Obliteration

I was thinking.
What if…
I would go to a park where couples make out. Sit on a tree. And watch one couple, sneaking into their personal intense moment. And sense love taken over by lust. Have orgasm. Not masturbate. And just watch till it makes me sick.
Solitude brings strange desires within me. It is not perversion.
You can’t say so. I won’t let you.

I was thinking from uterus, not heart.
Forget.

I decided to go to hibernation as December happened.
My world was pale. All the colors washed away to a distant desert of bliss.
I woke up to the sound of fog.
The sun was still sleeping in some brothel.
Yellow dull street lights stared at me from the open window and I was dreaming wide awake caressed by an arousing chilly wind, or just hallucination of the night.

She wandered slowly in her room following the harmony in Cohen’s voice. She pretended as if the man was singing for her. Cohen sang it for Nancy, and she was being Nancy in a mirage of fabricated reality. Was her life just mockery of love? She wasn’t sure. She believed she was a semi-precious stone. She believed she was Nancy. She closed her eyes and stepped slowly on the cold floor, barefoot, and she wore an old navy blue woolen sweater and grey shorts. Cold, cold it was. Winter was creeping up her shoulder and her bare fair legs. Now Cohen started singing another song about this strange intriguing woman named Suzanne. She hated Suzanne. Because she couldn’t become her. Because she didn’t have feathers to wear and love to give. She instead put on her black stockings and slept in her Nancy dreams.

I asked myself: “How are you my love?”
And the spiral path of useless thoughts began in my head.
I’m okay. Or, may be not. Wait, I am NOT okay.
I’m messed up and miserable.
I’m sad and lonely.
I’m in love and I’m frustrated.
I loved a phantom. I made out with a teddy boy.

Ignore me. I am so damn reality-phobic.

And I am not sad.
I am too lazy to be sad.
I’m an apathetic person with a dirty grey heart and I’m in pathetically in love with the mere idea of love.
What is love? = Lunacy Obduced by Verbal Erraticism. If it makes sense. But love doesn’t make sense anyway.

She reclined on her chaotic bed. He was half a country away. There was a phone call. She was talking to him; she was falling for him as if she already hasn’t fallen. She stretched her legs wide apart. Something was wet in there. And her heart was wet too. But he was half a country away, a long long telephone cord away. She reclined on the bed of metaphysical sex. She put down the phone. She slept in the woolen navy sweater and the black stockings. Her legs no more wide apart, rather resting alongside. Grey shorts laid aside. Winter’s night put a blanket of numbness over her.

Winter is here again. Time for solitude, time for ache.
Time for my conjured snow flakes to fall. Time for my love of pain. Time for night of frozen stars.
I am back to my self again.

A Perennial Fiction in My Heart

The light fell on your face, coming from the distant street lamp.
And lots of shadows.
An unknown rhythm I felt, in you, in me, in the surrounding.
You must go, you must go soon… But stay just a little while?
I’m just emerging from the grey of my heart. I’m just breathing in your smell. I’m just living in your arms, in an intransient warmth, that would linger even when I cannot feel your breath through my hair anymore. ‘Cause you’re gone.
And now you will become a metaphor. In my delusional dreams I’ll refrigerate you until I run out of my sense of energy. An energy you are leaving within me, a part of you merged into my dusty young soul.
You’re somewhat like the cigarette burning between my fingers. The smoke fades away behind the curtain of air, but the smell remains, and the stains.
You looked into my eyes, my blurry eyes, and I perceived you as the most enthralling hallucination ever. I was wrong. You were real.
The dew on the grass blades, was shinning as if it had rained diamonds on this earth, and it was wet; as the evening was falling into winter’s arms – I made you sit down in the shadow, I fell into you.
To you I’m a psychedelia; to me you’re an enigma. But I know you. I have felt you in my bloodstream. I have lived you, as you defined me, as you discovered me, as you loved me.
Did you?
That touch was eerie. That embrace was out of the world. You rushed into my head, you tasted my breath, you collapsed into me; and I to You.
A void heart you have chosen, who would point at your mistake?
I would stare at your lips, dry-dead skin, and breathe you in.
The existence of this world started to get fainter as you told me life was worth living, love was worth waiting for. I believed. No more tears to shed, no more fears to runaway from… only a hollowness, a hole, you are leaving somewhere in me.
…In the day we were puffing and just living. I was stepping on stones floating in the sky…feeling warmth on my shoulder. Was it you? Was it? I guess.
The phantom kissed on my forehead, and its blackmagic soul fell in love with me… Me … I’m a nowhere rebellion tethered with extreme rights and wrongs of life. Seeking salvation. Being a non-believer. I still am. Only that I’ve found serenity, in my place that you showed me. And you showed me a piece of heaven residing in a secret garden placed somewhere within the rusty brick world.

White ghost trees painted grace on my iris. Mesmerized, I felt my existence dividing, a soul and a body. The soul reached out to the isle of abandoned dreams, of forgotten childhood, of yellow memories, of foggy love. The body stood still. And you reached out to me, brought my soul back into the body. Offered me life, a greater one, and showed me a path of faith to enlightenment of the Truth. You answered my questions and left yours for me.

We walked. We sat. We felt.
And I discovered you in an esoteric place, I delineated you, yes you; and I learned to admire parts of you, visible and invisible ones… your curls, your eyes, your jaw line, your voice, your energy, your existence.
I’m fallen.
And I’ve decided to stay here, sleeping wide awake, until you come and make it rain on me from your obscure clouds again.
I wanted to write more. But then we didn’t drink Rum in winter days.

--just unrequited delusion of fictitious reality--

Nevermind.

To you. yes You!

You can do much more,
than just swanking your red straps,
and sometimes just black.
Your existence is more vibrant
than your slutty clothes and glossy skin.
I believe there’s a pale yellow dream
under those purple eyelids.
Drops of innocence...
Dark blue love.
But you prove me wrong.
Most of the times.

It rained one night...

Empty hands stretch out;

A red light of a distant watchtower…

Solitude runs down from your hair

As a nameless wind kisses your shoulder;

The dark night slowly makes love

To a freshly dead brown moth …

I sense, I behold –

A lonely box-window romance.

Rusty serenade fades into nothingness.

Another heart we keep on chasing, a dream of love we seek… but we end up in a solitary state of endless blues. Or we just get habituated with a clichéd idea of love, and spend our whole life trying to nourish that idea until we get fed up with it and die, and occasionally stop feeling, and seldom commit suicide.
But love is there, somewhere. Some people actually get that beautiful disease, some pretend to be affected. It’s just an illusion of hormones; but it’s there, for real, in whatsoever way, as a fictitious part of reality, or not.
People do fall in love. And in the other hand they also fall out of love.
So did We. Me and Him.
Some people are still not accustomed to the idea of falling out of love. But without any offence towards anybody’s personal view, I think this idea is true if, and only if something called “Love” exists.
Before I could completely figure out what I was going to commit, he left. And I stood under a big tree of uncertainty. It was so affecting that I became dumb, and also, pretty much numb. I was unsure of myself. But I was very much sure of him. I thought he actually loved me, and may be he did. I don’t know that now, and will probably never know.
He rushed through some busy street of Bombay while I, in my city, devoted myself to college life. There was literal distance. But also the hearts stood apart. What I thought was love, started to fade away. His face was getting more blurry, his voice was getting fainter, as days passed by. I sensed the distance clearly as the monsoon brought me pain of emptiness. We were not loving anymore, we were not speaking hearts out…we were saying words, we were keeping in touch.

Been days since I talked to him, I thought of calling him, and I did,
“Wow, it’s you.” He said recognizing my voice. But those three words told me, “It’s the same with him what’s with you”. He didn’t love me anymore. He told me he was in the city, he came back. But I wasn’t there; I was at the end point of India, on vacation.
Coming back with a lonely heart, I blamed myself for what I did. I couldn’t love him, and I couldn’t make him love me either; because you can’t do that, it’s against the invisible law.
He told me he fell in love again, with someone else, and I wasn’t sure if it was love, but I was relieved with a certain idiotic idea about he being the bad guy as he broke up; I didn’t. Soon I realized, it didn’t mean a thing.
Now I’m alone again, back to place I was at, and happy on my own. Earlier I was sad, the sting of not being able to be loved, the pain of letting go off something, because no matter what, we had something, and that was for real.
But being sad seemed so unfair to me; I had no right to be sad. I have lost tears long ago. But hard was not to let go off that pain. So I landed in the perfect state of no feelings. It’s as if I’ve never loved him; as if I’ve never loved anybody; as if I’m not capable of loving anybody anymore. The moments we had, all seem fake, the smiles, touches, feelings, everything. I am okay, but I’m wrong.
I’m alright, yet I’m not.
And I don’t know how to get out of this place yet.
I’m still trying,