are you in or are you out?

Among the events of the past six months -- Fortunetellers, a man and a parrot, told me to never get my fortune told.

I think this is to be believed as it is rather self-defeating for a man and a parrot who make their living telling fortunes.

Fortunes have changed in the last six months. Life has changed. People have left. Places are over. Cords have been severed, to the extent that when I whizz past places at way-too-late-for-girl-to-be-out-on-Delhi-roads I scream FUCK YOU! to all that they represent, secure in the knowledge that it'll be swallowed in the 80 kmph wind a motorbike creates.

I haven't written here, but I have otherwise. In my journal, in my exams, papers and essays, emails that I once composed in my mind, stories I giggled over on the phone. I found myself writing and writing, with just one person in mind -- who, no surprise, has left; I've no idea what to do with it now.

What boggles is that easy assumption which lasted nearly 20 years, which has now crumbled, like it was meant to all along. Cords will be severed all through life.

I thought, atleast family will hold together forever. Now to reconcile to the fact that it will, it will hold, but over ISD calls and postcards from Indonesia and an aching love that struggles over pride and gnawing absence. And that some family loves me only for my blood, and not for what I think or feel or believe in.

Hills are therapeutic, but being on top of one is isolating. There's no words to say, frequently; for all flowery sentimental words that pour out embarrasingly easy, I've frequently got nothing to say. It's fucking scary.

I tried hibernating. I emerged out of it with relatively clear skin. Yay bloody hey.

And now life for the next two years is decided.

And the thought that I won't live it like it should be is crippling.a

music tag

Put iTunes on shuffle, take the first line from the first 20 songs and use them to make a poem. Use the first line of the 21st song as the title.


I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me

How long before I get in
Where is a moment when needed the most
When you’re on a holiday

Mama, take this badge from me
When he took the three disciples
Expelled oh from love
Don’t hold yourself like that

Now that I’ve met you
In the days of my youth
If you’ll be my star

Desmond has his barrow in the marketplace
Shot through the heart

There's a song that's inside of my soul
After one whole quart of brandy
Every day is so wonderful

Don’t be so quick to walk away
Back in black

I thought love was only true in fairy tales

A little less conversation
How many special people change.

**

Doesn't it make sense in some twisted way? *tilts head* Do this tag, everyone!!

erase and rewind

So this is how it ends, 

with a backstory

a confidence

a kiss to the shoulder

while pondering the soulsucking vagaries of life

and love and girlie friendship

with cigarettes and adrakwali chai 

and khayali pulao.

Oh, to think what I gained on that machan

by losing what I never really had 

in the first place.

To A. - beautiful, edgy, sexily smart - I wish you courage and conviction

and the best of luck. Men are scum.

these broken arms won't hold you down

Are you a generally an angry person?

Am I? Not really. No I'm not.

Then why is your blog full of suppressed anger?

~~

Well, fuck. I don't know. My nails are blunt and worn, they can't draw blood. The higher my voice goes the shriekier and more ridiculous it gets. Fight or flight - flight wins. I stumble for the cutting words that won't come. 

When did they last come? I can't remember. I can't remember the last time I was able to discharge my anger. Or even use it in that ugly way, to unload it on someone unwitting and make them cry.

There are people around me who're angry. They're angry that hotels have been bombed and terrorists are running amok and whatthefuck idontcareanymore bombthembombthemallfuckers. There are people who sit watching the news with orgiastic fascination and call me unpatriotic when I don't come and join them. I can't do anything about it, anymore. I'm not angry, in that sense. 

So, I have nowhere else to go.

~~

But there's nothing to talk about.

*shrugs* okay then.

and then it took it back from me

You'll never win. You know that, right?

You know how you'll end? With your mind shattered to bits. With your heart ripped out, lying on ground leaking from the stilleto stab wound. That's how you'll end. Shaking and crying yourself hoarse for help that will not come.

Look at you. You're disgusting. Embrace the world, go ahead. Bullshit. Leave yourself open. Sit and listen to them, patient and understanding. Sponge up the world's suffering. Fucking bleedingheart. Do you think it makes you a better person? What exactly are you compensating for, then? Is it penance for some deep dark secret, is it murder? rape? robbery?

You're wasting your time. You're wasting yourself. Your do-gooding will only have you laughed at. People will use you, people like you aren't of any other use, anyway. You are a loser. You will lose. You will have nothing left at the end of the day. You've given it all away. And when you go begging to get some of it back, they'll kick you and spit at you and jeer at you and throw you away, used.

Just as long as you know what you're doing. That just makes it a million times worse, and really, there's no fun without that, is there?

nothing... else matters. ?

With a to-do list YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY long
With a head still blurry from the afternoon nap
With fingers that cramp up from the mere thought of writing an assignment

With the certain conviction that comes from knowing I'm forgetting something

... I sit here whinging about how there's nothing to do, and nothing to say and I wait for the phone to ring.

to be the ones who've seen

The blackness behind your eyelids, as you spasmed and retched on to your side, spilling slime over borrowed floors and yourself; does that feel good now?

That look on your face as you begged and grovelled, snotted all over his feet and his shiny black shoes, flushed face and fevered eyes and then - then, for that one moment of a tired piece of paper going up in fragrant smoke.

That feeling of breath whistling in your nostrils, blood pounding in your head; and the sudden plummeting in your stomach, the inevitable crunch as you meet the ground and lie there in your own wreckage.

You're incurable.

Have you seen it all now?

Good. We can get down to the real business then.

Oh my love, it was a funny funny little thing...