Diary entry for today

I'm riding on the wave of this storm. It may be scary from the outside but on the inside it just seems like a very long wait. I'd like to believe it is just that. I've grown to be quite hefty and my interest in things has waned to a 5-second fling. I'd like to believe that it is temporary. In fact, I'm fighting for it to be just that.

Maybe trouble isn't this, it's what lies ahead. And maybe, this is the worst.

The future is so full of possibilities

This is just a dummy's copy.

Sometimes you are what you pretend to be. And sometimes you create the stereotype. Sometimes you take a cigarette and light it and sometimes you take the cigarette and create a masterpiece. Sometimes your masterpiece will be burning, burning, till it burns out.

And always, the best way to laugh is to learn doing it when there just isn't anything funny.

I don't mail. But I will tell you from here, I only exist through these alphabets. And one day when I stop, you won't see me ever again.

Freedom is a responsibility

My idols are poisoned with flaws. They may not be the worst but they definitely hide their cracks with humanity. Perfection – and I hear the perfect would rather pack their bags and leave than stay here with us – always was a bit too bright to look in the eye at.

Why is that as we move to wherever we are headed, humanity needs to be shown a human side to have faith in itself? We run out into the wild, strum a guitar and scream, scream our displeasure. Even as we buy it all and fill ourselves with everything we can find, till we rebel against the bad by being worse. And we consume and we cry.

I want someone to tell me that each one of us – and I can’t settle for less than everybody – has a well of compassion in us and that it is the pain of everyday that makes us cover it up all with anger. There must be a reason why we eat what’s not ours and wear a skin that we weren’t meant to. There must be a reason why we can go right ahead even when our hearts call out right unto the end when they are clogged with cholesterol. A lot of people tell me its part of the system that I’d like to know who switched on, back when all of us were good, our joys more simple.

And even as we grow, I can’t help feel that our weight is pulling us lower and lower into the ground. And maybe if we slowly do go down, we’ll find, somewhere towards the end everything that we should have kept back. And it might not be a mother, or a daughter, or a son. It might not even be who you thought you were deep inside. But it will be someone you wished you had met.

So there won’t be a need for love or hate, anger or joy. And we can just be, free finally.

I am vexed. All my genius seems to have been crushed by the lack of availability of my vagina. If ever I felt frigid, I think this would be the moment that best describes it. If ever I had doubted my talent and capabilities – this is just one of the several days. And I come crashing against the wall of this blog once again to beat my head till I senselessly ramble, and one of you, out of the profound goodness of your hearts reaches out from where you needn’t and try at something you could entirely avoid.
I am not a sad person, mad person, bad person, angry person. In fact, my soul is cleaner than my fingernails. I am just a weak person. And weakness is, surely, the only way to anger. Oh, I could cry right now and break something just to feel something else. It is mighty hard to put all your hopes on something that you know somewhere inside, isn’t real but you continue because you have nowhere else to go.

Sunday is a good day to be stoned. Sunday is a good day to smoke a cigarette wearing only chuddis and a banyan, hair oiled and tied up, listening to American Prayer. Sunday is a good day to write my activities because this sunday has none.

My First Short Story

In This Day and Age

One, two, three, breathe.
One-two-three-breathe
Onetwo-three-breathe
Onetwothreebreathe
Breathebreathebreathebreathe
One two three.

The Butterfly Bandage

It’s a frantic struggle, this life. With no wars to fight and no causes to live for, all hell resides within. And when the defences are down, all poison inhaled-exhaled, chewed-spat, consumed-exhumed, they come back manifold. The hours of rest grow shorter, walls grow closer and rooms get smaller. There won’t be a point in crying because it’s taken over more than just your eyes.

But there will always be the butterflies.

Even in the dreams of hell. It is their strange hypermetropic state, I suppose. Being hidden under grandeur, revealed as scarred reptiles only close to death. In moments of distress, I conjure schools of them to decorate the face of my fears with spots of crimson and indigo, white and green, yellow and pink. And when them hounds sing their ghastly opera in the midst of those wanton hours, a butterfly somewhere will flutter yellow, fighting the usurper Black; against gravity, against lows and highs, against darkness and helplessness. And they’ll hide even then, holding their deformed bodies akimbo only to those they fight. Till everything quiets down inside, slowly seeping away, taking away bad memories, good ones, pointless ones, ones of lust, ones of anger. We’ll be left alone by butterflies and demons, by friends and foes, by everything but peace.

No song is as cherished as the silence after an evening of wars.