Friday, May 25, 2007

Rewinding Summer on my head

There is a pause in between every transition when you roll over backwards and watch the world standing on your head just to make the pain a little more concrete. The sun shines from behind the creases of vegetation scarring your eyes till your pupils crawl right inside your brain. Everything in there is blue with the liquid fear that floods your thoughts - the sea is in your head this afternoon and the colour of this world be red. You breathe in the air with involuntary panic and feel bulbous veins swell at the roots of hair that lifelessly caresses the marble. You have never sensed gravity from this close as it pulls your skull into its lap tipping you upside down. Every liquid in your body promises to slither out of your nose and every groan screams of collapsing lungs. Every cartilage at the back of your neck strains to keep your head from twisting and the intensity leaves you with a deep sense of vomit. Maybe now like a Tarantino movie your nerves will rip and every pore will let out an ocean of red ketchup that will pour out inelegantly till you are as dry and empty as your tear glands.

Right now, more than anything you want to fall and let the crawling at the tip of your head stop. You breathe hard, in huge gulps but vertigo only escalates.

Doors bang all around you – creaking, groaning, and thudding against walls. Someone calls out your name – it sounds like your mother - and leaves a note of threat in it. Thinking of the paint in your hair and the smell that is crowding you, you smile. Not now, you scream out but only hear it reverberate in your head. Not now and not ever if you could just find one reason to let your head fall. And from within your horror you wonder how you would bob on your head and with a sound like ‘furmp’ you would fall back cracking your support system and crippling under pain smelling your life in the sweat and sweet decay.

On the outside though, you only seem a bit stoned, maybe a bit happy even


Saturday, May 12, 2007

Scribbling through

I told myself I wouldn't write today but I can't stop. After riddling a handful of tissues and several A4 sheets I decided I had to put a few words here. It doesn't mean a lot, I am just writing down conversation like a pen addict, scribbling just to keep the high. I wrote down words I wouldn't and shouldn't remember, appointments I would sleep through, promises I would forget and drew people I almost fell in love with.

It's difficult to keep your heart when you write, it spews itself all over the page. I rub it here and there to make it a bit more illegible but these days, to quote Nico I seem to think a lot about the things I...all the times I had the chance to.

I'll stop my rambling, I don't do too much gambling these days.

I know it doesn't make sense but 3 glasses of hard liqueur begs for a wrong soundtrack.

Maybe I could interest you in some Nirvana?

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Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Your time is up (I might die alone)

This is where I am.

After four years of traveling in a crowded local train hanging on for life I wondered for the first time what would happen if the pole gave away. It struck me then that I never thought of this before despite being strung like this for hours at one point of time. Maybe I was too busy trying to get to places to ever notice, or maybe fear is something that comes only to those with time on their hands.

I do have a lot of it now -

Fear of waking up invisible; fear of waking up without a reason to; fear of waking up too late; fear of waking up in the middle of the night trying to find a meaning to the whole damned thing; fear of not waking up at all.

The streets are full of eyes, watching and darting this way and that, never showing a sign of recognition. I remember walking these streets ever since memory stands and it surprises me that despite being a veteran street-walker I never seem to meet someone familiar. I look for a colour I remember, a mole that I touched before, a cigarette-lighter I borrowed, a shirt/book/vice I lend, a habit that I marked as odd/entertaining/amusing, a voice that I heard... but everything seems to be a part of a vast, giant river that changes into deeper oblivion.
This way, that way they all flow - brushing, groping, pinching and occasionally murmuring something incoherent - although conspicuously dirty- but never recognizing until a pair of eyes from a few feet away looks




I know he’s seen me somewhere – somewhere he didn’t want to, somewhere he didn’t want to go to, some part of him that didn’t seem good to him even when it was him.
He brushes his greying left temple, lets out a deep breath and looks down, joining the forces of analogii. I button my shirt right back up and walk away to a page and pen padding the empty places with “those damned” adjectives like only an Indian can.