Clueless 20s

As I sit here eating my midnight bread

And wondering what life might be like five years down the line,

I am clueless.

I can’t even make a proper fluffy pancake, or write a properly punctuated article yet, and I am supposed to be shaping my life right now? I mean whatever decisions I take, they are going to decide almost how my life is going to be like when I am older. 

But I guess my incongruity is pretty much vivid before me at this moment as I decided to write this instead of studying for my final exams. I am going to be a graduate. Hah. That really does not mean anything. That is not even going to get me a decent job. It would only mean that I have read a pile of books, essays, and pages, some I have hated and some I have loved. But Comparative Literature, my discipline, gave me a lot of things, and one of them is a different perspective in life and new lenses to look through and see this world of ours. How snobbish we are, claiming this world as "ours", whereas we are just a little part of it and might just disappear in time.

I should go back to study instead of typing this. Really.

For her.

She walked down the lane
with sorrow dripping from her hair
that flew against the wind like
a rebel child of broken love and
she grew older with each passing moment
as her face became accumulation of mismatched fabric patches
of uncountable days that she lived in the truest sense
of a life she fathomed to be real and absurd together
and felt it like the desert earth feels each drop of first rain of seasons.

I don't know what I was thinking

I wanted to love you like the beautiful paintbrush

That I stole from my mother in my young days

Of colours and weirdest thoughts;

And the brush had a little crack at the end,    

And it became my favourite thing,

Even at times when the lines and colours

Betrayed my imagination and I spilled everything around

Like a completely disoriented mad woman.

There’s a rupture in my reality.

I saw it first when the brush died;

The pests of the old house ate the bristles, I guess.

And then there were deaths and lies and smiles

That I forgot in time.

Then came you, and I thought I could love

You who come with the messiness of the palette

In the middle of a painting on a lazy afternoon.

But I have forgotten how it felt to hold my brush,

And now I’ve forgotten how it felt to hold you!

Well I don’t know how to love,

‘Cause I don’t know what love is.

But today is the first rainy day

Punctuating the end of our winter.

Won’t you wait till spring, before you leave?

Winter stories

Winter is crawling into my bones
Feasting coldly on my marrow,
Waking the past, the sorrows tucked within…    
My tresses gone, my skin harsher
Than my broken voice now.
The leaves fall in a serene brace of unsounded endings
As the trees frame the olden boulevards in a ghostly manner;
I wake up into weary grey mornings of dead fauvists
Or sometimes facing blue windows fading into the night;
My feet cold, my bed smelling of stale coffee n’ liquor
And your somber absence, an empty space, within and without.
You said you’d love me to my filthiest core;
Well, my scent has vanished in ashes of years-
Years of illicit fucking, crying and drunk wanderings
At neon-lit wastelands of crammed up third world cities
And decaying bridges between lucid dreams and needs for a fix.
And heaps of those years had left me
With something borrowed but fused in me;
I have lost all my abstract limbs, but the everlasting murkiness;
A shadow clinging on my back; a shadow of a strange past-
A past of twisted sorrows which I hid in my bones.
Would you still give me the warmth that you promised?
The warmth that you bear in the palms of your hands
And the cracks of your lips turned bitter
By the dead yellow cigarette butts;
The warmth born of cold, in your pausing breath,
A cold my insides have long been diseased by…
The voiceless mouth of a void in time
Kisses the memories mislaid in the dark of my hair;
I see you now on a distant ship suspended near the northern sky,
While life seeps away slowly, facilely
From the corners of my quieter eyes.

You.

You my love

A faceless man

Standing with your smoke

And madness

And a box of magic

Across time and space

In every lifetime

Of my soul

Over thousands of years

Through thousands of bodies

Changing facades

Crumbling inside

And I - live and die

Time and again

Waking up

With half-forgotten dreams

Of a faceless man

A rugged being

With his timeless spirit

And captivating words

Haunting my aging heart

At every forlorn dawn

That rises in the sky

At the end of ever shifting

Strangest hallucinations

While voices sleep in stupor

And eyes come round

From a faraway trance

To grasp within

A mundane reality

That never quite got over

The silence of the hearts.

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.

The name is Nuwanda

I'm going to change my name into Nuwanda someday, seriously.
And yes, I can't get over the Dead Poets Society.

I think I am a product of the frustration of a non-revolution. Yes, I tell you this, there has never been a proper revolution in "India". Not even a small war. Pre-colonial India (Lands around river Indus is more of a proper term though) was much more interesting. I want a war. Damn it. People have become very stupid and shallow these days, and few of them need to die hence. I would very much like to execute God Bless America in India before it's too late.

I miss getting drunk. I am becoming older and less fun simultaneously. I have this huge burden to be free from uncountable things and it had turned me into a grumpy owl. But owls are anyway grumpy, I guess. So about being high, I think the better way to put it is that I can't get drunk anymore. It just does not happen.

I sometimes really doubt that I exist. It feels like a very bad recurring dream, every single day.

Well, then again what is reality?

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.

A Lucid Dream

And I’m falling down

Into the feral sea

Where the waves dance

And march in a slow parade,

A carnival of grins,

Of the joker and of you n’ me,

Trying to break out

From the same old crowd,

Saving some bleeding tulips…

And how we will feast

On the salt and the ships;

With my heart against a wall

And a head full of webs

With countless fireflies stuck in it.

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.

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 being divided, 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.

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 "in" love anymore, we were not speaking our 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 had lost tears long ago. But hard was to let go off that pain. So I landed in the perfect state of indifference, where you feel nothing. 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, they 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,

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.

Dash-|

What's wrong with me?

well, that's one and only thing I'm trying to figure out these days.

I left Economics, I left my fuckedup old college, I left the bad crowd. Now I'm where I belong.

I still am not happy. err..though I'm not sad either.

but still.

why this feeling?

Am I mad?

shit. a whole lot of shit.

I just want to sit down and read something. may be some good contemporary poet's work or so..

because I feel like an impotent Man. I can't write a thing, not a thing that makes sense.

and here I am whining.

But I'm not this girl. I'm more than this. 

I can write, I can love, I can laugh.

But not right now. Right now I'm just purely impotent and no lousy or good medicine can cure it.

so here i go...

On the island

I wait

For what I don't know,

Longing for an unknown,

Detached from the mortal world

of Men and Women...

In the pitch dark
I wait

For the love of 

The Heartless.

Where to go, no, I don't know.

Disturbed

After effect of failed love, a disturbed mind.
thoughts and feelings I suddenly discovered last night...

I can sense this distance
Growing slowly between us,
As the smoke passes my hair
Escaping bound of your lips…

The smell of your body is fainter,
So I take the other way around
Caressing a crying heart of my own;
It’s the time for me to let you go.

I wander in an empty space
Placed for me within a black sea
Of slutty dancers and scary clowns;
Shells crack under my boot, as I try to runaway.

The head is spinning,
Round and round so fast…
The body is crashing,
I puff and puff harder…

Don’t feel, just touch;
Put me on fire,
Cheers to our dead love,
And drink the warmth…
We’ll daze the winter, tonight.

Crooked mind inside a beating heart

Your tears have met the outfall
And one more drop for humanity;
The dull, damp lines of poetry - mocking sanity,
Deep inside dwells the murder conspiracy:
As your stoned hands grab my ribs
I search a safer room for my grimy dreams.
Darker nightmares n' psycho lady's wish,
A faint throb comes from the weary heart
Like after you've taken the happy pills,
When the sky seems to be falling on you..
And the world around you spins round n' round
With thousand buildings and countless stories
Of life, of people damned with cruelty and pain,
And you still remain thirsty for some bloodlike rain.

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.