i was free to dream any time
and relish how it felt in my mind
and bring it back again
whenever i wanted to.

but even that has been taken from me.


did i give it away?

i guess i did.

i give many many things away each day.

i do.

who knew giving was so horrible?

especially when you want
something.
and expect it.
stop expecting.
fool.
so stupid. so hilarious.
so painful.

When I hear someone say something for that first time, that I particularly like or feel I relate to, I tend to believe that it was them that said. That's how much I believe in words. But now I realised that most words are borrowed.

It doesn't necessarily meant that they don't mean the same. But not all words are true.

Being true is.

Something.

And it certainly doesn't happen always.
Even if one were to try.

Look.

My eyes are not light but opaque and dark brown

for in them do all my secrets drown

and make a wonderful hazy veil - 

my faithful shield, never to fail.

My hair is densely filled with air

and a million of my other airs and cares

It's long, it's true, but shapeless too

and strands sometimes fall out of queue.

My eyebrows though, are quite stellar!

Dark unidentical caterpillars 

that dance erratically across my forehead

- though, they hurt a lot when being threaded.

~

Her eyes are like warm pools of honey

and her thoughts are almost runny

for they flow out of her eyes like phlegm

and I catch each and every one of them.

Her hair falls heavy and without a care

and trails away from her here and there.

A dark haven for burning hands

I am home amongst these strands.

Her eyebrows though I cannot love

they never seem to rise above

the level at which they always rest;

to make them move will be my eternal quest.

He should have blue hair. Blue is my favourite colour.
I should see the blueness in him, glowing cool and dark.

He's made me lovely. Oh how I love myself now.

That moment.

I stand in front of the mirror, preparing for my bath. My home-made scrub in hand, I look up so I can apply it right. I've been thinking about him since even before I woke up, and as I think about him now I see myself in the mirror and I am beautiful.

Do you remember me?

Lost for so long.

Will you be on the other side

or will you forget me?

Why is Amy Lee so amazing? Why're some songs so PERFECT that you can listen to them over and over and over, even after ages, and they still manage to make you feel like someone gets it? Like someone gets you?

A letter.

Mi amor:
My terrified heart rejoices each day that I live on having been moved by yours. And yet it is still terrified for, mindless as it is, it knows of the dangers you face each day. Though they are saying that the war will not move this far north, I cannot help but feel that in not much time our lives here will also be disrupted by this evil.

Already there are warnings and cautionary broadcasts being played on the radio. I am now joined by your mother and her companions at school everyday. On showing me my means of making a difference during these troubling times you have proved yourself yet again to be ceaselessly inspirational. Once our lives are returned to us, promise me you will go back to college to teach? This time, of course, I too shall join you. Our youth need a sound leader, a sound teacher. You remember how lost and goalless you felt during your own boyhood. I am strongly convinced that you could do a lot of young men at college a great deal of good. They need you there, Manuelo. Pray do not let spite-filled power-play keep you from realizing your dream.

Ah me, here I go, nagging you even as you throw your life at stake fighting for our people. Are you sure you want a nagging wife? It is still not too late to call of the engagement, my friend.

Ever doubtful of my worthiness of your love,
Rosalinde.

This shall be a pictorial post.

~~``~~``~~

~~``~~``~~ 

Oh my god.

See, I talk a lot, but then it makes perfect sense to me. Lots of people don't like listening to it, but it takes me some time to realize that they don't like what I'm saying. It generally takes some time for things to sink in for me; things that happen in a different way than how I see them happening.
But then I'm becoming increasingly aware of how people perceive me off late, so I generally know what exactly I can and cannot say to a specific someone, and how that someone would react. And I'm doing that now. Which is good, I guess.
But in the process, I've forgotten how to make small talk. You know, when you go to a party, or a wedding, or any social gathering, and you turn to the person closest to you and say something absolutely whacko, so that they have to reply, and voila! Someone to talk with throughout the whole boring event.
But that's gone now.

 

This was written on 5th March 2009.

Like I keep saying, it's sort of reassuring to go back to stuff you've written and read it again, to find that you haven't changed at all.

That's why I like writing my thoughts down.,  I guess. More than anything else, it let's me analyse myself. And we all know how much I love to analyse the shit out of everything.

The rousing response to my last post has really boosted my self-confidence.



I'm sorry. Being bitter is fun sometimes. So is being snarky, and snide, and scoffing and belittling the other person. Because how many people do you know that will take it? How many people do you have that will laugh through it all and sock you on the head afterwards?

Normalcy.

Hello. I have finally deemed you lot worthy enough of my normalcy. You ready? Brace yourselves.

1. I may have fucked up my Boards royally. I really don't know what was going ON with me. I look back now, and I realize how careless I was. I feel I have no grip on my life, it feels like. Or maybe I'm just getting way too into Inkdeath right now. Funnily, I relate to every word Cornelia Funke inks. Or maybe I'm just being whimsical and wishful yet again. But we'll get to that soon.

2. I don't know HOW I'm so chilled about college. Refer point #1. I should be SHITTING BRICKS right now. What if I don't get into college? Why am I not more worried about the IIT HSEE coming up in less than a month? What if that's my only chance of getting into college? Why am I so apathetic about my future? What is giving me the guts to be so carefree?
Wait. Don't tell me. I know.
It's delusion.
It always was.

3. Now we're here. Delusion. I really REALLY feel, some times, that I don't see things the way they are. I mean, people all around me call things as they are, but to me it's all irrelevant. I frankly don't CARE. How I wish I could peek into the minds of so-called normal people. Or just anybody. I want to gauge if I am like the others. I'm not trying to pompously state that I am being "different" and "unique" and all that jazz. It's just.. sometimes I feel so disconnected from people around me. My peers, especially. My own friends, the people I spent years at school with, I feel SO disconnected from them, because the exact same events that I remember to have been inconsequential seem so important to them, and when they look back to all that stuff, I just draw a blank because either
- I wasn't paying attention because I thought it was random shit
- I paid attention and realised that it wasn't that big a deal
Is there something wrong with me? Do people normally feel this way? Do people experience utter surprise when they hear a friend describe a whole new version of the things that happened long ago? Am I slow? I mean, for the most part, I was right there. Why do I see it in a different way? Why have I thought, all this while, that there was only the one version? My version? Am I really that self-absorbed?
Wait. Don't tell me. I know.
I was.

Meanwhile, in northern France, somewhere near Giverny, in a tranquil garden decorated with fairy lights, there is laughter and a warm summer breeze. People drink in happiness along with the wine.

More fool you.

I tend to transfer my feelings from one source to another.

'Transfer' is not the word I am looking for. It is at the TIP of my fingers - 'superimpose', 'impose', 'deflect'. Maybe it's all of them.

I'm not real. Like, dude, I'm not real.
There's this really suffocating-y feeling constricting my thoracic cavity right now.
A panic attack.
A nervous breakdown.
I'm nothing.
I'm not anything.
What am I?
Please.
PLEASE!
Tell me.
Tell me what I am.
I need to know.
I need to know.
Oh God.
What am I?
Who am I?
Bruce Lee even, I have no problem.
I AM NOTHING.
I AM NOT REAL.
Am I a forty year old accountant? No.
Am I a 12 year old newspaper boy? No.
Am I a thirty-six year old actress? No.
WHO AM I?
A seventeen year old girl? No.
I refuse to be her. She is nothing. I am more.
BUT WHO AM I?

The letters are all swimming in front of my eyes.
I don't know what I'm saying.
I only know that my mouth is open, and so is my heart.
I only know that I'm spilling my soul, and that it feels amazing.

Ask me. Please.

I don't remember exactly when I developed this habit, but I observe people and try to figure out what makes them be themselves. You know, not in a cool, experimental way, but more like a 'Hello, fellow human being, who are you really?' way. But not in a creepy stalker way either. I think. Anyway, my point is, I've been doing this for quite some time now, and I've consistently been able to find some flaws/quirks in every person; as is, according to most people, completely normal. Nobody's perfect; you live and you work it, and all of that. But the way this makes me see all of it is that ,these people, they're giving away hints about themselves so easily; why? How dum are they? Do they not realise that, in just a matter of minutes, anybody can read them like a book? Why would they make themselves vulnerable like that? The way I see it, voluntarily offering bits of yourself to the outside world, by way of your dress or actions or expressions - aren't you afraid to let go of the only thing that's yours for sure, and always will be? When you wear large hooped earrings, and heels, what are people going to think of you? When you cover yourself up from head to toe, and keep your eyes down, what will still more people think of you? Will that make a difference, if you stopped showing those outward signs of yourself to the world? Will people ignore you, or will they develop a keener interest in you? When you wear blue big blue dangling earrings and walk down to the canteen at lunch, what are people thinking of you? Do they notice the spring in your step, the shine that is added to your smile?

I don't wear earrings any more. My grandmother even today told me that I should wear a chain around my neck. I wear blue rubber chappal everywhere I go. I rarely go out - bordering on the anti-social, if I were to be compared with most my age. I forget the point I was trying to make. I do that a lot, these days. I suppose I've let go of my coherence along with everything else. "Let go of my coherence". Is that right? I don't know.

I just saw my title again. I remembered my point. Basically, being one who reads people - we shall not get into parameters of accuracy or conjecture - and is awed by the way everybody projects themselves easily to anybody who's watching, I have tried very intently - because I was the stark opposite of this - to become invisible myself, because I don't want anybody to read me. Or judge me. If they want to, and choose to, know me, they must, quite simply, ask me. Ask, and thou shalt receive.

If you're wondering yes, that girl from the canteen was me.
Is me.
And that's the girl I want to be again. And that's the girl who is the namesake for this blog.

You.

I suck on Chyawanprash when I crave something. I haven't eaten a GRAIN of rice in four days. I can competently perform Yoga Meditation. I've had pigeons make orgasmic noises while staring at me performing said Yoga Meditation. I have a freestyle that would shame Michael Phillips.

You think I'm daunted by YOU?

Think again.
Please do.

"I'm sentimental, so I walk in the rain.."

I hate the way I sound.
I'm really a huge big nothing of a person. A pseudo-intellectual, a feelingless mime. A passionless shell. If I were to be stranded on an island, I'd be perfectly fine for days on end. I just cannot shake away this intense feeling of self-loathing that seeps into me at times.
I've started finding myself hot again. In the mirror.
A part of me - my brain - thinks that I'm the most pretentious thing ever to exist. More pretentious than.. what's the most pretentious thing?
I hate myself. It's true. But even that, I make it seem like it's somehow amazing.
Pretentious. My middle name.
Guess I'm going to marry a guy whose name starts with a P.
Paulo?
I want to marry an Italian. Or a Scotsman. Or someone else from any other racial stereotype that is associated with fiery passion and hot-blooded vivre. Maybe having all that passion directed towards me will divert my passionless self from my own inadequacies?
Passion. How I have trysted with that word these past two years.
I do not imbue passion, nor do I possess any.
Why must it matter so? So what if I do not have passion. I'm sure hundreds of scores of people exist in a similar state. 
But it does matter. It matters when those whom I would not have bothered with show more passion in their life than those whom I would have deemed as more worthy of my attentions. See. That was such a pretentious line. But I don't know how else to say it. There are people, whom I have thought of all along as mere mindless bubbles, who are efficiently etching out a life for themselves, filled with passion. Or whatever equivalent of passion they seem to enjoy. Why is it so hard for me, then? If I am as superiorly talented and blessed, why is it so hard for me to find passion? Is it because I dream too big? Is it because no passion is big enough for my dreams? Or are my dreams too whimsical for any kind of passion? Then again, what are my dreams? Are they flights of fancy that I habitually construct for momentary pleasure, or are they the burning desires that keep me awake at night? But ah. I have only heard of these burning desires. My burning desire might be to burn in the smoulder of another's passion. Maybe I was made to be a muse, and not a creator. Are muses passionate?

Fuck this. Never let go. For what are you, when you leave all that you have? All that you are? Nothing. Your thoughts, your insecurities, your apprehensions, your preconceptions, your fears, your prejudices, your ideals, your limits - what are you without them all? A weightless blank paper floating on the whims of impassive winds, asking to be shredded by hailstorms and torrid showers.

So, let go, let go
Jump in
Oh well, what you waiting for?
It's all right
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown.

The moon shines brighter tonight. Literally.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Supermoon

Have you ever felt that, situationally, some days are especially great? That, somehow, the day is going to be wonderful? I believe in stars and planets and the moon. I believe in the universe.

It's me.
It's all me.
I want to make it all you
but it's all me.
Will it work if I told you
confessed
that you are me?
That I am you?
Will that be possible?
Do you think?
It's me.
It's all me.
Only me?
Yes.
All me.
Only me.

I can give and give and give
because I have it all.

But how do I know what it is that you need?
Others, they assume they know it all.

What the tens and thousands afford you
how is it different from what I have?

But I have it all.
Tell me, and it's yours.

For this one night, it's gonna be me you and the dance floor.

Finally, she's all alone.
The door is firmly shut, and bolted.
Slowly, she peels off the layers.
Sprawled over her pillow, her thick shapeless hair is like a nest where other fledglings might also find comfort.


Finally, she's all alone.
He sinks into the warmth next to her, careful not to startle her. She gets startled really easily. Her eyes are closed; she hasn't seen him yet, but he knows that she feels him next to her.


She shuts her eyes tight, willing her mind to lose itself in another world, so that when he pulled her down, the journey would be sweeter. Pushing away reality, she's living completely in her own mind now, dancing amidst orange flickering lights. Strange noises like the mewling of cats escape from her lips; she's singing along with the song in her mind, bobbing up and down, a smile on her lips. This moment, right here, is ecstasy.


She opens her eyes, the afterglow of that ecstatic smile lingering on her lips.
He's not there.

My darkest fears.

1. Having nothing of consequence to say. (Check)
2. Being alone amidst groups of people. (Check)
3. Being talentless.
4. Being hated.
5. Hurt. (Check)
6. Failure.
7. Having a personality that no one would like.
8. Bringing people's temperament down - making it awkward for them to be around me - while they are basking in my morosity. (Check)
9. Being feelingless - forcing myself to be feelingless so as to avoid extreme inevitable disappointment - and eventually turning into a stone. (Check)
10. Saying/writing things (especially to others) that may not be what I truly feel; as much as just words prompted by my mind as feasible fillings for the situation (Check)
11. Not possessing, and by consequence not eliciting, strong feelings. (Check)
12. Failing to express myself even though I may harbour the entire gamut of  emotions available to mankind.
13. Self-doubt. (Check)

Before I rethink this whole thing, I'm just going to post this. As you know, this blog is my attempt at expressing the part of me that I am not proud of. I once wrote about how I'd rather have people read what I have to say and judge me rather than not say anything at all and just burst some day - Sraiy, you remember, right? Well, I decided to share with you my fears. I made this list this morning. My father once told me to do this; he said that once it was all on paper, it'd seem like half the fear would disappear. I was too scared to even write them down before, but I guess I finally did it. The tough part now would be to stop gloating over this fact and address my fears instead, but we all know of my problems with delusion. I actually am proud of my fears, because this little exercise has made me realise that these fears are the things that make me the person that I am. And I quite like the person that I am right now.

Speaking of people I was, I read old entries from Shruti's blog today. As far back as 2007, I was commenting on her blog to point out the typos. Some things never change, and the comfort that can be drawn from this fact is great.

On inspiration.

Delusion? Visions of grandeur? Call it what you may, but I just cannot think of myself as the kind of person to be inspired by another. How are the others different from me? Why would I seek inspiration in a source so similar to myself? The sea inspires me. A warm breezy afternoon inspires me. Cloudy dark skies inspire me. Music inspires me to such an extent that I want to change myself. Why another person?

I want to be whatever it was that inspired Yann Tiersen to create this. But what if it was a girl? I couldn't be her, then. It's just convenient to find inspiration from nature, and not in another person, see, because otherwise whatever you created will just be a manifestation of the person you were inspired by. Why would you want your work to be tainted like that?

Some people, I suppose, enjoy creative expression only because of the inspiration they find in somebody. I suppose I can appreciate how it might feel, to look at somebody and be so moved by them as to want to create something out of your own self to glorify them. Freeze them in that creation. But why? Nobody is frozen. Everybody changes. How can there be just one person who could echo the thoughts and ideals that you have cultivated in your mind? Isn't it absurd?

Look what happened to me:

It's a bruise. On my left forearm.

I may be travelling alone to visit my cousins. This is a vastly fearsome idea entertained currently by my father. But we'll see. I'm frightened, but also excited, and still dreading it. Story of my life.

A new blog; a new perspective.

It's fairly easy to create a blog.
It's a tad less easy to create an identity.
It's a whole lot tougher to maintain one.

Soon, my identity will also change.
Only, this time, I'm not the one to create it.
So the obvious course of action would be to try and control as much of the situation as possible.
For am I not all that I have? 

A greatly exiting prospect, once the initial trepidation is overlooked.
What greater freedom is there than starting afresh?