it’s not an absolute. Love never is, unfortunately.

Why not?

Because I love you, and now it is difficult to breathe.

28 September 2012 

"It gets better."

What if it doesn't? 

Not even a week.

Your absence hits at the oddest hours. 

Patterns for misery. Patterns for redemption.

Patterns for denial.

January optimism

Last year, in a fit of enthusiasm, I made my new year optimism a widely known affair. I mailed my list of retrospectively overambitious resolutions to a number of friends. And I could just do one, out of the long list of things. No, I don't fear ridicule, but I do feel stupid.

This year, I am only doing what is fair, posting on my anonymous blog so that it serves as a reminder to self without the public acknowledgement. So, apart from a massive amount of discipline, I also need to:

-Start driving.

-Write about the books I read.
-Save.
-Gather enough courage to quit my job and not regret it immensely.
-Travel to Shillong and Pondicherry apart from the travels which will happen due to various friends getting married.
-Strike a balance between being impulsive and wise.
-And not be afraid to add to the list.

I know this falls into the category of generic new year post (although delayed), but I lost the pretensions of creativity long back. Now this is just a log.

Until later.

P.S. I have read When You Reach Me, and Purple Hibiscus this month already, will you please rebuke me if I don't write about them soon?

P.P.S. Watched Dakota Skye right now. It makes me want to make choices I am not sure I require for real. So, I will do the brave thing and not think about it anymore.

.

I could wish for the easy way out, and ask someone else to make a decision. But that doesn't seem likely. I wouldn't be able to bare it all in front of even the closest confidante.

So should I take a giant leap with no parachute and only self to trust. Or this giant leap would be an escape from the present, clearer, present (and a possibility of an assured future).

I need to place my feet firmly on the ground to hang on. And defer the decision again, perhaps?

.

And we dipped the tip of our fingers in nostalgia. For, you settle in as easily as you let go.

Perhaps? No.

As if washing the skin would wash off the hurt!

...

I tried to smell stale cigarettes on another set of fingers and copy patterns of our lovemaking on a different bed. I would not reveal how futile it has all been.

I wish I could wash away the little specks of your desire, which have stuck to my skin despite the incessant scrubbing. And your kisses have been absorbed by the pores.

And this time I can't even string sentences to yank the misery out of my nauseating gut.

Textbook

The one I love is not you.
If, in a fit of pique, you ask me
'Then who am I?'
I shall say: you are that one
who, in the first flush of youth
Remained obscure; unvalued;
You are that one, who, time and again
Has taught me how to love.*


I was thinking of a time when I wanted things to stop. The thought of turning 'stale and moldy' was acceptable, even welcome. The time when routine mails were akin to poetry. And emails were sent despite the time together.

Yes, I went back to that tiny room on the first floor. Where time was just a beautiful verse.



* translation of an unknown Bangla poem.

Moira - Offred - June

And I thought loneliness was overrated. I wonder if this is how years will pass and nostalgia will grow roots, and like a well-grown peepal tree harbour ghosts from the past and the future.

I want to read C.Ayyappan. I wonder if there's any good translation available.

P.S.
The title is just there to fill the blank. I just finished reading The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, and I am shaken - which is good because even that involves a break from the routine.

'We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?'

Twice a day

One is constantly waiting for this to end, so that something else can happen. If it was any clearer, one wouldn't have logged in.

I hope one can find the point or the silver lining soon enough. A ray of hope, perhaps? Over-used metaphors are, after all, the only constant thing about these incoherent, splattered blog-posts.

It just struck me that I have stopped singing. Even humming to myself.

It has never happened before.

I am scared.

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.

I am a pretentious fart. Ugh.