So here I am experiencing yet another reader's block. Boards are to start in about 3 months time and I'm listening to songs.. actually, situational songs. Very useful and crying my eyes out. A good example is November Rain.
At least something to be happy about. Ironic I know. A particularly windy day four days ago. Stormy nights three in a row. Wow. And now I'm sitting outside and unfortunately the sun's come out. And now there's a game of hide n' seek with the clouds. Pleasant. I always liked my room but now it's just some other room.. I didn't think it would be this way. Just the walls are different and the house is. The windows and the doors. It feels kind of weird acutally, to say the least.
There's not that sense of comfort I had in being on my bed, night and day. Doing something or the other. Now I get up however late but get to the bus stop on time. Just another proof on how I'm not attached to my room anymore. It's way too artificial for my taste. Old houses have that certain character, that history behind it which lends the air of mystery and me being the perpetual story-weaver think about what must've happened here before I was born.
In this house we're the first ones, which is kinda disappointing to me. The old house had its charms. This one just has clean walls and well it's functional and economical. Not much scope for repairs and paint jobs. No leakage and cracks. But if we ignore the goodness virtue, I would like to go back to the old one anyday. Even just to see the words etched onto the whitewashed walls. Destructive behaviour of mine. The letters painted on the white door with dark pink and purple. The phone numbers on another. The cupboard with french words on it and I could even gaze for hours at the time weathered floor, darker with the years, lighter when we remove the bed and the table and whatnot. The un-uniformity of it all.
Waking up in the morning to get out on the balcony, blissfully almost always mine and looking at the wilderness outside, ahead of me. Never thought I'd miss not having a neighbour out front. Just wild wild wilderness. A grey-black road with absolutely no-one on it in the mornings, stronf sunshine enducing nostalgia and the fresh breath of life if it was shadowy and cold. The garden with the white swing..
The backyard with the hot stones of the afternoon, the one which defined my summers when I was tiny and naive. The comfort and coziness of life as I knew it. The lack of something called tiles. Stone and cement everywhere and anywhere. Mud and soil.. the garden with it's swing and the many coloured roses. Now there's not much garden to speak of, though there still are roses. But now the thorns are much more obvious to the sight.
I would always remember how the gardener used to hand me a small bouquet of tiny flowers from the garden every year on my birthday. Way to logically it seems.. 'cause when afterwards I used to go out there none of the flowers seemed missing. Too much thought put into it. Hugging the trees and sitting on the backyard stairs, reflecting to memories back when we used to play.
Play we did even as late as just two years ago. Or maybe a year and a half. Lucky me always experienced beginner's luck and then the reputation led me to win half the time. And the other half of the time was helped by the team-mate who was inspired.
Morning sunshine and the dew-drenched grass. Mostly overgrown and the jasmine tree. The terrace. Where I remember learning about the three parts of the Himalays while my mother put out clothes to dry, or later where I used to read, I remember Oscar Wilde, in the shade of the tree from afternoon to the evening till when there was not enough light to go by. The shade of the blackcurrant tree..
The blackcurrant tree that showered upon us in summer and lay waste the terrace in the early days of monsoon with the purple-black overripe currants all splattered and squished onto a good part of the place. Which when cleaned left a faint purplish tinge on the ground, which remained for quite some time and a faint smell wafting through..
Now here the trees and identical copies of each other, those which are not are far away and are mostly eucalyptus. Or just plain bush. Thorny bush. And grass. No hide-outs here. No secret places and nooks and corners. No corner room library across the backyard. No smell of musty old books and warmth of a hundred pages of remembrance.
I am happy that I will be leaving this place for sometime atleast next year, coming back would be fine, that's just how much I know this is my home and would love to come back and sleep in my bed for a change. But well it's kinda fortunate that we did move or I wouldn't have had the heart to leave the city for all I know if I had to go away.
All's for good maybe. And I've gone on with too much rant and the laptop's riding low on the battery. I think I'll rant about something else later.
14 November 2009
9 November 2009
Shadow.
I watched intently the thin wisps of steam wafting up from the hot cup of coffee that was placed a few inches infront of my book. Tapping my fingernails a few times on the table, acting as if I was trying to figure out an apparently hard mathematics problem, my hand moved slowly towards the cup and jumped back a little at the sudden heat of the cup, the teacher looked at my hands, distracted from reading his newspaper, during which I managed a glance at the clock on the far wall on the other side of the room. Still about half an hour till this prick leaves.. still, a lot of time, a lot of problems, and still about six months that I will have to bear with this madness.
My distracted, bored brother sat opposite me, at disadvantage that he couldn't see the time. He compensated his rather ill fate with trying to peer into the tutor's watch, his head reclining comfortably, rather too comfortably in his palm, his elbow resting on the groaning table. The teacher straightened his watch hand away and folded his arms. Little brother looks up at him and then grins and presents him with another unsolved query.. "how.. ?". Rather than answering himself, he turns to me and points, do YOU know, you SHOULD know this, however else will you do THAT. Tell me tell me. Tell me.
I don't know. I'm stupid. Wy don't you just go home to your squeaky-voiced little wife and to your brand new son and eat dinner, which you have been thinking about for the past hour, anyway. Do not on any condition use your brain and solve the kid's problem, for god's sake. Do I not have a life other than wasting my time away at something I couldn't do for a million dollars, atleast you do it, if only for two square meals a day.
I glared and chewing my fingernails took a look at the ragged, beat-up looking, tired mathematics book, which was the most used object in the house and the least usable. Tapped the book with fingernails again and sat deciding if I wanted to stop pretend studying after all, because it was getting pretty boring, or maybe take a break, go to the washroom and on the way see what's on TV. Or maybe just take a peek on my scrapbook and see what's new and if someone loves me still.
Banishing all the thoughts I tried to concentrate on the work at hand and finally I'm getting it.. and then there it was. A faint shuffle and scratch outside the main door. There, again. And every one of us three turn to look. The wooden doors are shut, mum enters the scene, curious to see who's up with the disturbance, listening to a growing scratching at the doorstep, a faint shuffling and beating on the doorway, she stands there looking about. And then down at her feet.
There it is.
A glossy black puppy. A stray. Coal black, big-eyed and tiny. Whining a little sadly, shivering and looking in with very sad puppy-dog eyes. My hands let go off the pen and the papers, my heart feeling as if it's about to burst and a very vivid feelings of how it must feel when one meets a long lost son, who they've never even met.. and who, by the way, in fact, was very, very in need of her.
I get up with a start, a very audible aww materialising in my mouth, pouting, hands outstretched, I'm coming to baby, no no, don't you cry. Come here, now. Mommy's here, don't worry. I rush to the door just to be pulled back very firmly and asked what the heck do I think I'm doing. Well, he'll die there in the cold. Let me do something. SOMEthing. Another pouty expression, apparently a very cute one at that and that's why it actually worked. Can I go and at least find out where this bundle of joy came from. And could I at least return in to his mommy. Well, I am his real mommy but you know what I mean.
Reluctant okays, at least take your brother. Don't go out alone. A ghost of a smile. Like mother like daughter is all I hint at. Stepping out of the door I don't even feel a tiny bit cold. Passing through the gate and looking down at his chocolate brown, wide-eyes, feeling his tiny body in my arms, the complete bliss in it, I hear an eager "Can we call him Shadow? I always wanted a dog named Shadow.." Well, why didn't you name your dog Shadow then? "He is NOT all black." My brother's very clear disbelief at how my brain works so irrationally.. he catches up forcing his way into his jacket and shouting the dog's name, coming up and stopping he scratches behind the pooch's ears.
We stop and hear faint excuses coming from the house's direction, mum talking to the teacher about the weather etcetera. "Can we keep him?" Yeah.. can't even take care of two, you want another one, who'll feed him everyday, you can't even take yours out for a walk two times every day, blah blah, I tell him mocking at you know who. He nods his head agreeably and we start on our quest on finding where this guy's mother is. He probably ran away from her scoldings as well. And we laugh.
Not too far away, just the next bend in the road we find that's where he's supposed to have escaped from. A seventeen-year old guy, at least that's what he looked like, leaning on the gate, with a hand on his bicycle. He says there were more of this kind. Yes, and a mother. Will probably return. So we put him down and walk a few steps away, looking back longingly at the little black bundle.
I run back and cover him with this torn rag some kind soul probably left from them in this chilling cold. I bid him goodbye and we half run half walk back to the house, to our mother telling us not to waste any more time.
And I return to my sums while the door is shut and I look to see that about 10 minutes are left of this cruel torture. So when finally he leaves, I heave a sigh of relief and run upstairs, leaving the books behind me open, and mum screaming at me to close them and put off the lights. And come down for dinner just this second. These kids, no manners.
I run upstairs and up to my room and slam the door and wake up my laptop and log in.
Hey all done studying? I missed you. Yep, me too. Guess what. And I tell him everything about Shadow and he tells me how nice I am. And how I'm a good person and how this makes me and how in turn that makes him feel. Yes. I tell him we'll go check up on the doggie tomorrow. ASAP. In the morning, as soon as we wake up.
Dinner is a usual affair and the same "sweet dreams". And yes, it is true I have noticed that when people tell me to have sweet dreams, they are and when they aren't meant to be, they aren't.
I wake up feeling, under the sheet an utter happiness that's so hard to define, a warm comfort I now pine for and a completeness that's now obsolete. I stretch out and think of incomplete things to say, to do and am aptly reminded. I slither out, go to the next room and shake the hell out of a sleeping brother.
We step out into the groggy winter sunshine, without suitable footwear, the roughness feeling just right to my bare, naked feet. And the grass with just the right amount of softness. It's all so nice. I walk up to the bend in the road, ready to be welcomed to the sight, the smell and the wide-eyes wonder of pure, unadultered love. I stare.
And there's nothing except the green rag that we lay him on the night before.
I look back at the sleepy form running up to me and he stops in his tracks. Oh no, she's going to cry, he's thinking. But I don't. We look for the cycle guy and he's there inside, sitting on the stairs, with a toothbrush in his hand. Where'd he go, we ask him. He said he watched him get up and follow this guy on the morning walk, probably. He says, this fat guy walked past on the opposite road, he got up and ran to him and then he followed him. And then he took his toothbrush and went inside. Shouting, don't worry, he'll find someone there. More of his kind on the main road. And even his mother would be there. Dogs are like that.
And he shut the door behind him.
We sullenly walked back the way we came and went about our own ways and never mentioned him again. A light flicked off for a second and turned back on again, full glare. Everything went back to normal.
And normalcy was happy, then it was sad, then it was normal.. and then there started the vicious cycle, well, it had gone on since I was a day old I guess, but sometimes nothing seems real until you think about it.
In retrospect, I feel that it was brief but it was beautiful. Just like everything else in my life. Just as I now know that almost everything is short-lived. Relatively short-lived compared to the life we live. Happiness is real. End is real. And everything else is just stupid make-believe.
Feelings fly swish infront of our eyes and hardly ever do we catch it. Even when it's possible.. and instead we suppose that it would last forever when nothing does. Nothing. Ever. Never.
My distracted, bored brother sat opposite me, at disadvantage that he couldn't see the time. He compensated his rather ill fate with trying to peer into the tutor's watch, his head reclining comfortably, rather too comfortably in his palm, his elbow resting on the groaning table. The teacher straightened his watch hand away and folded his arms. Little brother looks up at him and then grins and presents him with another unsolved query.. "how.. ?". Rather than answering himself, he turns to me and points, do YOU know, you SHOULD know this, however else will you do THAT. Tell me tell me. Tell me.
I don't know. I'm stupid. Wy don't you just go home to your squeaky-voiced little wife and to your brand new son and eat dinner, which you have been thinking about for the past hour, anyway. Do not on any condition use your brain and solve the kid's problem, for god's sake. Do I not have a life other than wasting my time away at something I couldn't do for a million dollars, atleast you do it, if only for two square meals a day.
I glared and chewing my fingernails took a look at the ragged, beat-up looking, tired mathematics book, which was the most used object in the house and the least usable. Tapped the book with fingernails again and sat deciding if I wanted to stop pretend studying after all, because it was getting pretty boring, or maybe take a break, go to the washroom and on the way see what's on TV. Or maybe just take a peek on my scrapbook and see what's new and if someone loves me still.
Banishing all the thoughts I tried to concentrate on the work at hand and finally I'm getting it.. and then there it was. A faint shuffle and scratch outside the main door. There, again. And every one of us three turn to look. The wooden doors are shut, mum enters the scene, curious to see who's up with the disturbance, listening to a growing scratching at the doorstep, a faint shuffling and beating on the doorway, she stands there looking about. And then down at her feet.
There it is.
A glossy black puppy. A stray. Coal black, big-eyed and tiny. Whining a little sadly, shivering and looking in with very sad puppy-dog eyes. My hands let go off the pen and the papers, my heart feeling as if it's about to burst and a very vivid feelings of how it must feel when one meets a long lost son, who they've never even met.. and who, by the way, in fact, was very, very in need of her.
I get up with a start, a very audible aww materialising in my mouth, pouting, hands outstretched, I'm coming to baby, no no, don't you cry. Come here, now. Mommy's here, don't worry. I rush to the door just to be pulled back very firmly and asked what the heck do I think I'm doing. Well, he'll die there in the cold. Let me do something. SOMEthing. Another pouty expression, apparently a very cute one at that and that's why it actually worked. Can I go and at least find out where this bundle of joy came from. And could I at least return in to his mommy. Well, I am his real mommy but you know what I mean.
Reluctant okays, at least take your brother. Don't go out alone. A ghost of a smile. Like mother like daughter is all I hint at. Stepping out of the door I don't even feel a tiny bit cold. Passing through the gate and looking down at his chocolate brown, wide-eyes, feeling his tiny body in my arms, the complete bliss in it, I hear an eager "Can we call him Shadow? I always wanted a dog named Shadow.." Well, why didn't you name your dog Shadow then? "He is NOT all black." My brother's very clear disbelief at how my brain works so irrationally.. he catches up forcing his way into his jacket and shouting the dog's name, coming up and stopping he scratches behind the pooch's ears.
We stop and hear faint excuses coming from the house's direction, mum talking to the teacher about the weather etcetera. "Can we keep him?" Yeah.. can't even take care of two, you want another one, who'll feed him everyday, you can't even take yours out for a walk two times every day, blah blah, I tell him mocking at you know who. He nods his head agreeably and we start on our quest on finding where this guy's mother is. He probably ran away from her scoldings as well. And we laugh.
Not too far away, just the next bend in the road we find that's where he's supposed to have escaped from. A seventeen-year old guy, at least that's what he looked like, leaning on the gate, with a hand on his bicycle. He says there were more of this kind. Yes, and a mother. Will probably return. So we put him down and walk a few steps away, looking back longingly at the little black bundle.
I run back and cover him with this torn rag some kind soul probably left from them in this chilling cold. I bid him goodbye and we half run half walk back to the house, to our mother telling us not to waste any more time.
And I return to my sums while the door is shut and I look to see that about 10 minutes are left of this cruel torture. So when finally he leaves, I heave a sigh of relief and run upstairs, leaving the books behind me open, and mum screaming at me to close them and put off the lights. And come down for dinner just this second. These kids, no manners.
I run upstairs and up to my room and slam the door and wake up my laptop and log in.
Hey all done studying? I missed you. Yep, me too. Guess what. And I tell him everything about Shadow and he tells me how nice I am. And how I'm a good person and how this makes me and how in turn that makes him feel. Yes. I tell him we'll go check up on the doggie tomorrow. ASAP. In the morning, as soon as we wake up.
Dinner is a usual affair and the same "sweet dreams". And yes, it is true I have noticed that when people tell me to have sweet dreams, they are and when they aren't meant to be, they aren't.
I wake up feeling, under the sheet an utter happiness that's so hard to define, a warm comfort I now pine for and a completeness that's now obsolete. I stretch out and think of incomplete things to say, to do and am aptly reminded. I slither out, go to the next room and shake the hell out of a sleeping brother.
We step out into the groggy winter sunshine, without suitable footwear, the roughness feeling just right to my bare, naked feet. And the grass with just the right amount of softness. It's all so nice. I walk up to the bend in the road, ready to be welcomed to the sight, the smell and the wide-eyes wonder of pure, unadultered love. I stare.
And there's nothing except the green rag that we lay him on the night before.
I look back at the sleepy form running up to me and he stops in his tracks. Oh no, she's going to cry, he's thinking. But I don't. We look for the cycle guy and he's there inside, sitting on the stairs, with a toothbrush in his hand. Where'd he go, we ask him. He said he watched him get up and follow this guy on the morning walk, probably. He says, this fat guy walked past on the opposite road, he got up and ran to him and then he followed him. And then he took his toothbrush and went inside. Shouting, don't worry, he'll find someone there. More of his kind on the main road. And even his mother would be there. Dogs are like that.
And he shut the door behind him.
We sullenly walked back the way we came and went about our own ways and never mentioned him again. A light flicked off for a second and turned back on again, full glare. Everything went back to normal.
And normalcy was happy, then it was sad, then it was normal.. and then there started the vicious cycle, well, it had gone on since I was a day old I guess, but sometimes nothing seems real until you think about it.
In retrospect, I feel that it was brief but it was beautiful. Just like everything else in my life. Just as I now know that almost everything is short-lived. Relatively short-lived compared to the life we live. Happiness is real. End is real. And everything else is just stupid make-believe.
Feelings fly swish infront of our eyes and hardly ever do we catch it. Even when it's possible.. and instead we suppose that it would last forever when nothing does. Nothing. Ever. Never.
4 November 2009
Sheared and
Sodden
Dead,
Forgotten
Shook off
And
Thrown into
the Pyre.
Broken desire
Deep in mire
Done with
And sold
Up for hire.
Sodden
Dead,
Forgotten
Shook off
And
Thrown into
the Pyre.
Broken desire
Deep in mire
Done with
And sold
Up for hire.
24 October 2009
Blase, Benign.
I never did speak
For the words unsaid
They sound a little weak
For feelings undead
Stirring in the depths
Golden and red
Without pretence
Love intense
Like a bird upon a wire
The ant on your toe
The first flower in spring
The curve of your brow
It had its rights
It had its wrongs
It had everything
Fit for a song
So long to the memories
Goodbye to the nights
It's just days
And just more ways
Please, take a seat
Till the pages fill
The cups to the brim
Till the fingers bled
Till I walk all the way
To Shangri La
And back
To a cacophony of carcasses
A flutter of dread
Belligerent, it grows
A cycle of bliss
And malaise foregone
The intensity of felicity
To where it belongs
Blessed and bless'd
With the weight of memories
It did so snap
And up we wrap
The curtains close
A cyanide dose
Sachharine sweetness
A red dress in shreds
Hope and mental flux
Stuck, hard luck
Take a bow
Sing out loud
Making of hay
In green meadows
A starving tree
On the seashore
Confused, adamant, it goes,
Wilderness
In the desert
Mustard flowers
On a concrete road
Unexpected
Unintended
Uninterested
Unattended
A break from reality
A trip to insanity
Just a
Winning streak
Till the stage is set
Till the egos are fed.
For the words unsaid
They sound a little weak
For feelings undead
Stirring in the depths
Golden and red
Without pretence
Love intense
Like a bird upon a wire
The ant on your toe
The first flower in spring
The curve of your brow
It had its rights
It had its wrongs
It had everything
Fit for a song
So long to the memories
Goodbye to the nights
It's just days
And just more ways
Please, take a seat
Till the pages fill
The cups to the brim
Till the fingers bled
Till I walk all the way
To Shangri La
And back
To a cacophony of carcasses
A flutter of dread
Belligerent, it grows
A cycle of bliss
And malaise foregone
The intensity of felicity
To where it belongs
Blessed and bless'd
With the weight of memories
It did so snap
And up we wrap
The curtains close
A cyanide dose
Sachharine sweetness
A red dress in shreds
Hope and mental flux
Stuck, hard luck
Take a bow
Sing out loud
Making of hay
In green meadows
A starving tree
On the seashore
Confused, adamant, it goes,
Wilderness
In the desert
Mustard flowers
On a concrete road
Unexpected
Unintended
Uninterested
Unattended
A break from reality
A trip to insanity
Just a
Winning streak
Till the stage is set
Till the egos are fed.
21 September 2009
Carrying On..
I never knew that movie soundtracks could serve such a useful purpose.. introducing people to music I guess they would never have stumbled upon ever.. I fell in love with Sonic Youth after listening to a song of theirs in Juno. Juno did become one of my favourite films ever but with it there were a number of musicians who left a lingering infatuation kinda feeling in the air..
Originally the Carpenters'. I bet many don't know that Britney Spears' I Love Rock M' Roll is actually a cover of a cover. Originally it was Arrows' and then Joan Jett and The Blackhearts covered it. Which comforts me to know that.. since I was always bewildered about why I love the song so much and why on earth is Britney singing it.
Also, Kimya Dawson and Adam Green of The Moldy Peaches, as introduced by Juno. But genres like Noise Rock and No Wave is more my kind than indie or alternative.. ruggedness rather than edgier sounding pop. Pulls your heart's strings a little tighter. But indie does serve the purpose of putting into words the feelings more effectively than mainstream pop which IS rather disgusting, one you think about it. As I have hinted on in many previous occasions.
Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore's voice in a slightly mellower version of Kobain's in my opinion.. and what're more, he's still alive. And 51. Thus pushes me more into believing I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Anyway, similar movies were Notting Hill and 10 Things I Hate About You. And many others. And more to come.
Originally the Carpenters'. I bet many don't know that Britney Spears' I Love Rock M' Roll is actually a cover of a cover. Originally it was Arrows' and then Joan Jett and The Blackhearts covered it. Which comforts me to know that.. since I was always bewildered about why I love the song so much and why on earth is Britney singing it.
Also, Kimya Dawson and Adam Green of The Moldy Peaches, as introduced by Juno. But genres like Noise Rock and No Wave is more my kind than indie or alternative.. ruggedness rather than edgier sounding pop. Pulls your heart's strings a little tighter. But indie does serve the purpose of putting into words the feelings more effectively than mainstream pop which IS rather disgusting, one you think about it. As I have hinted on in many previous occasions.
Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore's voice in a slightly mellower version of Kobain's in my opinion.. and what're more, he's still alive. And 51. Thus pushes me more into believing I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Anyway, similar movies were Notting Hill and 10 Things I Hate About You. And many others. And more to come.
20 September 2009
The End of Exams
19th September. I waited so long for yesterday. But surprisingly the (expected) emotion of relief wasn't there. Weird. Maybe it's because I didn't put in enough effort to actually be thankful that I'd have nothing to do when that ends.. and I'll have the time to myself. But then I have all the time to myself. And it's just wrong. Life's going nowhere.
Some people just don't seem to understand the concept of being a 'loner'. Advising someone to no end about going out and meeting people and getting together with friends is not justifiable.. and it's just the hidden control freak in them. Just as people have notions about what women should do and not do, and what they should wear and say and every damn thing on the planet.. there exist certain rules about social behaviour and socialising.. which sometimes people so easily relate with normal daily activity and "staying sane".
There's this taboo about being in your room all day which doesn't seem to go away.. and just like the incessant knocks on the door, there are reminders and re-reminders that being alone isn't right and isn't well naturally, allowed by these rulers of the world.. who can't keep their nose out of everyone's business. They slap you on the back and pat you on your shoulder and tell you to cheer up.
And well, those of us who don't fake, aren't fake, won't ever be fake would never do that because they just do and say and act like what they actually are inside. And if inside you aren't happy you don't show you're happy, you aren't satisfied, you aren't content and you're just well totally bewildered by the multitude of meaningless vices and aline disgusting emotions and trivalties of life.
Just as some people are good at being able to be in groups and noise and, well, bad BO. Yeah. We loners are good at being self-reliant in having a good time in peaceful solitude with apparently inanimate best friends like books and music. And find solace in writing or reading or anything else in the world that can be done alone, daydreaming, yes instead of finding peace in a roomfull of people and clatter and gossip and weird fake laughs.
Someone got it right when they said self-love's the best kind of love.
And I was lucky enough to understand that much younger than anyone else I know.. some of them would depend on another person to make them happy or interested in life till the second life is about to leave them forever.
I talk to myself.. although not out loud.. or I would've officially been crazy, right now I'm just self-proclaimed. But, listening to the line "Why're you so quiet?" for the thousandth time makes me wonder what are they attempting at when they ask me this. Is it to belittle me, cement my opinion on how stupid they are or just some other nonsensical forgettable stuff.. I've stopped caring. Well I didn't care when they asked me when I was nine and I won't care when I'm nineteen or ninety nine.
Or I wonder if they're just insecure about what goes on in my mind.. sometimes my behaviour leads them to believe I'm stuck up, obnoxious and plain arrogant. And I couldn't agree more, on certain terms and I am sometimes completely against the blatant view of my super-secret weird, sanely crazy personality.
There are just a bunch of people, I could count them on my fingers infact who know what I actually am.. and what it appears I pretend to be.. and there are some highly thoughtful relatively more like me.. a miniscule proportion of people who get me at hello.
Coming back from retrospection to life inspection and my direction.. err, now I'm confused about what I'll study after I finally leave school. Psychology, or so I thought was, what I'd be good at. But currently I think English would be good for me.. atleast it would solidify and legitimise what I thought I am, I'd like to be. History if I'm going to dig up graves.. and climb down into them and write my books.. what a thought.
Or maybe sociology to understand more about what I'm writing about. Philosophy would also serve the cause in a more in-depth way. And I realize it's going to be the toughest few days of my life when I'd have to decide and pick one. As it is I'm indecisive even when it comes to clothes, let alone college.
But I'm running ahead of time. And I should probably drop the anchor for a while and bobble in my bubble till time comes to swing the champagne bottle and break it and wave goodbye and a new hello.
Shifting to a new house for the very first time. Been living here since forever. I was born here. It's hard but important enought to not get all stubborn and haughty. Similar.. only three schools till date, three years in one, two years in the second. And then will complete a decade being in the same school I am in now. More than half my life. I'm a grounded person I guess.
School starts on 29th but before that have the Fine Arts practical on 22nd. Bleh.
Never been good at drawing human figures. Interesting fact.. Mughal rulers were initially against artists drawing humans as Islamic laws said that creation of life or depiction of it.. is solely the right of God, but one ruler suggested that it is all right, since when artists draw the figures do they come to realise the futileness of it all and how un-real the painting is, consequently realising how powerful God is, making them revere Him more than what they did before.
Studying all this has led me to belive studying subjects like History is like being stuck in time. My characteristic quality. Reflecting on what has happened. And reflecting on what could've happened and what will happen and what should've and what might have and what did happen. That's all me.
That's just another good part of being narcissistic, you love yourself so much that in everything you come across you stick with what you relate to and what you're best at. At least you're happy about some selected things.
And I get how science and math create. It takes all kinds to make the world work. The reflecting kind and the working kind. I'm glad to be in the former category.. and I'm glad there aren't more like me. I like being lazy. And I like being lazy alone.
;D
Some people just don't seem to understand the concept of being a 'loner'. Advising someone to no end about going out and meeting people and getting together with friends is not justifiable.. and it's just the hidden control freak in them. Just as people have notions about what women should do and not do, and what they should wear and say and every damn thing on the planet.. there exist certain rules about social behaviour and socialising.. which sometimes people so easily relate with normal daily activity and "staying sane".
There's this taboo about being in your room all day which doesn't seem to go away.. and just like the incessant knocks on the door, there are reminders and re-reminders that being alone isn't right and isn't well naturally, allowed by these rulers of the world.. who can't keep their nose out of everyone's business. They slap you on the back and pat you on your shoulder and tell you to cheer up.
And well, those of us who don't fake, aren't fake, won't ever be fake would never do that because they just do and say and act like what they actually are inside. And if inside you aren't happy you don't show you're happy, you aren't satisfied, you aren't content and you're just well totally bewildered by the multitude of meaningless vices and aline disgusting emotions and trivalties of life.
Just as some people are good at being able to be in groups and noise and, well, bad BO. Yeah. We loners are good at being self-reliant in having a good time in peaceful solitude with apparently inanimate best friends like books and music. And find solace in writing or reading or anything else in the world that can be done alone, daydreaming, yes instead of finding peace in a roomfull of people and clatter and gossip and weird fake laughs.
Someone got it right when they said self-love's the best kind of love.
And I was lucky enough to understand that much younger than anyone else I know.. some of them would depend on another person to make them happy or interested in life till the second life is about to leave them forever.
I talk to myself.. although not out loud.. or I would've officially been crazy, right now I'm just self-proclaimed. But, listening to the line "Why're you so quiet?" for the thousandth time makes me wonder what are they attempting at when they ask me this. Is it to belittle me, cement my opinion on how stupid they are or just some other nonsensical forgettable stuff.. I've stopped caring. Well I didn't care when they asked me when I was nine and I won't care when I'm nineteen or ninety nine.
Or I wonder if they're just insecure about what goes on in my mind.. sometimes my behaviour leads them to believe I'm stuck up, obnoxious and plain arrogant. And I couldn't agree more, on certain terms and I am sometimes completely against the blatant view of my super-secret weird, sanely crazy personality.
There are just a bunch of people, I could count them on my fingers infact who know what I actually am.. and what it appears I pretend to be.. and there are some highly thoughtful relatively more like me.. a miniscule proportion of people who get me at hello.
Coming back from retrospection to life inspection and my direction.. err, now I'm confused about what I'll study after I finally leave school. Psychology, or so I thought was, what I'd be good at. But currently I think English would be good for me.. atleast it would solidify and legitimise what I thought I am, I'd like to be. History if I'm going to dig up graves.. and climb down into them and write my books.. what a thought.
Or maybe sociology to understand more about what I'm writing about. Philosophy would also serve the cause in a more in-depth way. And I realize it's going to be the toughest few days of my life when I'd have to decide and pick one. As it is I'm indecisive even when it comes to clothes, let alone college.
But I'm running ahead of time. And I should probably drop the anchor for a while and bobble in my bubble till time comes to swing the champagne bottle and break it and wave goodbye and a new hello.
Shifting to a new house for the very first time. Been living here since forever. I was born here. It's hard but important enought to not get all stubborn and haughty. Similar.. only three schools till date, three years in one, two years in the second. And then will complete a decade being in the same school I am in now. More than half my life. I'm a grounded person I guess.
School starts on 29th but before that have the Fine Arts practical on 22nd. Bleh.
Never been good at drawing human figures. Interesting fact.. Mughal rulers were initially against artists drawing humans as Islamic laws said that creation of life or depiction of it.. is solely the right of God, but one ruler suggested that it is all right, since when artists draw the figures do they come to realise the futileness of it all and how un-real the painting is, consequently realising how powerful God is, making them revere Him more than what they did before.
Studying all this has led me to belive studying subjects like History is like being stuck in time. My characteristic quality. Reflecting on what has happened. And reflecting on what could've happened and what will happen and what should've and what might have and what did happen. That's all me.
That's just another good part of being narcissistic, you love yourself so much that in everything you come across you stick with what you relate to and what you're best at. At least you're happy about some selected things.
And I get how science and math create. It takes all kinds to make the world work. The reflecting kind and the working kind. I'm glad to be in the former category.. and I'm glad there aren't more like me. I like being lazy. And I like being lazy alone.
;D
15 September 2009
Through Tinted Scarlet Glass
I wonder how many people actually think about the future so much.. and if they do what do they see.. the house of their dreams. A wonderful life. The ideal setting for you to spend the rest of your life in. But I've heard that it doesn't turn out that way. Well, I think people forget what they imagined years ago their life's supposed to look like where they are right now. It's just forgetfulness, not fate. But I may be wrong. But I sure hope that I'm not.
Because days ago, (I got news for myself), I think too much, I imagine too much. And I am way to romantic for it to be healthy. I've been through this a hundred times : I expect something and it turns out that I don't get what I want. I get my heart-broken (Yes, even if it's something as silly as what I want for dinner a particular night). And picturing the future is huge, very easy as it may be.
The idyllic settings don't just flash across every day infront of my eyes. It's like organising something that's complex to the point of being frustrating. Just sometimes. And sometimes I step out into the garden and it comes crashing down inside me. What I want and how I want it. And who I want to be with. Or who I do not want to be with.
About 15 minutes ago I had the most vivid and by far the most interesting and the most calming and euphoric sensation at the same time. A house in the woods.. on a mountain and you can't see the building until you're well near the gate. There's a garden, a wild garden. Wild roses. Wild flowers. Untamed, except to make space for an elegant vintage white iron table and a couple of chairs. Birds and squirrels.. maybe even have a birdfeeder.
A grand white house white a glass door and innumerable french windows. With red curtains, not unlike the ones that are in my room right now. A small pond to the right and a white swing with overstuffed red cushions on the left.
The ground floor still looks kind of vague.. but up the stairs and there's the bedroom spread across the whole floor.
And the kind of bed I'd prefer. A year ago it would've been a swinging bed. A round one. Hanging from the ceiling with black satin. Or a large fourposter. Or a modernish water bed. Scarlet tinted windows on the bedroom floor, through which the sun would shine a personal shade of scarlet golden.
A few years ago I also wanted horses and a swimming pool, a tennis court, a huge field. I may want it again, but they're more or less useless. And anyhow, who has the money :P
Getting serious again.. in my bedroom I would bunk our for hours on end. Atleast one wall would all be covered with books to the ceiling. Another room would be all books, everywhere you see. With a beige armchar right in the middle, along with a footstool.
A wall niche. My reading wall niche. With a big window overlooking the valley. And a bunch of scarlet roses that grow right beneath it. I'd sit here when it would rain and I'd sit right in the middle of the room,on my very comfy armchair, on nights when I'd be scared of the darkness. While there would be Dylan in the background or the mellower songs of Gn'R or maybe classical works. On vinyl.
Or early morning on my hide-out on the terrace. Or late afternoon on a blanket spread out in the garden. With the birds chirping and the sun a balmy warm comfort, enveloping me like love does.
All day every day. Write and Read. Sprinking in a liberal amount of gourmet dinners and good movies. Kisses and hugs. That's Utopia.
I'd have a dog and two cats. Or give or take a couple. And fish.
Too much wilderness and a little sunshine. Lots of rain and fog and mist.
Imaginations like these ought to be written down, or they're lost when life makes you busy. It's also an attempt to make myself work towards something so I could get what I want right now, when at times I won't want it, and I'd love to settle for something that's not remotely like this.
Or when I feel I'm not worthy of anything. But I am. 'Cause this all.. it's already mine :)
Because days ago, (I got news for myself), I think too much, I imagine too much. And I am way to romantic for it to be healthy. I've been through this a hundred times : I expect something and it turns out that I don't get what I want. I get my heart-broken (Yes, even if it's something as silly as what I want for dinner a particular night). And picturing the future is huge, very easy as it may be.
The idyllic settings don't just flash across every day infront of my eyes. It's like organising something that's complex to the point of being frustrating. Just sometimes. And sometimes I step out into the garden and it comes crashing down inside me. What I want and how I want it. And who I want to be with. Or who I do not want to be with.
About 15 minutes ago I had the most vivid and by far the most interesting and the most calming and euphoric sensation at the same time. A house in the woods.. on a mountain and you can't see the building until you're well near the gate. There's a garden, a wild garden. Wild roses. Wild flowers. Untamed, except to make space for an elegant vintage white iron table and a couple of chairs. Birds and squirrels.. maybe even have a birdfeeder.
A grand white house white a glass door and innumerable french windows. With red curtains, not unlike the ones that are in my room right now. A small pond to the right and a white swing with overstuffed red cushions on the left.
The ground floor still looks kind of vague.. but up the stairs and there's the bedroom spread across the whole floor.
And the kind of bed I'd prefer. A year ago it would've been a swinging bed. A round one. Hanging from the ceiling with black satin. Or a large fourposter. Or a modernish water bed. Scarlet tinted windows on the bedroom floor, through which the sun would shine a personal shade of scarlet golden.
A few years ago I also wanted horses and a swimming pool, a tennis court, a huge field. I may want it again, but they're more or less useless. And anyhow, who has the money :P
Getting serious again.. in my bedroom I would bunk our for hours on end. Atleast one wall would all be covered with books to the ceiling. Another room would be all books, everywhere you see. With a beige armchar right in the middle, along with a footstool.
A wall niche. My reading wall niche. With a big window overlooking the valley. And a bunch of scarlet roses that grow right beneath it. I'd sit here when it would rain and I'd sit right in the middle of the room,on my very comfy armchair, on nights when I'd be scared of the darkness. While there would be Dylan in the background or the mellower songs of Gn'R or maybe classical works. On vinyl.
Or early morning on my hide-out on the terrace. Or late afternoon on a blanket spread out in the garden. With the birds chirping and the sun a balmy warm comfort, enveloping me like love does.
All day every day. Write and Read. Sprinking in a liberal amount of gourmet dinners and good movies. Kisses and hugs. That's Utopia.
I'd have a dog and two cats. Or give or take a couple. And fish.
Too much wilderness and a little sunshine. Lots of rain and fog and mist.
Imaginations like these ought to be written down, or they're lost when life makes you busy. It's also an attempt to make myself work towards something so I could get what I want right now, when at times I won't want it, and I'd love to settle for something that's not remotely like this.
Or when I feel I'm not worthy of anything. But I am. 'Cause this all.. it's already mine :)
1 September 2009
Wishful.
The stars twinkled and she could almost almost see them reflected in his eyes. They shone in the glasses half-filled with Coke. Voices of the night enveloped them as they stared up at the sky. It had stopped raining late in the afternoon and the sky had cleared out.
It was cold outside. But still warmer than when they were freezing in the AC, but neither of them had a problem with that. It was mandatory. It was habit.
They had studied all day. They were tired. And now they lay, out on the roof. Exhausted. It was almost a quarter to ten. The floor of the roof felt cold even through the blanket they'd spread out.
Her fingers played with the thin layer of dust on the floor. And he let out a sigh of relief. Her hair were half sprawled on the floor. They were a sharp contrast against the off-white marble. And they were long. Longer than they were 3 months ago. He stretched out and flipped over.
An ant found its way to her hair and attempted to reach her face.. he flicked it off. And smiled at her. She smiled back and returned to looking at the sky. She slowly closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.
He thought about how soft her hair was as he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers. It went round and round.. and then he saw her looking at him. He turned away and folded his arms.
He tried not to wonder. He tried not to stare. It was not as if he didn't like her..
On the blanket, smelling the rain, looking at the sky, glasses of coke, having the time of their life. She stuffed the last popcorn left in the bowl and laughed at him. He didn't care. All he cared for, was at that very moment, stuck in time, was for her to be happy. For her to be mine, he thought. Can she be mine? Will she be mine?
He lodged his hands behind his head and wondered. Thoughts raced, skipped and jumped through his mind and he lay there, still, unmoving. Heart thumping. Words fumbling in his brain. Ideas buzzing around.. strewn all over the place.
And as it started, it shut down in a fraction of a second. He thought of nothing. Nothing. Didn't even want to think about it. Then she started to talk about a book she'd read the other day. And how some characted reminded her of him. She giggled and he noticed, for the hundredeth time maybe, how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
Moments passed.
His hair looked nice, they always did. And as if one cue he ran his hands through his hair, goind halfway and then all the way, then to his side. Like he always did, it was almost his trademark. And then he scatrched his nose and smiled.
She fished out her i-pod from her pocket and took a second to admire her immaculate shiny black nails. The earphones thumped to life and she tried ineffectively to ignore her emotions and was suddenly reminded of how this song used to remind her of someone.. someone who was with her right now.
Someone who was probably thinking about something as trivial as what he'd have for dinner today. She pulled at tugged at her thoughts to keep them from straying but her will power was never known to be strong.
She stared at knees of his jeans, it was the perfect shade of blue, worn-out and old. Torn at some places. It was his favourite. His brown eyes looked pensive, the best they could look. Not that they were anything less, anytime else..
While he contemplated if he was going insane or something else as unlikely.. he was never the one to carry his heart on his sleeve.. and he never would be. Well, if she liked him back, she'll tell him, that's for sure, he thought. He's not a teller.
Thumping music drowned out her heartbeat somewhat and and tried to supress her feelings, and it was hard. She'd accepted long ago that nothing was going to come out of coming right out with emotions. Intense emotions. She'd never freaked anyone out. And neither did she want to, ever.
Ofcourse, the fact that she liked him from the moment they talked the first time wasn't of much special importance when she thought about it. That's the difference between what actually happens and what we want to see happen.
They were friends. That should be good enough. She tried to dissipate her thoughts by going back to reality, to what was happenind in the god-forsaken real world.
She said something, he couldn't quite hear what she said..
"Huh?" And he leaned in, while she repeated. And she laughed again.
He didn't listen in. Again. Instead, he leaned in a bit more. And he smelled her hair. It was enticing. He couldn't quite place the fragrance.. it was something between citrusy and a sweet sharpness.. and her skin, it smelled earthy..
He pulled himself back, took a deep breath.. and started humming a song. And he lightly beat his head on the floor. Inconpicuously. She whistled a tune. The same tune. They had the same tune. They were tuned. In. As he thought this, he wondered about what he was turning into.
And there they lay, oblivious to each other's feelings, turning over in their mind thoughts unsaid. Well, someone did say some things were better left unsaid.
A perfect example was when both pondered, and weighed and rejected the idea but still proclaimed to their parallel best friends in parallel worlds in parallel alien languages, they said the three words and sealed their lips to fate.
Time wore on. She offered an earphone to him. He was about to ask for it anyway. As the song ended.. they felt that it was time already.
She stuffed back the ipod into her pocket. He grabbed his shoes. And asking each other, "Dinner?" "I'm hungry." "You're always hungry.".. they got up, straightened and headed downstairs.
The empty glasses and bowls were left there. It was mandatory. It didn't matter. It was habit.
It was cold outside. But still warmer than when they were freezing in the AC, but neither of them had a problem with that. It was mandatory. It was habit.
They had studied all day. They were tired. And now they lay, out on the roof. Exhausted. It was almost a quarter to ten. The floor of the roof felt cold even through the blanket they'd spread out.
Her fingers played with the thin layer of dust on the floor. And he let out a sigh of relief. Her hair were half sprawled on the floor. They were a sharp contrast against the off-white marble. And they were long. Longer than they were 3 months ago. He stretched out and flipped over.
An ant found its way to her hair and attempted to reach her face.. he flicked it off. And smiled at her. She smiled back and returned to looking at the sky. She slowly closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.
He thought about how soft her hair was as he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers. It went round and round.. and then he saw her looking at him. He turned away and folded his arms.
He tried not to wonder. He tried not to stare. It was not as if he didn't like her..
On the blanket, smelling the rain, looking at the sky, glasses of coke, having the time of their life. She stuffed the last popcorn left in the bowl and laughed at him. He didn't care. All he cared for, was at that very moment, stuck in time, was for her to be happy. For her to be mine, he thought. Can she be mine? Will she be mine?
He lodged his hands behind his head and wondered. Thoughts raced, skipped and jumped through his mind and he lay there, still, unmoving. Heart thumping. Words fumbling in his brain. Ideas buzzing around.. strewn all over the place.
And as it started, it shut down in a fraction of a second. He thought of nothing. Nothing. Didn't even want to think about it. Then she started to talk about a book she'd read the other day. And how some characted reminded her of him. She giggled and he noticed, for the hundredeth time maybe, how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
Moments passed.
His hair looked nice, they always did. And as if one cue he ran his hands through his hair, goind halfway and then all the way, then to his side. Like he always did, it was almost his trademark. And then he scatrched his nose and smiled.
She fished out her i-pod from her pocket and took a second to admire her immaculate shiny black nails. The earphones thumped to life and she tried ineffectively to ignore her emotions and was suddenly reminded of how this song used to remind her of someone.. someone who was with her right now.
Someone who was probably thinking about something as trivial as what he'd have for dinner today. She pulled at tugged at her thoughts to keep them from straying but her will power was never known to be strong.
She stared at knees of his jeans, it was the perfect shade of blue, worn-out and old. Torn at some places. It was his favourite. His brown eyes looked pensive, the best they could look. Not that they were anything less, anytime else..
While he contemplated if he was going insane or something else as unlikely.. he was never the one to carry his heart on his sleeve.. and he never would be. Well, if she liked him back, she'll tell him, that's for sure, he thought. He's not a teller.
Thumping music drowned out her heartbeat somewhat and and tried to supress her feelings, and it was hard. She'd accepted long ago that nothing was going to come out of coming right out with emotions. Intense emotions. She'd never freaked anyone out. And neither did she want to, ever.
Ofcourse, the fact that she liked him from the moment they talked the first time wasn't of much special importance when she thought about it. That's the difference between what actually happens and what we want to see happen.
They were friends. That should be good enough. She tried to dissipate her thoughts by going back to reality, to what was happenind in the god-forsaken real world.
She said something, he couldn't quite hear what she said..
"Huh?" And he leaned in, while she repeated. And she laughed again.
He didn't listen in. Again. Instead, he leaned in a bit more. And he smelled her hair. It was enticing. He couldn't quite place the fragrance.. it was something between citrusy and a sweet sharpness.. and her skin, it smelled earthy..
He pulled himself back, took a deep breath.. and started humming a song. And he lightly beat his head on the floor. Inconpicuously. She whistled a tune. The same tune. They had the same tune. They were tuned. In. As he thought this, he wondered about what he was turning into.
And there they lay, oblivious to each other's feelings, turning over in their mind thoughts unsaid. Well, someone did say some things were better left unsaid.
A perfect example was when both pondered, and weighed and rejected the idea but still proclaimed to their parallel best friends in parallel worlds in parallel alien languages, they said the three words and sealed their lips to fate.
Time wore on. She offered an earphone to him. He was about to ask for it anyway. As the song ended.. they felt that it was time already.
She stuffed back the ipod into her pocket. He grabbed his shoes. And asking each other, "Dinner?" "I'm hungry." "You're always hungry.".. they got up, straightened and headed downstairs.
The empty glasses and bowls were left there. It was mandatory. It didn't matter. It was habit.
29 August 2009
Inspiration.
I sit around
Trying to work things out
Fitting together
The jigsaw pieces of life
The world spinning round and round
It takes inspiration
To reach a worthy destination
Not just too much preparation
Or unending perspiration
Dealing with a wordly fascination
With acceptance and inhibition
Procrastination fit for an entire generation
And that's a pretty lethal combination.
What inspires me the most
It could be the pitter-patter of precipitation
Or the bustling life, the moving colours
Or a railway station.
It takes inspiration
To create poetry in motion
Writing fiction with conviction
Silly superstitions
The same pen, paper and imagination.
Trying to work things out
Fitting together
The jigsaw pieces of life
The world spinning round and round
It takes inspiration
To reach a worthy destination
Not just too much preparation
Or unending perspiration
Dealing with a wordly fascination
With acceptance and inhibition
Procrastination fit for an entire generation
And that's a pretty lethal combination.
What inspires me the most
It could be the pitter-patter of precipitation
Or the bustling life, the moving colours
Or a railway station.
It takes inspiration
To create poetry in motion
Writing fiction with conviction
Silly superstitions
The same pen, paper and imagination.
27 August 2009
IndiBlogger Nomination and Other Stuff
Ten years in this school and I finally get something published in the Gallop, that's the school magazine, by the way. Though I didn't want it to happen, it did. And that too.. I won for writing a poem which I didn't even consider worth looking at. It was fun writing.. but not so fun when you read it. I'll post it on here soon.. and it's not so much a poem as something written by a rap artist or a songwriter.. not as poetic as I usually go for. But writing on 'Inspiration' in a set time of 40 minutes isn't my idea of creative freedom. But what the hey :D
So, I've nominated my blog for the IndiBlogger of the Month competition. So I guess you could vote for it if you feel like. I blog this just for the record. And NOT for votes. But I would really like it if I lose by a small margin. I don't have a chance winning, so as well lose with a little flair.
http://www.indiblogger.in/nominations.php?id=4
People who aren't on IndiBlogger yet could sign up. It's an interesting place to spend your time in. Thanks a bunch if you vote, and thanks again if you don't. I'll know I have to get better at this and improve. I already know that but little reminders go a long way.
So, I've nominated my blog for the IndiBlogger of the Month competition. So I guess you could vote for it if you feel like. I blog this just for the record. And NOT for votes. But I would really like it if I lose by a small margin. I don't have a chance winning, so as well lose with a little flair.
http://www.indiblogger.in/nominations.php?id=4
People who aren't on IndiBlogger yet could sign up. It's an interesting place to spend your time in. Thanks a bunch if you vote, and thanks again if you don't. I'll know I have to get better at this and improve. I already know that but little reminders go a long way.
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