He died on a Saturday, nameless

It was one of those sunny mornings that turn into an annoyingly gloomy and rainy one as you step outside for work. I was running for the train. Rush hour. Merciless bustling crowd. Jabbing, pushing, skipping my way through the swarm of fierce people I ran for the train, holding on to my bag, my resolve and remains of the fleeting sanity. The train whistled. The green Mucalinda^[1]  of my stealthy hope started to move out of my reach slowly. Run run run. I jumped over a corpse. At first my clueless mind, chasing the Mucalinda, didn’t realize it was a corpse. I jumped past it and hopped on the train. I was triumphant, one step closer to my destiny - my destiny to be examined, to be approved by the institution and get recognition for my acquired knowledge. I was on my way there, to succeed, to establish myself, in their world. They say you have to do it, they say it’s important, they say it validates you worth if you have any. But it validates whatever you want if you have money and power. But there are people like me, like us, around the world, on every street, every lane, in every bunch of matchbox apartments, every reeking ghetto, with no substantial amount of money or no money at all and of course no power; like bunch of asthma patients in an industrial complex, waiting in endless quest, living lives of machines without any inkling of the meaning of existence, at the bottom of the panopticon, trampled, and kept alive by a facade of hopes...hopes of reaching the apex of the panopticon, or somewhere near it. Hope of a betterment promised by the big bosses, like the promises them deodorant companies make to people. So I jumped over a corpse of some unknown old beggar, lying in the middle of public disgust and deliberate ignorance, cold and nameless, on platform number 3. As I stood at the door of the moving train my eyes fell directly on his face, wrinkled and twitched in frozen time, but serene... and utterly dead! My nerves became aware of an unfamiliar odour, a fleshy odour. A late sensation. Nauseating, inflaming revelation. An unexpected moment of being. The stench was in the air, and though I moved away on my Mucalinda, it stayed with me, somewhere in my head. A crow’s feather, sent by the wind fell at ease near my feet, and twirled away outside again on the wings of the wind. Moloch^[2]. Moloch entered my mind, "Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows" came to devour my belligerent mind. I shivered in the wind; it had all the power to blow me away. But I clutched on to my Mucalinda. I had to go somewhere, anywhere but not to my destiny – the one that I had set out for. My destiny was no more. My destiny had ceased to bear a meaning; it had gone down Moloch’s stomach by then, I have had shoved it, to save my slipping mind - the only thing left of my own.

**Notes:

1. Mucalinda: A snake like being who protected Buddha from earthly elements after his enlightenment.

2. Moloch: An ancient god. Moloch had associations with a particular kind of propitiatory child sacrifice by parents. In Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl" (1955), Moloch is used as a metaphor for capitalism and industrial civilization. Both senses of Moloch are valid here, choose as you may like.

Still Raffish and Ragged

Just half an hour or so and the calls will start coming. I hope I am overestimating. No, I won’t be sad if no one calls. I’ll be perfectly alright, rooting for my comforting blues. I’ll be rather happy about it, perhaps in my own twisted way, but still. Well, I desperately want my phone to die away right now, so I won’t have to go through all those wishes with a smiling face. I wish everyone was as insensitive as my mother when she treats me at the perfectly wrong time in the worst way possible for a very trivial reason. Hating everyone blatantly would be really easy then. But I don’t like to hate. Trust me, they make me do it, it’s not my fault that I can’t tick like other clocks. There are people in my house, relatives. I don’t want them here, at all. I don’t know why I feel so tremendously sad on this very hour each year. This very hour, this hour before it turns 12 and it is 24th of June, before it is my godforsaken birthday.
I want to buy a house in southern France, take up a different identity and start over. I want to travel with just enough money to get me through the month and work at random places. I want to write something that would stunt the world. I want to change a lot of things in the world, a lot of people in the world, I want to break the ages old walls we are born and brought up within. I want to take Noir photographs that look like products of an astounding mind. I want to be beautiful to myself, completely. I want to meet somebody who would love me for who I am and not smother me with an overwhelming smell of stereotypical romance. I want to lose my virginity before I am old and all the anxiousness and fantasy about love making is gone from my semi-numb weird heart. It has been twenty years. Twenty freaking years. And all I have done is NOTHING. Absolutely Nothing. There's nothing I am really good at, there's nothing I excel in. Whatawaste. Ohwhatafuckingwaste.
I don’t want to whine like this. I don’t want to do anything. Especially I don’t want to turn 21. I don’t want to turn 21 like this – sitting in front of my goddamn pc, feeling claustrophobic, hating the whole world, going over and over my life till now and brooding about it. I don’t want a cake, hugs, flowers, cards, wishes, nothing! I want an escape. From all of this. From my very existence – the one here, right now, in this very moment, from everything surrounding me including all the pain, all those judgements, responsibilities, complaints, confusions, misunderstandings and fake loves.

Obliteration

Latenight wooble

(I tune in at ill-timed pauses.Exclamations at commas
and etc.)

The sun will be up soon
and a pair of sleepless eyes
in await.

The first train of the day whistles by
as some mechanical female voice
announces things that blur out
from half-awake ears.
And the mind minutely gazes
at the interiors of emptiness.
Fragments of forgotten reality
unfurl into sunless words
nobody would ever read.

The journal,
it drinks up amaranthine sorrow,
in silence,
without questions.

.............................................................................................................

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 was not 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 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.
(Later she grew to not envy Suzanne anymore when she saw her as she is - the seductress of the old kind, the spinner of coins.)

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 that is (even the words sound so pseudo and obscure. I doubt they are even real words. But then again, language is always inadequate for human expression).
But love does not 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 hasn’t already 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 ragged blue 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. The time for solitude, time for bittersweet pain; twinges in the heart.
Time for my conjured snow flakes to fall. Time for nights of frozen stars.
I am back to my self again.

Blue Sky, & Echoes of Life

"Said my goodbyes and now

This journey's just beginning

Time to move on ahead and drive..."

(by Dream Out Loud)

....Sliding, stumbling, rambling through the helter-skelter of life, suddenly I stopped and looked up to the sky.
The frame of my eyes had no face, no smoke, no earth, just the blue…big blue sky.
Pieces of white clouds.
Autumn.
It’s almost here.
I can smell it.

My best friend is in love with someone. And once I loved him. He couldn’t love me back. I survived. Minus the romantic part the affection remained. I’m happy for him, in the purest form. But my love is fading away. The person I thought to be the poet of my soul has not been able to make me understand his poems well. I thought I loved him, but I didn’t. Well, I feel nothing about that. Just a little sense of guilt. I’m happy running on my track. I know, when it’s time, I’ll fall in love. There’s no hurry. It’s just the beginning. When there’s confusion, there’s something wrong. But I’ve got no time to sit and figure out the flaw. So, I’ll just let it go. No-love gives me no-frown.
I am this girl. I can smile. I can live. I can be crazy.
I have grown up.
Now I’m alright.
I am.


.....And suddenly I’m inspired. Suddenly I want to walk on the streets of Rome, taste that tangy food, be on my own, watch lovers on the corners of the street and eat ice-cream…
Oh you know what? I just watched “Eat Pray Love” again and I’m a bit high on my heels after that.
But I’ve just realized, I have got a lot to do. Self-made confusion and rants won’t do me any good. I have to start trying to be someone, evolve into a better person. No, I don’t wanna be invisible anymore. I want to be visible, with enough color saturation and contrast.
Life has changed. All I have to do is, live up a little bit.
And if you have been feeling stuck, or stifling in life, but can find no reason behind, or no cure in front, just go… go out of your room, take a look at the sky, get some air…breathe in Life. It’s time we learn to smile.

Rain fixed my Life

I woke up with a sense of cold; I could feel the gloomy and numb day ahead and decided to stay at home. No amount of hot noodles and coffee could make sure that I feel alive. I knew what was about to come and so it happened.
It rained.
Rain makes me sad. It reminds me of my futile love, painful treacherous people I trusted and my childhood’s rainy days; and it makes me a past-analyzing retarded person.
When it starts raining, I feel a sudden joy; and then, that feeling shows itself to me. The feeling of being alone in a crowd, the feeling of not being wanted, the feeling of being deprived of love cripples up my shoulder.
But still I love to feel the rain, let it drench me and tell me the stories of faraway lands. Then again, it also makes me feel sexually deprived. I mean seriously, isn’t it wonderful to make love on a rainy day? Well, err… that doesn’t mean I’m a frustrated virgin (one of my friend keeps telling me that)! I still believe everything has its right time and purpose. But, rain makes me feel so… :/
Life is messed up right now. Nothing is in the right place. Getting hurt by people again and again. Lost my phone as it went down the toilet and slept in the shithole.
Yet, right now I feel solace.
You know why?
Rain fixed my life.
Rain told me it was okay to be sad and alone again.
And I’m here again, back to my old days.
Example? I am blogging -__-

I’m part of this supposed rain,
I can’t love the bright sun up there,
It would just embrace me cruelly
And evaporate me to the sky again…

Hide the rum, fake a smile.

The more I look into this, the more it seems fake. Unreal.
Yes, I am talking about something you know.
Guess what it is? At least try? With your big head with a lil gray matter?
Well, let’s just spare you. It’s the world around us. Especially the world I am in.


Here it’s fascinating. Loud music, flashy lights, colors, amazing lonesome blues, smiles, tears, enthralling words, exciting guitar riffs, smokes, sex, life.
But sometimes a weird alcoholic solitude dissolves this dramatic life into nothingness.
You rummage through everything you have and realize you have nothing. Or may be you have something, but it doesn’t matter at the end.
Someone loves you? But you find it so unreal.
Your demand curve rises upwards, yet there’s no supply. (Here I talk like a prototype Economics student :| )
You sing to them “Take my photo off the wall if it just won’t sing for you”.
It’s like you are fooling yourself. But the truth is, everyone is in the trap, everyone is doing so. Nothing harms you. Yet your hear breaks to pieces, and you try to find the reason why.
Still, the rusty city calls you by name and you can’t avoid it.
Hope against thoughts, dreams against reality.
And someday… the frozen dead winter leaves gives you peace when it doesn’t rain for you anymore.

I cried because my Christmas was going to be ruined. But I somehow made it work for me with courage, some fun companions, chocolate pastry and Johnny Depp.
But I’m still thirsty for rum. I can help but curse that bar owner who didn’t let me in because his ping pong ball sized brain told him that I am not old enough to consume alcohol.
I’m legally adult you fuckface <_<
…
“But why is the rum gone?”
:/


P.S.- The title is worthless!

Blue bed, red shoes and my bokehs

Where words are hidden in puzzle of silence and pain,
and a shadow longs for existence,
I save some wet touches and a lil serenade
for my heart or the lost bodies of nameless solitude...
Here lingers no clean lenses,
dusty pictures of skeleton eyes.
Somehow. So many colors merged into black n' white.

Bokeh

A pain with no reason,
A metamorphosis of hidden love,
Undying feelings...
A blue bed of acidic dreams,
No one speaks a word,
Momentary smile, broken decades ago...

Buried deep
some silent souls,
whispers unveiled
as I walk down the passage
among thousands of dead...

And sometimes I wish the wheels stop spinning and dragging my life somewhere I don't want to go...

With my old red shoes and acoustic time, I would rather stay alone.

This fairytale has gone bad!

"We can’t cry the pain away
We can’t find a need to stay
I slowly realized there’s nothing on our side..."

And once again I have fucked it all up…….
The awesome ME.

Today was the worst of all these days… Had pissed a person I loved at the midnight, missed tuition at morning, went to the suckiest college departmental fresher’s welcome party, went to another tuition, got home fucked up and slept all the evening.
Every time I think that life’s gonna change, it gets stuck and makes me wanna throw up because of that old smell of misery.
I’m lonely again. Better to say, I realized I’m lonely as every-single-fucking-thing has been just a pretention.
I love my friends, I do. But at the end of the day I can’t breathe easy. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I know I’m gonna survive, by tears or by strength, I will.
But I don’t wanna die inside like this.

All I want is… someone to put the hand on my shoulder and make me feel life’s worth living.

I wish I were invisible.
I wish I could be like THEM.
I wish I were a heartless bitch.
I wish I could die without pain.
I wish.

No, not suicidal much. Just a lil unwell.

P.S.- I love you

Holding my breath inside
I step outside the door,
I wish I could see you there
standing for me with a bunch of rose.
Downtown I slowly go,
Counting the maple leaves
scattered all along...
Cold dewdrops on the grass blade
Touch my feet gently,
I shiver and think of you.
Siting on a roadside bench
I wonder in the emptiness -
How my dreams are lost within you...
Slowly I sing the song you wrote;
Words are not enough now,
Because There is so much left to tell you. . .

P.S.~ I love you.


.....
I wrote it because of my alter-ego!
She is a hopeless romantic moron.
She lives here --> Bad Pixie's Dane