It’s all vivid still, and there is probably no getting away from the feeling.
This year we will stroll through the local station, find a
worn out Iranian restaurant, take the Berry Pulav to the nearby cemetery
so we can feel the grass crush underneath, and write
a poem by a grave.
It’s a lot like listening. And breathing. Except breathing is an easier process.
It’s a lot like hearing urban noise amidst the greenery and extremely focussed quietness.
And a bit like spinning stories from only the visible parts
We wear a dozen skins together and once we’re done I slowly see these fade away into a moment of pressured logic.
Cut to today. A day like the 4th.
One night I decide to write.
A room of darkness, just how he likes and few other ferociously hot moments that every person dreams of. A list of friends on a piece of paper compiled for a party that’s not supposed to happen, but I have to impress the other world I live in, so the party is just an excuse to what is filth, in my head.
The only sound that disturbs at this point of time is a Tibetan flag that the boss got from Leh this year, and its hard end. Which is probably made up of wood. I don’t know. Makes a lot of sound when it hits the wall.
I realize how I like reading Wood’s characters with special powers. Or sometimes, plain aliens used in the most obvious, yet unnatural way. A strange looking creature waiting for you outside, if you just peek outside..
A moment lost so hopelessly in seeing that. I got up and saw outside. Its a fail sometimes, most of the times.
I just closed everything and saw down in the darkness again. With the list and an unpredictable head. One night I decide to write, and every little dirt that’s on the ground is stuck to the ceiling now. Congratulations to me.
Asked Caroline. She always asks that before a crucial day.
The person mentioned here would look like a short, petite, two pony
tailed girl but this picture was a wasted frame
With bad hair and bad clips she wanted to gain my attention
Wait, bad everything. That is Caroline.
Instead of saying “No, I don’t think I would want to give you my book, because nobody really talks to you, so will I not.”
I say, “Sure! Of course! Do you even have to ask? You can take my book any time!”
Why, isn’t sharing a good deed than to just show yourself
to be an ignorant bitch because that’s what the world calls ‘cool’
and you feel a tremendous pressure to achieve that level of ‘coolness’. They say. Everybody says. Sharing keeps you satisfied and full.
I say to myself when Caroline asks for my notebook.
The notebook thankfully consists of blank pages and few doodles by
my ex boyfriend who is not a living person anymore because he had to ‘find his way’ and this life for him held nothing. I sometimes think he
did some sort of voodoo? Is that possible, I think. I only live on his suicide letter his old grandmother passed down to me because she
saw me crying one afternoon when I was holding my abdomen and looking myself in the mirror. Stomach cramps. Not him. Who’d tell
the old lady?
And that evening, I asked for fried onion rings and chicken
lollipops because you know, why not, food. It was overdone and oily.
Just how I like it. She, the old grandmother of my dead ex boyfriend, asked me to get some tea and I broke her chinese teapot.
"This is not my home, I need to rush!"
I wanted to blow my brains out and think about a white
page and few blobs of ink on my face covering certain spots
on the face, its extremely weird and casual if you think.
"Banks are extremely depressing." I say.
Now I see blobs of ink on people. The sexy woman from the neighbourhood, with her unimaginably horrible push up bra
(that her breasts didn’t seem normal to me) and blobs of ink
pasted on her nose, cheeks, lips.
Or the schizophrenic kid from the third block who once threw a shoe
at me because I refused to kiss his neck.
He says, “Yo, stay away maybe.” and handed me over a perfectly
That’s all right, I realized its only a way of caring. An elusive form of sharing.