The Egg and the bug

Sometimes I get so suffocated of being inside that it makes me a spoilsport
I turn sad and boring and I walk along with my friends while they joke and laugh around thinking of ways to escape myself and sometimes
which is most of the times
I simply cancel the plans and sleep on my bed
creating stories in my head
if I were to actually be out and watch that movie with them
and it is at such a time
that I turn to my constant company- words
and I find solace in the fact that I will never bore my words or sadden them with my presence
never be the liability that I am, always
the rotten egg
the bedbug

-out-

People who shouldn’t be loved

You know you’re messed up when your blog has posts about ‘loving him’and ‘loving yourself’ but never about the person who loved you back- the person who waited and held out and took his time to understand you- the many kinds of you that you passionately talk about, the person who didn’t let go of you when you pulled yourself back into the cocoon like an undernourished hibernating raccoon, the person who didn’t judge you when you stopped conversing for months, the person who didn’t abandon you when you turned silent and boring and had no more riddles or artworks on you, the person who didn’t run away after a failed attempt at saying ‘i love you’ to you; you know.
But don’t feel sorry for yourself already. You don’t need to.
You’re just a shitty fucked up person and it’s alright to be one; you don’t need to feel sorry for yourself and make yourself appreciate this version of you, as if it’s the only thing bothering you; you don’t.
People write poems on lovers like you: lovers who leave each other stranded because the ship’s sinking and both like entertaining climaxes.
You don’t need to feel sorry for yourself as if you really deserved to be saved on that ship.
You never did, and that’s alright too.

You don’t have to listen to these philosophers and artists and psychologists who preach about love being a universal need. It isn’t. It god damn isn’t, you sly motherfuckers.

It’s okay to not be loved by anyone- even yourself.

Maybe

it

is

not

okay

But it doesn’t matter, anymore.

It doesn’t matter, because now you’ve convinced yourself that you’re just a piece of shit and you can’t love anyone or accept any form of kindness because all these compliments and generosities only make you feel like a mannequin on sale at a fucking market for the gods!

Oh dear, you’re not a mannequin. You don’t need to be pleasing and romantic and lovable. You don’t have to be funny, or goofy or awkward or intelligent or talented. You don’t need to be a mannequin to be loved, if that’s how these people see love as.
You’re just a piece of shit who doesn’t know how to cherish the little things in life or even the big ones, and if that makes you any less lovable, then you may as well live in solitude than surrounded by people who only want you around for the way you make them feel about themselves.

And the next time somebody says you’re too difficult to love or too easy to be understood, please walk out of that environment before you turn into that TV set being used for your school play.

Sincerely,
The girl who got lost in his thoughts

Love

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

I was travelling back from college, to home; another city, 12 hours from where I was then staying.
It was a rather uneventful journey like most of my other ones, and I had nothing better to equip myself with than my imagination.

And so I imagined.

I imagined you next to me, on the tiny seat.
I imagined you folding your sleeves up like you always do and telling me how nervous you are.
‘I am not sure I can let my parents meet you. You’ve got short hair!’
Your voice sounded more mischievous in my imagination, and since then it’s never been the same for me.
I imagined your hands around my shoulders, blanketing me to sleep; I imagined you sketching me as your lullaby.
I imagined you in love with me, and so I fell in love.

I fell in love with you in my imagination.

Funnily enough, everything between us has been in our heads- an imagination of sorts.
Our love, our fights, our distance, every fucking memory has now turned into a charred figment of my imagination.

And even though I’ve fallen in love with a few more people after you, you’ll always be the one I almost shared my bus seat with, the one who almost met my parents, the one I almost fell in love with- in a fucking bus back home.

This space, this intimate black hole in my head- this idea they call ‘imagination’, I fell in love with you there, and unfortunately, imaginations can’t be erased, only re-crafted.
You’ll always be this one love; this idea in my head, and I don’t regret that.

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

You held my hand like you meant it, like you wanted to, a desire, a want, a need.
You were wearing a chequered grey shirt and one of its last buttons had torn off while we were making out the earlier hour.
You held my hand.
Simply.
No saying it out loud, no pulling me closer, no ‘touching of souls’ shit.
You held it and you meant it.

It was a summer morning, I was in your shorts and you were in your chequered grey shirt which had one of its last buttons torn off from our make out session the earlier evening.
You turned to me and smiled, simply.
No saying it out loud, no kissing me on my forehead, no ‘You’re beautiful’ shit.
You smiled and you meant it.

‘I want to be with you for as long as possible. Tell me you want the same.’
the coffee was getting colder and you hated your coffees cold.
You were humming our song.
The waitress kept staring at us, muttering something under her running nose, as if she were secretly wishing for an alternative response.
the coffee was getting diluted and you hated your coffees thin.
‘What?’
I kept looking at my feet, unable to answer you honestly.
‘I’ll understand if you don’t love me, but don’t leave me. I need you.’

There.
You fucking said it.
But you weren’t supposed to, you weren’t supposed to say anything, you were supposed to mean it.

‘Um…’

That was the last time I ever went to that coffee shop; I pass it by some times most evenings and I can sense the waitress calculating the opportunity cost of our breakup.

I will always regret denying myself of you, I’m sorry.

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

When you were holding a placard for women’s rights at that rally last autumn.

I’ll tell you the first time I realised I was in love with you:

You were my cousin’s friend from school; you were about two years younger than me.
Your facial hair  had just begun growing out and I was 18.
You wanted an experience, while I fell in love. Genuinely.
When I lost you to that other girl, I lost everything that noon; my skin felt half rinsed and my skeleton- twisted, suitable for a demonic possession.

I remember comparing your eyes to my dog’s; I remember our little snacks on the terrace that you’d buy from stealing your sister’s pocket money.
I remember you telling me about your sister.
‘She’s just like you! She loves me a lot.’

I remember you kissing your sister after our break up, and I’ve always imagined myself in her position.

You were one of my most genuine loves, I must remind myself; while I stayed an experience for your artistic soul.

You were my youngest too. You were mine. You will always be.

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

When we were both drunk- I, like a Russian prostitute, you, as if it were the only thing you’ll ever get to put your lips to.
We were drunk and happy and joyful and child-like, sitting by a deserted lake, waiting for life to lead us on.

We were drunk and happy and joyful and child-like, sitting by a deserted lake, until I started puking over my shoes and you started fearing the Police.

I don’t remember what happened next; or maybe, I do; drunk memories are pretty much like those I had when I was on Lithium as a kid: a think film over reality, forcing me to believe what others have to say about a part of my brain.

Things went downhill for us after that; we both wanted different things from ‘us’.
I remember that.

I have no idea what you’re upto these days, because you wouldn’t talk to me, but I’ve been trying to contact you real hard, bud.
Don’t leave me like this.

We both know how much we need each other.

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

You had written me a mail. A funny one.
I had cried my cheeks to numbness a few minutes earlier for reasons I wouldn’t want anybody to know.
You had written me a mail. A funny one.
And I had laughed, at your mail, despite my numb cheeks and dumb head.

I knew it then, you weren’t going to be easy to be forgotten.

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

I was trying very hard to work things out with this other guy, a rather intelligent and sensitive chap.
I was trying very hard to read him, decipher him, make him my next story.
And there you were, writing a text to me.
‘It scares me, the idea of not being able to talk to you.’

I received the text ten minutes after that rather intelligent and sensitive chap and I had decided to give our relationship a chance.

‘When I also de-activate my Facebook account, that’s the only thought I have. What if we don’t talk to each other ever again?!’

I didn’t know how to respond, so I turned cold and sent you a poetic goodbye dinner idea.

‘Yeah, we might never talk to each other again. But I hope that time doesn’t come anytime soon. I really hope.’ Some of my text read.

This happened day before.
We’re here, you and I.
You’re reading this, while I’m trying to detach myself from everything that’d make me compromise my emotional comfort zones.
I don’t know how things will work out between us, but I do know that I’ve saved up all your doodles of me in a tiny folder on my desktop as if it were an aleph to what I have for you in my throat.

I’ll tell you of the first time I realised I was in love with you:

When I was dressed in my favourite blue summer dress, looking at the mirror, parting my hair to the left.

You’ve got a headache and you’ve got him or maybe not but you’ve got a headache for sure and your thoughts are not in place and you’re running out of

Your head’s hurting and you know you can’t draw paths for any of your thoughts and they’re all over the fucking place and you’re all over the fucking place stuffing under-baked cake and over-cooked instant love into your face and your head’s hurting and you can’t see past his eyes but you know you just know that something huge is going to break you down because your head’s hurting and you can’t draw paths for any of your fucking thoughts

You wake up

You stare

You’re there

He’s next to you

Your head’s hurting

He murmurs in his sleep

You’re used to the murmuring you’re also used to the snoring you’re used to the ache the stink the vanishing before lunch idea you’re used to his antics you’re used
yes you’re used to all of him
his fears his socks his works in progress his freshly shampooed hair his trembling hands while driving his eyes you’re used to all of him

“You’re still here”

“I was trying to find my…”

“It’s there”

You’re glad he’s used to you you’re scared he’s used to you you’re scared he’s going to run away and desert you with fucking headache and compassion and empathy and you’re used to him and he’s used to you and you’re both too used to each other but you’re scared and that scares him and this is exactly what he had envisioned and you’re scared his ideas will come true your head aches a little less now but you’re scared and you’re frantically trying to search for it but you’re just scared and tiny and shivering and

“here”

“I don’t need you to hug me”

“You don’t need me”

you’re scared you’re fucking scared you’re going to shit in your pants that scared like a tiny puppy lost on a new street like you were when your father hadn’t come back home one weekend when you had told your best friend to fuck off after your first fight you’re scared and your head’s aching and you know you ought to get out of there before he pulls you down and chains you to his desperation and you know you are desperate and you’re scared and

“I can see you from here”

“This is no time for games”

“I don’t play games with you, never did”

You think you’re making your angry face at him by staring back but only he knows that you look like you’re going to burst out into a series of puzzles any moment so he tries to calm you fucking down but you’re scared aren’t you and his care only scares you even more and you don’t want to play games either but you know your head’s hurting a lot less right now and you’re going to be fine a week from now but a week’s a long long long time to survive and you’re not good with time

You get up

Unable to find it

you get up

you stare

you’re there

almost there

slightly off the crazy mark, but you’re there

the thoughts in your head are fading no washing away no wait wait more like they’re dissolving into your reality they’re not all over the place they’re gone oh my god they’re going
you need to stop you need to fucking stop oh my fucking fuck oh my good old lord you need to stop him you need to stop yourself you’re scared and that’s legit but your thoughts are vanishing and you

“I feared I’d lost you”

“What?”

“You hit your head real bad on the floor, kid”

“what happened?”

he pulls you closer covers you with his sheets and you’re scared and you’re running out of your fresh breath and you’re running
now you’re running
you’ve shoved the sheets to the other side and you’re running like a mad cow all over his bed you’re screaming and you’re running and he’s used to all of you so he’s just sitting there smiling

“You need to seek a shrink”

“You’ve ruined me”

“I never asked you to come back to me”

“You kissed me, motherfucker! You fucking bumped into me and kissed me on a footpath last night and now you’re telling me that you had never asked me to come back to you! Yes ofcourse I’m the stupid one here”

“You looked lovely. Always do.”

you stop running around your head now bears a bump on the side and it’s not hurting alright but it’s swollen and it feels like it might bleed and you’re confused if that’s your heart or your head so you chuckle under your breath and your thoughts have faded washed vanished away for good so there’s nothing stopping you from acting desperate and you’re used to all of him and he’s used to all of you and you’re both used to all of each other so that’s convenient for humanity

he joins you on the bed and together you’re there under the damaged roof dancing like two maniacs in love and that’s when you look at him with all the passion you’ve been hiding since months and you start weeping and you’re weeping and you’re scared and you’re shivering you’ve been bad for some months now and he knows he’s your backup your support system and he had left you when you needed him the most so he starts weeping and takes you into his arms and together you’re there under the damaged roof holding each other tightly like two maniacs in love

“We were not supposed to fall in love”

you know all of him and he knows all of you and you’re both used to all of each other so that’s convenient for humanity

To write, or not to write.

I write because I know that only my words can make me feel like I belong.
I write to be felt by myself what I feel every breath of my existence.
I write to be understood by myself what I fail to understand of myself every moment of my life.
I write.
And that’s all there is to my charm.

I have forgotten what it is to pen stories, I write myself down.
It’s my heart, my thoughts, my life that I blog about; my junk.
I have never written fiction. I can’t think beyond philosophy.
And yet I write, because only I can make myself feel what I feel when I’m most low.
I write as a souvenir of remembrance of my perpetual mood swings and constant shift in ideologies.
I write to testify
to justify
to crucify
my existence into tales of relatability
I write.

Only recently have I realised that I must stop writing.

I have found those words those statements those feelings that make me numb in my head writings that I read each morning to feel like someone somewhere knows me sentences that make me break my knuckles in anticipation and love and I finally feel like I have found my trumpet my melody the writings that make me go week in my knees tumble down the elevator of nostalgia and compassion and finally halt at a moment of absolute acknowledgement

Isn’t it a wonderful underrated feeling, afterall, to be understood so deeply by someone whose identity is only a few words on a screen?

These words- my elixir- these words make me loony.

I am left a desperate lover, waiting at the altar for the groom who stayed an unrequited love for too long to not turn up.
I am left wondering if I were meant to stay a cat lady all my life: a headstrong nutcase who enjoys being tagged a ‘feminist’ over a ‘lover’.
I am left anticipating. I am left, with hope in my head and doubt in my heart, and no witchcraft to tell me otherwise.

I am left.

And despite all this melancholy, I ransack my vocabulary to chronicle what I most feel- love- and least emote- love.
I run past my memories, hurriedly and in utter discontent, eventually to reach an unexplainable void.
This void. My chest. I fail to reconcile with the romantic version of it anymore.

Suddenly, all the thoughts that flood this nothingness in me are of those words and sentences and feelings written felt lived by a name behind the screen; I feel moved. Finally.

I feel complete. I feel like I belong. I feel love. loved.

And I ponder over the possibilities of finally existing without the pressure of wanting to feel anything anymore; I have those words for company, yes, I have those words to befriend, yes, I have a name on a screen, oh.

You. I have you.

The dialogue of love

I love you.

uh-huh.

I know you will not understand this, but I do. Don’t ask me why now.

uh-huh.

That day, when you were sitting in the corner and possibly sulking over life, I saw an aura around you.
It was a tragically magical purple.
It was a very strong aura, like you’ve always had it but hid it around commoners like me.
It was so magical; I couldn’t stop staring at it.

uh-huh.

And when you looked up and caught me staring, I know you thought I was staring at your face, but I wasn’t.
I was caught up in your aura. It kept calling out to mine. I didn’t know how to react, so I let go of myself.
I fell in love. I love you.

Okay.
You love my aura.

No!

No?

I love you because your aura showed me parts of you that you wouldn’t usually talk about.
It showed me how your heart got hurt the first time. It showed how you lost your dog to a freak accident. It showed that you pick your nose very often. It showed that you get aroused by the smell of alcohol. It showed that you were bullied as a child but you never let it get to you. It showed that you’ve never masturbated in your life till now.

It showed me parts of you that you had comfortably hidden under that quirky self of yours.

And I fell in love with you, instantly. I felt like I was a bystander of those moments. It felt like I was journeying with you but I wasn’t there, not besides you, not even as a third party, but I was with you.
I couldn’t help it.

I can see everybody’s auras; go on trips through their minds. Souls. Hearts. Memories.
And I don’t fall in love with everyone who shares my sob story. Love is a choice, not a momentary act of defiance of logic.

Love has nothing to do with logic.

You’re a romantic.

There’s nothing wrong in that. But my point is, I love you.
Is there anything we can do about it?

Yes.

What?

Forget it.

I don’t get you! Why do you do this to yourself over and over again? Why can’t you stop being a dick for once in your life? Why do you have to be so stuck up?

My aura didn’t tell you shit, because if it had, you wouldn’t be standing here saying those things.

I know what happened.

What?

I know why you do this.
Your aura is helping me understand. It is showing me things. Right now.
I can see you standing. You’re in a spacious room. The room looks distorted. Your face. I can see your face. The room is spinning. I can see your face, again. It looks

Is there a way you can stop this?

You don’t want your aura to speak to me?

You bet.

I don’t know how to stop this. I am looking at you, and all I can see is your aura.
It’s engulfing me. I don’t know how to stop this. I am trying, I swear.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I don’t understand this.

We’ve been taught too well to stereotype. Our stories come from the movies. The drama, the shit. We have been caged for too long to accept reality.

So you’re saying

Yes.

But I’ve never come across anyone like you.

Because we like to attribute. Make connections. Join the dots. Create symmetry. Life.

You’re very intense. It’s getting hard to communicate with you.

You bet.

You need to stop saying that.

I have so much love in my life, it’s making me crazy. Sad. Guilty. That’s about it.

Um

No, I was not molested as a child. I may have been bullied but that’s not the point. My heart broke for the first time when I was 16, yes, but it was over a stupid guy. That’s not even worth being the reason why I push people away.
Are you getting this?

I am trying.

See, we’ve been conditioned too strongly already. You will not accept anything I am saying until you can make sense of it and you can only make sense of it when you can relate it to pop culture and pop culture sucks balls. We think we can relate to so many people, their auras, but that’s not required.

You’re sad, you must be lonely. You’re happy, you must be well fed. You don’t believe in love, you must be coming from a broken family or have had a broken heart at a young age, or blah blah. You’re sunshine out of the ass, you must be struggling with life everyday but put up that smile just to make others happy.
This doesn’t make sense to me.
I am happy. I’m sad. I’m lost. I’m suicidal.
Stop reasoning this accordingly to the stories you’ve been force fed.

Do you want a hug? You’re running out of breath.

I want to get out. Fucking get out of here!

I can help you with that. Come with me.

I am not travelling through your aura just to feel better. WORSE. I don’t know. You’re not getting me.

You’re not making sense to me either. Just come with me, and I will leave you alone after that.
I will never remind you how much I love you. Trust me. Just give me this one chance.

You’ll regret.

I regretted the first time I went through your aura.

You bet.

You need to stop saying that I swear to god I’ll
Why are you laughing?

You look frustrated.

Come with me.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It was so psychedelic.

You bet

hahaha, now you’re getting comfortable

I have always been comfortable with you. I don’t know why, but as a stranger too, you’ve always made me comfortable.

I am a stranger to you?

You bet.

Okay, you’re stopping this. I’m serious.

Yes. You’ve always been a stranger to me. Even when I kissed you for the first time, I knew I was kissing a stranger but it was very comforting. That thought. When you told me that you’ve never liked sappy movies, I knew I was talking to a stranger. I just knew it. But I went ahead and bought you some CDs anyway. And you watched. That’s what stranger do. Be nice to each other because they know it’s temporary and they’ll both go their ways soon enough.
When I told you about my girlfriend, I knew I was confessing to a stranger because I remember you getting pissed and shit and only strangers have the liberty to get angry at each other. And it was comforting.

Thanks.

For what?

For letting me into your aura, voluntarily. This is my first.

I am in love with you; this is the least I can do.

Don’t try to fix me. I’m not broken.

I know. That is exactly why I love you.

You don’t want someone who you can relate to? Someone who lost her parents at a young age, and still believes in love? You don’t want someone who loves you back?

No. I want you.

Why?

I will tell you that the day I’m out of the cage.

I love you.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don’t you want someone you can relate to?

Art: salvation from reality / reality

When two lovers-two individuals madly aggressively passionately in love with each- can’t be together because… chaos ensues. Chaos of gigantic proportions. Chaos, undetermined, unparalleled and under-rated. Real Chaos.

Sometimes, the very fact that I exist, makes me cringe. No, I don’t turn suicidal, I don’t aspire for death; I simply wish to turn invisible. All the life around is killing me slowly. It’s funny. It’s tragic. But life will be the death of me. And the fact that we’re all the same doesn’t help pacify.

Yes, opinions are hyped. But trust me, they’re damn charming. Even dichotomy. Is attractive.

Nothing can kill you better than an unspoken romance.

Do you see the pink dot there? I only put it to make the image look beautiful. Everything sells if it’s abstract. Or pretty. Or aesthetically appealing. or violent. Same goes for people. “You don’t fall in love at first sight with someone’s personality”- Ugly Truth.

 

Yes, I can’t get over the fact that life will be the death of me.

He was the back up. The other guy. The second choice. Nobody deserves that kind of pain.

 

Yes, you. Fuck you. I love you. ❤

 

 Note: I’m not an artist but I can assure you that art is the easiest way to gain hegemony over someone’s thoughts. 

Good luck living with this acceptance.

Also, there is a reason the lines and dots have been placed the way they have been placed. I wasn’t being random. Even though I’m not an artist.
I wasn’t being random.

Wow. I am creepy. 

3 odd triangles

How do I interpret
this joy
how do I analyse
this sudden urge to decline melancholy
how do I skin
myself alive

How do I
tear past this identity
how do I
cease to relate
how do I
tune in to fantasy
how do I skin
myself alive

You become a little jelly fish

they don’t have hearts

they don’t have brains either

you become a little jelly fish

and I did.

I swam for years in waters too cold
at one time they did turn warm
but that was when I got old
I had nerves
and only that
there was a little bundle of them
at my center

I swam for years with that knotted bundle
at one time they did un-knot themselves
but that was when they’d fondle
I had them
and only them

I swam for years with them
a little jelly fish
with no heart
and no brain
with a bundle and
them

How do I stop
this unilateral living
how do I become
more
how do I get over
this existential crisis
how do I skin
myself alive

You become a being

they have a life

they live it

And I did.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

It’s a full circle
one with a prescribed radius
and no boundary
it’s a full circle

we’re all desperate and wild
isolated
engulfed by the abstract
finding our salvation in art

the virtual world is a testimony
to this madness
this absolute need to love and unlove
this rush to accept a million broken things
to find beauty in chaos

it’s a full circle

we’re all little pixels of light
burst out from the same source
trying to unite and repel the force
the force we call romance
the force we read about in fiction
the force that is both soothing and coarse

science is an alibi to this poetry
to this resurrection
this destruction
of emotional bondage
to this erection
of palpitating loneliness

it’s a full circle

even the hymn of death

it’s a full circle

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

There is you and there is him
there is a need and there is real
there is you and there is me
oh what a dichotomy
oh what a tragedy

where do we draw the line, I weep
where your lust begins to fade
you say
where your insides don’t burn of dopamine
where your chest doesn’t hurt of regret
where you and I can sit and sip coffee
and not move a finger over each
you say

there is platonic and there is polyamory
there is drama and there is real
there is you and there is me
oh what a bravery
oh what a tragedy

when do we preach to each our love, I sigh
when you and I can see past your thighs
when you and I can exist sans attachment
when you and I can go beyond a few written words on a parchment
you say
when you don’t run away
you say

but I did.
And you cried, like a little boy on steroids. You cried.
You spent nights by the street they say
you got inked over my name they say
you got fascinated by my groans they say
and you groaned the same
they say

oh what a blasphemy
oh what a tragedy

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..