Them Birthdays. Monuments of Mehness.

I think I deserve a farout ramble for turning 21. In 48 hours or so.

Big. It is big. Big, I tell you! Big.

I have a slight tendency to shout textily lately. It's very satisfying without breaking things and such and in a way very Phoebeesque. Which I love. Uncontrollably. Love, love, I tell you!

Growing up is a pain. You get wrinkles and your knees give away. Oh, such monstrous grief and sadness. Oh.

I can feel my heart croaking under the pressure. Then they fix in those pacifier things which shut down because of magnets. I once read a book, or saw a movie or a show or something where the guy fixes a magnet in a chairback to kill the villain/hero or the other guy. *everything goes quiet*

It was interesting. He just sat there and well, there was no sound. The stupid machine just stopped helping out the stupid heart. There it goes. This is all well done murdering with ice picks and lambs to crush skulls, of course. Thanks, Roald Dahl. I love you. I'll join you here or there.

So lately it has been quiet on the creative front except popcorny Instagram and fb statusi rolling by.

Roll, roll, roll your boat. Throat. Gently down the knife. Higgledy piggledy out came the spider and they lived happily ever after again. All right.

So darken your clothes and strike a violent pose, 'cause they'll leave you alone but not me.

I hope I seriously do that I'm not illegally picking up from memory things that aren't mine but are mine because I'm thinking them. Mark Twain tells Helen Keller originality does not exist. Who am I to counter?

Row row row your boat.

It is the days or mushy broody hindi songs blaring out from everywhere and happy songs and swoony songs. A time like all else time. So what else is new. The fingers feels good on the keys and the keys feel good in the locks when they go one two three and open sesame.

Last time, I remember posting post after post of music that matters. I pretty much covered all because those don't repeat year after year. They just come and never go. Except a few new things do come which just make themselves comfortable in the seat of the mind and lie there snoring for all time to come.

And drooling along, dreaming on. Staying forever and ever and ever..

Things. Not people. People just pray and poop.

Birthdays this was meant to be about. But when is anything ever anything that it was meant to be? That would be boring. There is enough to be bored about around here. Like.. every thing.

There is a lot of examination going around. I've heard it's bad. It catches on in a very regular manner and attacks the very core of you. Specially those ones, the ones on which your entire life story depends upon. So screw them. Don't hate me. Well, do.

Facebook pages now asks for money to automatically publish posts and  I don't really care and I don't know who's reading this but whoever you are, drop in a word down here somewhere so I can know which kind of embarrassed to be. Aloha. I'll write another one or two soon enough.

No, wait. Birthdays.. birthdays.. this is the most fucked up one yet. Because everything is teetering on the edge and nothing is in the centre. I could stand up and it could tip over into nothingness. Except it's only a half a mud stair with grooves in it.