Home-made Apple

Once upon a time, there was a young girl.

Like most girls her age, she wore summer frocks in winters and smelled of pastel crayons;like most girls her age, she had a favorite crayon based on its color: ‘Pink’, she’d whisper when she wanted an ice cream or a pair of socks or scented erasers.

Like most girls her age, she laughed when she tripped on nothing, and cried when she tripped on the missing flower. ‘It’s dead!’ she’d scream, run around, throw up her tiny hands in the indifferent air and sob till the flower had been cremated next to the other dead things she used to hoard.

Like most girls her age, she played dress-up during her free time; but not with dolls, with words; she’d dress them up as the classic Century when she wanted a ‘princess ahead of her times’ or as a Bodoni when her mind was set in Manchester, or as a Hoefler Text when she played war games. She’d do this for hours on end, until one of the other girls would barge in and pull her out to play in the sun.
Like most girls her age, she loved playing in the sun; with asymmetrical muddied pink socks, skirt pulled up till her underpants showed, she loved playing in the sun. On some early-afternoons, she used to deviate from her routine and steal her way into the next door Ms.Eaves’ kitchen garden just to pick at ripe home-made apples. Like most girls her age, she used to meticulously slice these apples and feed them to the street dogs that she had named after colors: ‘Blue-the moody bitch’, ‘Orange-the conventional tail wagger’, ‘Red-the pellet eating pseudo sophisticated egg-face’ ladida matilda; on days Ms.Eaves’ refused to grow any apples, she’d go to the grocery store, buy a packets of salted chips and a bottle of Fanta, come back and stay put to her laptop like a leeching lover to it’s ex’s hand-written letters.

Like most girls her age, she grew up to be a wild child trapped inside societal conditions, searching for moments to define her dichotomy; like most girls her age, she got educated, found a job, a lover to discuss cartoons and communism with, and then gave birth to a lovelier young child. She named this child ‘Italic Boton’ while her lover contested and later detested this child’s identity. Like most girls her age, she died at 63, content with an under-lived life and a over-whelming passion for typeface tales.

Like most girl’s her age, she demanded a pink coffin with her name written in Folktale.

The SadWitch Guild’s guide to romance:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: All the shapes, layout and colors are relevant to the text and are definitely not there only because they look good that way. Enjoy the art if you find it relatable, and take away whatever you want from it. 

Page 23

“If you want to place this article here, you better hope the number of dead is much higher than what you’ve reported.

Her pen keeps hitting the wooden table, as if to silently disagree with her.

“Death has become cheap these days. You should know how much of it sells when.

Behind her are stacks of pleasantly folded newspapers, tied together with nylon ropes; on the table is the only embellishment- a framed photo of two people in love, hands over each other’s shoulders, smiling at the cameraperson as if it were their first photo together.

“Excuse me! I’m talking to you, here. I hope you’ve been listening.

“Good. Now that I have you attention, would you please go back to your fucking desk and make the necessary changes?! I’m running a newspaper, not an editing module in high school.

I walk out, 20% perplexed, 40% embarrassed.

“And hey! What are you doing today evening?

“Why are you looking at me like that for? I’m just asking you. You can always say no.

“Great. It’s a date then; tell me when you’re about to leave office.”

Unlike her desk, mine resembles an average 20year olds’; there are pens lying all over-chewed upon and out of ink; papers with doodles are slid between unevenly colored folders; the computer is on sleep mode, and the mouse is lost within all the mayhem inside my head.

The draft is in my hand, the ink smearing its love over my stiffened palms, forgotten by my brain that’s trying very hard to recognise the people from the photo on her table.

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“Didi! Oye didi!

My body jerks out of control and I leap to my feet, rushing to open the door.

“I have been calling out to you since the last ten minutes! What are you upto?

“What?
She laughs so hard, I forget that I had never earlier seen her even smile.

“Who sleeps-

“Who sleeps in the washroom?!

Her laugh makes me happy so I simply smile and fold the ends of my pants down.

“Didi. Is possible for you to increase my salary by a few hundreds…

“Oh, it’s okay.  It’s just that my husband died last evening, and you know how Komal is about to start school in a few months.

“No, no, didi, please don’t apologise. I’ll find more work somewhere. The maid at the South Indian aunty’s home downstairs fled away with their money a few days back na, maybe I can find some work- what?

Him? Oh, he came under a truck; he was too drunk to see where he was walking!

Komal. Komal.
The words are confined to my ears.
Komal. He came under
a truck
Kom
truck
Okay
it’s okay
don’t apologise
Komal
okay
it’s okay

Fuck.
Oh fuck, the water hits my skin too intensely; I wipe it off on the sleeves of my T shirt and look at the mirror.

Two eyes and a large nose stare back at me, blandly.

Fuck.
Truck
he came under
a truck
it’s okay
I need
money
Komal Komal

The words are overflowing into my thoughts

Fuck.

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“The ‘Thugee system’ has always been an integral part of Indian culture. For the thugs, death was much beyond destruction, it was a process. Not a religious or a cultural process, mind you, but a process to balance the world. They believed in

His pen keeps hitting the wooden table, as if to silently disagree with him.

“You must understand that this system crumbled because of the British colonialism. They systematically wiped off this artwork.

He suddenly drops his pen and looks out of the window.

“Oh, now what?! Another accident? They need to do something about these potholes, you know.

Outside, there’s a mob of students, some screaming, most staring at each other.

“You suppose we should go and check it out?
yeah, we should. You never know, it might just be an acquaintance of yours.

His walk is swift and engineered to perfection like that of a charming man, deceptive of the muchness inside. He stops at the door and motions for me to come over.

“Of all the people there, how many do you recognise?

“None? Are you sure? Look carefully.

His lips curl up mischievously.

“I know no one too. But somehow…
the idea that someone somewhere might be hurt pulls us to them.
Now, imagine if we gathered like this every time someone was hurting mentally.
It’d be such a wonderful society.”

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( will be continued soon)

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.

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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

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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

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Some home made shitty artwork to make you people feel better about your creative skills

There’s always a replacement.

It might come in a week, a day, a few heartbreaks from then, a pint of hard liquor down, a year from now, but replacement will be found.
This replacement may not fit the bill, entirely.
It may not love you the same, a little less, a lot more.
It may not be your moment of Stendhal syndrome. It may not be as kind, or as black.
It may not appreciate Kodaline as much as you, or understand abstract art as the former did; it may not be your intellectual booty call. It may not approve of the way you lick your fingers clean after a meal. It may not want to get physical with you. It may not be a movie buff. It may not converse on a daily basis.

It may not last.

But replacement will be found and it will love you back.

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We’re a fucked up lot; we ascribe a lot of negativity to materialism and commodification but a special sense of romanticism to emotional attachments. We respect people who can love. We fall for people who can feel. We aim for togetherness which will last an eternity. We write of people who stayed true to their touchy side.

Our pop culture defines our creative boundaries: it tells us to find beauty in red lips and tea shades, in ruffled beards and sappy poetry. In people who watch Star Wars and visit book cafes on Saturday evening. In Individuals who live through instagram’s images and snapchat’s snaps. In people who are broken, rebellious, artistic, cultured or generic seeming.

But isn’t it unfair to be selectively appreciative of attachment?
I am in love with my money; you are in love with your son. Big deal?

We’re all the same.

Love has ruined our existence. It has gone beyond its capacity to heal; it’s becoming a fad now.
It has been ripped off its sanctity; it has almost become blasphemy to not love.
It’s a human error to not love.

Love has ruined its own existence.

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One night, you’re overwhelming with passion. You are finding beauty in cynicism and romance in distress.
You want to touch her, feel her, be with her. You want her.

You drunk dial her. She picks up; you utter absolutely heart warming poetry. She comes over, you fuck.

This is love.

Who says otherwise?

So what if it was just for a night? So what if she had a boyfriend? So what if you are still in love with her?  So what.

Love is passion. Love is in carpe diem. Love is about doing. Being.

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We’re all such big hypocrites, one day we’ll get up and feel nothing but a moment of nostalgia in our actions, existence. And that’s okay.

Whoever said we’re all snowflakes: each different from the others, obviously adored the snow a lot to emote less fantasy.

We’re all the same and that entitles us to a sense of belonging we often overlook.
It, subtly and subconsciously, romanticizes our life, our world, our little bubble of lies, which eventually ends with us in existential crisis crying over parched sense of humour and a distant heart.

Fuck you, man, fuck you all.

We’re all the same and it’s time that we accept it, and move on.

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All my failed relationships, be with pets, dates, schoolmates, or the people in my head, should be solely credited to the gigantic piece of shit in my chest: A void.

Avoid?

A void.

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It’s a funny world, a funny funny funny world it’s a funny world and we’re all going to die one day it should only make us feel better and treat each right but we don’t for you read John Green and she reads Dostoevsky and I haven’t gone past the first two pages of Chetan Bhagat it’s such a funny such a funny world that I tag him a sissy for writing sappy blogs while I cry secretly under my duvet for a lost charm gifted by my long lost love funny world oh such a funny world I hate myself and all of you basically we’re hypocrites and we’re scared to live such a life despite the mutual acceptance oh such a fucking funny world oh

Fuck you too

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If you really want to do something in life, get off that bed and go to the loo.

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And some more shit.