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.