fuzzy happy gooey yummy

pink and green.pink for me, green for outside. or green for my feet. subliminal existence and coffee galore. conversation leading to fiery arguments where you-know-who flies into phenomenal rages. and a kiss. balance. lightness in tummy. heavy in head-in a good way..

i float with my feet on the ground
i love
:-)

the leafleaf my fellit

i sit tracing the fall of the leaf. i've been looking at it for almost two days. waiting,watching. waiting. willing it to stay on. the leaf didn't know i was looking though. if it knew i was staying on because it was not falling, it would've broken from the tree and begun its fateful descent from the sheer weight of me. aren't we glad for some things that don't happen too soon in the world. aren't we resentful of the knowledge that eluded us when it should not have. 'if only i'd known sooner...',they say. 'they'? it's uninterestingly pathetic how human beings hide behind pronouns. always pronouns. me included. despairingly cowardly i'd say.

i've urinated only when i couldn't hold it anymore, rushing to the nearest public convenience piece of crap 3 times. in almost 48 hours, only 3 times. i was so worried it would fall in my absence. if i wasn't there and i saw it on the grass with all the others, i'd never know which one it was. i'd never be able to tell. i'd...spend the remnant of my day crying over the demise of my leaf, knowing i wasn't there when i should've been. at its last.
it breaks pointed-side first and then flattens out, weaving through the air, waltzing, teasing the earth.
nobody speak a word.
nobody breathe.
i stop. i can't look away. can't look away.
it lies on the grass. barely resting on it, wary of getting soiled. a blurry view does not help, it does not erase anything. only morphes what i know is the truth. can't see it, can't look away. i see it. clearly now,in my head.
i breathe. force myself to breathe.
inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.

its fallen.
my leaf.

love silhouetted against a wet day

This is how it rained in Jose's town. Water poured and poured and did not accumulate. The trees were still visible, dogs could be seen running amok as always, lazing around as always. Huts floated, but Jose and his people went to work, played with their children, made love to their wives. The town would not sink, would not be submerged. It had a planetary existence of it's own, an existence that was unaffected by everything. Everything except sadness.

It could rain forever, as it did - as was happening even now - and it did not matter. But if a heart broke, you could feel the lightening bolt under your skin. A single tear from any of Jose's people reduced the whole town to a state of unspoken misery, and an inexplicable sadness seemed to permeate the very mud of the huts' walls. The dogs wailed and the air over Jose's town thickened with pain and hung low around the people, so that they felt, at all times, a knot in their throats and a spirit weighing down their stomachs.

****************************

One by one, all the people of the town went to Cemilisna's hut with baskets of food and fruits, exotic nuts and strawberry vanilla muffins. No one knew what happened to the food, because though her door would not open the food would not be there the next day.

No one had been behind the closed door, not a soul had seen her in the past thirty seven days. They did not know of the irrevocability that had occurred, but they knew she was alive. Inside her hut, Cemilisna's heart was beating still. And the whole town knew that each reluctant heartbeat carried a throbbing ache, an ache that had filled Cemilisna's little hut and overflowed into the town. An ache that had taken over the roads and woods of Jose's town, an ache which was now threatening to bring onto the whole town the all pervasive malaise of pain.

****************************

He sailed on.

The town now lay far to his West, and his heart lay somewhere farther north-west. He looked ahead and saw the form of that which he had to search for in the inkiness of the dark world. A flash of her jaw set firm, lips commanded sternly to keep from quivering and eyes forbidden from expelling pain came to him and he stared at the blueness of the ocean, willing the water to swirl malevolently and to swallow him in a rush of violence, a movement akin to the contorted symphony of violence on her serene forehead and in her clear eyes.

Her clear eyes. Like a still ocean asking to be chartered. Like an unknown form in the darkness, waiting to be discovered.

He looked up. He sailed on.

i'm runnin' against the wind

You realise that something is different, changed somehow. You know it's changed when the rain outside your window sounds incessantly chaotic instead of being the usual soothing pitter-patter. Constant non-saline tears of heaven. Shitty cliche. Something's changed when you sing along with a song incorrectly, when instead of singing 'I wish that I could turn around' you sing 'I wish that I could let you down.'

I'm being told repeatedly that the question of right or wrong does not concern me. I understand that tragedy doesn't concern itself with the one that it befalls or with black and white, that the deserter is as much at a loss as the deserted, perhaps in a sense more so because the one who lets go first carries the albatross' dead weight for all time to come. So maybe I agree that right and wrong needn't concern me in my capacity as lawyer/legal advisor. But being told that worrying over the 'truth' of the matter also doesn't concern me - well, that just worries me more.
In fact, it perplexes me in a way that questions do when I know that I'm alone in thinking about the answers and that I know the answers, as does the world but the world will pretend it does not know or that it sees a different answer or better yet, that as far as it is concerned the very question that I posed doesn't exist.
To see justice being done, or justice as a part of the larger picture - the legal system doesn't bother with such trivialities.

I'm not a child. I knew this was how it worked. Works even now. Perhaps will always work. It just amazes me that so many human beings collectively decide to stand and fight for the muck of the world. To stand and fight for all that's ugly and incoherently twisted. And that they can't see themselves and their foolery.
Maybe they ought to stand where I'm standing. Just once.

broken pieces of some of the all that makes me

Each year
a little farther
we move along the tangent of our lives

a bit fartherer
not from where
we began but from where we
stopped

I wish I could say with honesty that I've forgotten. Or forgiven.
I wish I could say honestly that I remember. Or that I care.

*******

I saw with my very own eyes, heard, felt with my own mind and heart. I still couldn't believe. Sometimes, in the silence of the night when one can hear drops of water trickling from an unclosed tap, interspersed with the violent conversations of the lil dog with the strays outside, when I can hear the tick-tock of each second of time and my irregular heartbeat making strange music -- sometimes when the night is threateningly calm I still refuse to believe.

*******

They talk of jealousies of long ago, jealousies that gnaw at their stomachs yet. They whisper meaningless fragments from forgotten songs of desire love lust, remembered now with ghostly aching minds. They wail softly about confessions left unconfessed, lament pitifully the utterance of a harsh word where none was required.
Strange, I think, that we mourn the death of the living while the dead mourn their lives ill-spent.

*******

War to establish peace, whatever the fuck that means. Passing through a mayhem of torn bodies strewn on bloody streets, of mutilated fingers dabbing in puddles of muddied red. This silence is not peaceful calm, it's the morbid sickening silence that pervades each atom of the air at the birth of a stillborn.
The birth of death.

*******

Pain, move thee farther.
Love approaches and my heart hides in the
shadows.
It beats, the Earth reverberates
My secret place is given away.
You found me didn't you.
Didn't you?
I knew you would.
I knew.

*******

An empty house where you can't even hear the creeks. But you can imagine.
Construct a sleepy sound to fill the empty spaces. Pretend you can hear. Pretend you're not alone. Just so it hurts more when you wake to the fact that you are. With 77 gazillion people around, you're still alone.
Gah.
Prettiest sentence I heard today : "Don't hide behind language."

*******

What happened why how when
all questions are pretense
Because the answers I remember by heart. .

*******

I wonder if he thinks about the past. I'm sure he does. Not because I know I do, but because how can he escape it?

it aches, it burns
there was love in it once.
Once.
now it roams haunted streets at 3 am
bereft of people, abandoned by ghosts
plagued by phantoms of the mind
fiery with silent rage, it kills.

two down
the world to go.

*******

He stands there everyday. Just waiting. Waiting to kill, or to get killed. He stands there so that I may become a lawyer. Hide and seek, with life and death, he plays all the time so that I may play with words, relentlessly chasing the dream of eternal justice.

One day, Death will say "I spy you".

The pseudo-necessity of war and armies, the pointlessness of soonering the event of death. Ending another human being's Life to protect a line, or the piece of land behind that line.

The stupid blindness and tragic hopelessness of it all.

*******

Leave the lights on
so that I can see

I can see leave the
lights on
For all the memories

Oh see them fade away
see how they fade
fade away

*******

****

**

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.