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.

Lack of attention to detail. person with no identity, distinguished or not. only blank spots. reading stories. unnamed characters probably swish through the contours of her mind. they overlap. disconnected, incoherent patches. alternating voids. flat voids.
Few tactile structures. subjects. State, race, colour, sexual organ. being.
Rest, undifferentiated, unidentifiable. A blob.

Adherence, coherence, structure and punctuation are constricting.
That will be my excuse.

The Proposition

seemed bizarre, unlikely. Desired. Deserved?

Metaphors elude me like ideas to the writer’s block.

Agency is constantly questioned. The ‘battle’ is not-new. And where one strives for disavowal and simple pleasures in the garb of ‘happiness’, I try to pass this off as the writing on the wall.