Life, the mall.

Following one’s destiny is a hugely romanticised notion. It is not easy at all. They say that if you want something really badly, nothing can stop you. There can. Leaving everything behind in search of a so called higher truth, sounds good in all the road novels that one reads, and the films that one sees. Maybe there is no higher truth, no pot of gold, and no epiphany at the end of the journey.

Uprooting is always a painful process, even if the tree is sentient enough to comprehend that it is being taken to a place with more sunshine and water. At the end of the day, the roots are still sticking to familiar ground.

What am I looking for? I wish I knew. Sometimes I feel like I am in a huge shopping mall. I want to get something but I don’t know what. So I go into each shop and look. Life has to be more than one big shopping mall, right? It can’t just be an assortment of boxes where I open each one just to see if it has what I am looking for.

You tell yourself to do what your heart wants you to do. Your heart never wants anything because it can’t. It pumps blood to keep you alive. It’s your brain that does the wanting and the longing. There IS no tussle between the heart and the mind.

It’s just a civil war inside your head and one side wins, maybe.

Maybe, there is no destiny.

Of new tales.

"Button your lip don't let the shield slip"

There is something about good music. Something that fills you with regret. Regret for all the things that you have done and undone. There is something about the melody that makes you want to turn back time and do things all over again.

And when the singer sings, what happens to all your fashionable cynicism? The "shield" that only slips when you are all alone in your tiny room in the evening, staring at the glassy computer screen in front of you.

Emotion is the last child of a bygone age of corny platitudes and melodramatic soaps.

We are all confident and self assured people moving forward. Forever. Yet something happens when your favourite song plays at a time when you are sitting all alone. When there isn't a single person around to scrutinise your facial muscles. That is when you sit back and wish that you were a better person. That you had said things when it was necessary. And not walked away. Held on. Maybe. Been a braver person and faced the firing line.

Sometimes, a tune makes you want to rewrite the entire story. The story that has become you. It makes you want to read the older story, the story that was lost in the lanes and bylanes you left behind.

When the words fade into music, all you want is peace. Or a new story.

Is.

Isn't it that time of the year again for you?

Days of broken nights and dancing cheese?

Of plastic lungs and smoky smiles?

Of drunken miles with dirty dimes?

And of psycho rhymes?

Golden songs fail to please,

and what of floating sheets?

Tunes in buckets

and painful heels.

Isn't it that time of the year for you?

You with your sly-cream eyes,

and the rum-kissed miles.

The cigar streets

and the heavy beats.

The stringy suits

with the muddy shoes...

isn't it that time of the year again for you?

:)

Altered un-orientation, it is.
Destabilising but exciting nonetheless.
The little black sticks are breaking up.
Black, plastic and weak.
Neon weakness blinds sometimes.
The sinking started long before the waters rose
surprise me. surprise me. surprise my mind and what else is left inside the old house.
old houses hold a lot of secrets and broken corridors.
lying whispers run along with changed minds.
time ruins, time breaks and time bangs on the floor with a hammer made of air.
The hammer sings, loud and long.
It sings to the tuneless poems that people create.
Run, run and run to the broken corridor on the left.
Peek into the first door that you find.
the dead poet told us to shake dreams off your hair.
shake the cobwebs away and run inside the mind that you drew when I woke you up.
I tried jumping off the edge and danced instead. The dizzy madness has overtaken me
heat. the heat the heat and the heat. in the distance I see that the liquids have already married.
the awful offspring is mine now. To foster, to care and to bury.
It is a mad child.

Peace and disquiet can hit at the same time. How many times have you heard the few leaves rustling outside your bedroom at night? Most of the time, all I can hear is the sound of a car on the deserted night streets. That is probably followed by the feeble sound of a dry leaf moving to the slight breeze.

By then, I am probably asleep or too bored to care.

I hate writing ratty posts. They are too revealing and narcissistic. They also make you sound like one of those emo-punks you hate and love to trash. Some times it is better to be nasty and pretend-strong. Then you got the whole world believing that you are a fortress that they can hide in. You dole out a lot of advice to people you care for? Yes, I do that. A lot. The happiness that you get from un-fucking someone else's fuckup somehow covers up a lot of the misery that is inside you. Helping someone else is so cathartic that you almost end up convincing yourself that you are happy too.

But the crushing friend never fails. It is always there. After you are done injecting other people with feel-good nectar, all you are left with is your own bile. No drug invented for you yet, is it? The ether only works for a while. And after the effects wear off, forget quoting Comfortably Numb to yourself. The crushing pain inside becomes physical at times. You can literally feel it, way beyond all the self induced numbness. Nudity of all kinds is rather shocking. So is nude pain. We can almost never deal with it. Which is why we remain, yours truly and pretend-strong.

...

Its been a while since I have written. The last one month has been crazy, to say the least. I have always hated paperwork, and lately all I have been doing, is that. Running helter-skelter with this document and that. All I can see right now are photocopies and more photocopies. One of these days, I swear my birth certificate will develop a voice and start ranting at the number of times it has been stuck inside a photocopier. It is an utter sadness I swear.

My mind has been in a perennial state of funk and that has ended pissing off some loved ones. All apologies to them and they know who they are.

I have also being OD-ing on a number of television series. I suggest you OD on them too. It is great fun without having to screw your nervous system by overdosing on actual substances.

I like going places. It is the interim of preparation that I hate.

Sheer nightmare, this.