delhi rain,when it oughtn't be there

Restless but weary

tired yet looking up

A drop of heaven grazes my cheekbone

Another

touches my forehead

Forms a path, wilful or impassioned

down my brow, past my cheek

Reaches my jaw, falls

on the ground to be one with the Earth

.

The ecstasy of a Raindrop.

nonpareil

don't have a title for weirdness

You look around
And you think you can't fall further
Because inside somewhere
you know you've hit rock bottom.
and you inhale the poison
Feel it coalescing with your blood
Sweet misery
swirling, dark and musky
Under your skin.
You look at the sky
And you think Please Lord don't
let it fall on my head tonight.
Not Tonight.

I wrote this a million years ago.Stumbled upon it today.Everybody who writes, I think, when they read something they wrote some time ago feel that their words are unbearably juvenile, the emotion ridiculously heightened, the pain exacerbated. Hell, I know I do. I mean what, WHAT in the world drove me to the point that I thought the line was crossed. Which line, I dunno. But yeah, it was crossed.

Still, I see people more poisoned that me. People hinging on the precinct of hopeless insanity for a time period longer than me, longer than I would've ever thought possible. For years, even decades. But then one wonders how such thin lines of distinction are formed, how one is more or less insane that another. What are the degrees of being poisoned, one way or the other?
It's terrible. Ought there to be people so poisoned by society and by the faceless classless joyless masses, that they go mad with rage or despair or hatred? Imagine the monstrosity of such a force, a force that pushes a rational human mind to the peripheries of worlds defined by words like insanity, delirium, acute desolation.

I, sitting in a warm bed with air conditioning and a cozy blanket, a pen in one hand and a piece of chocolate in the other, I have the comfortable audacity of considering insanity as some sort of distilled form of existence.
And I rap myself on the head and think I'm being elitist, infinitely stupid and a pathetic escapist . Of course being deranged isn't a solution, of course it is a terrible form of existence.

Oh but is it really?

Silly Pilly Girl who then wanted to Sell

I said I needed to trade something. Yes, it is of value. I need to trade my wounds. The broker with his yellow baseball cap and his broker's crooked smile said my wounds would be of no value to anyone else.

I put up a stall in a crowded market-place, I put up my wounds for sale. I looked on wearily, then vacantly as people laughed and snorted at me, smiled worriedly and wept for me, but no one came to trade.
The last to pack up in the evening, unhurriedly I folded my chair. A plump woman with hair silver as the stars I'd painted in my childhood, a slight dance in her step and a twinkle in the eyes appeared. "Oh my", she said, "I think the rumours were false". Sensing my unperturbed quiet, she went on. "You know, about some girl selling her wounds. What people won't say, just to say! Hah!"

"Rumours..", I murmured.

"Oh yes", chirped the old one. " I've seen so many fools selling their wounds in my day, when I heard this I had to rush over. I couldn't miss this sight. If you haven't closed yet, I'd like to buy what you're selling though." Strange as I'd thought she was, merry as one could look she looked, what she said made me think of serpents and quietly I wondered if she'd ever stop speaking.

"If you're as sharp as you seem to think you are, then you'd know you don't want to buy what I'm selling."

Startled, whether at my words or the fact that I actually had a voice, she missed a beat and said that of course she did.
I was getting tired of this. I wished the old woman would go away. She was making me uncomfortable with her wisdomy attitude.

"You don't know what you're selling; is that why you won't sell?"
Inspite of myself, I got agitated. I told her politely that she'd been eating the head of the fool she said she'd spent the evening searching for, and that perhaps she needed to rethink who the fool really was.

She stared straight at me, her gaze never leaving my eyes. Entranced, a flicker of a thought that I was looking into the eyes of the grandmother I'd never had passed through my head.
"But my child, you don't even know what you've put up for sale. I'd rather that buy it than anyone else - not that people are lining up." The twinkle had returned, the moment was past.

They don't care, I said.

They don't know, don't understand the value, she said. I'd buy your pride before you put it up in a stall some other day, someplace else.

But that's not even my commodity, I cried.
Is it not, she asked.
I'm selling my wounds.
Are you now?

I realised she hadn't even said those last words. I stared the longest I've stared at my hands. When I looked up, she was gone. Night had officially begun, and as I continued to look at the moon emerging from behind the meadow of clouds - it seemed by my will alone - I heard myself breathe out a ghost's whisper, a thank you mangled with sorrow, laced with gratitude. And with hope.

-Written a considerable period of time ago, not very long ago though:P
Posted now for a terrible lack of things to post and a huger, terribler, almost insanely pressing need to post.

Boo

Dill thought Boo didn't want to come out because perhaps he had nowhere to run to. Jem reached the conclusion that Boo wanted to stay inside because ' folks in the world ' were too mean to each other. Outside his gothic cocoon was a world made up of people who were so busy being people that they forgot they were human beings.

Jem was correct. In his own right, so was Dill. Where would one go when one had nowhere to run to? More importantly, why would one want to run if one was even remotely aware of the existence of a world full of hyenas out there - watching, waiting, still and silent now, mad with laughter now.
Boo came out - of his prison or haven, that depends on the perspective you endorse, if you will - when he was required. He saved lives, in fact his benign existence isn't completely useless before he decides- or is forced into deciding- to save lives. He awarded Jem and Scout with little treasures for their 'interest' in him or perhaps because he saw something of his childhood in their antics, or most likely he caught glimpses of a childhood he painfully acknowledged he never had.

I think Boo would've liked to know how Scout felt about him eventually. She doesn't say it as definitively as Jem or Dill, so I know I'd like to know.
Yep, I think Boo would've liked it an awful lot.