the search ends here..

let your eyes flicker as you pass me by

Unlearn

Back then, being schooled

I enthusiastically hogged on letters,

Rolled them into words with my tongue,

Swallowed them to form sentences while tripping down my throat,

Till they finally settled down and digested in my stomach.

This, to me they said was growing up.

Now that they say is done,

Am braving indigestion, burping out sentences,

Trying to bite them into words, chew them back in.

So much for trying, I am only puking out letters, not just the ones I had,

Throwing out much more than what I thought I had all these years.

This, to them I say is growing up.

pretty sure the whole concept of mummy kasam came from the egyptians. enna rascala.

let the head reside on your palms...scratch through the memories that remain

pretty much seem to have grown up on an imagined past...

penultimate step

I am almost done with my life...take it away...

the final countdown

pulling the latch up, locking the hollow wooden door,
he drew the curtains on the only window,
and sat on the three legged chair,
pouring another peg of whiskey in his chipped glass,
staring lustfully at the young piece of flesh slithering on the rickety bed,
with hands tied above the head, nipples pointing out,
gagged and blindfolded

and she twisted and puffed vigorously,
each part of her body hurting enough to want to make her revisit the time gone by,
her wounds glistened in the dim yellow light of the bulb,
suspended from the ceiling by a loose wire,
her lips bled profusely,
staining in patterns the plain white sheet spread over the bed.

he smiled devilishly looking at her,
her helplessness satisfying his urge to humiliate her,
for her deeds, pathetically uncalled for,
every drop of her blood reminding him of her atrocious behaviour,
behaviour he had repeatedly warned her against.

she flapped her legs, exposing her vulnerabilities,
ignoring the battered piece of clothing that lay besides her,
hell bent on cutting lose,
tears rolled down her bloodshot eyes,
from the pain she wished she had never known.

they could now hear the footsteps outside,
faintly approaching towards their shack,
she went silent to catch every possible movement,
while he was prepared to keep up with his routine,
in hope to relieve her from the state of despair,
calculating silently the time he had left with him...

Resolve

Normal, like most things, is a subjective standard. The whole notion of a thing being normal or not is based on conformity to a certain benchmark thought process which the majority comes to identify as being the usual order of things. Normal, hence, is not one standard benchmark that everybody can, or should, follow. For each person, it is something that depends on his/her perception, on experience, on habit, and on more than anything else, desire and the ability to reason and being true to oneself.

new letters in red ribbons...

and she sat there, unaware,
as he moved around,
nonchalantly with his eyes.
Her lips, twitched.
His words stuttered out.
Abruptly.
Absurdly.
Sense, lacking;
rhythm missing completely.

His eyes did finally deceive.
Then,
it hit her.

He cannot, not love her…

Notes to myself # 3

On the penultimate floor of her skyscraper
curled up on the window sill, she sits,
knees pulled back to her chest,
staring out, contemplating…
Tossing a coin off the window,
waiting for it to shatter the silence of the desolate street beneath,
clogging her ears,
she bursts out, screaming…
Moments later,
with the coin tingling restlessly still,
a blind rag picker comes in wandering,
poking his stick around,
he steps casually on the coin,
and walks past the building…
The coin, feeling restive, now lies lifeless on the path,
just to be stalked by her, thoroughly…

Notes to myself #2

He stood at the edge of the cliff,

feet sliding through

whistle at the rear

He puffed, he panted

as he ran down the dimly lit road

bent at the end

the end ran faster than him

He held on

as raindrops fell

on his forehead

rippling emotions surged past

masking the agony in his smile

as alms and coins he compiled

he gathered

fragments of a smile from within

and tossed it into her empty heart

unpacking the burden of hers

old letters in red ribbons...

Draining half burnt pages in ink,

an old, broken pen he held

in his trembling fingers drenched in black,

sifting through scores of sheets,

overwriting letters repeatedly,

agitatedly forming those words

irrelevant in their meaning,

sentences intended to create a design then,

losing relevance with each passing stroke,

emotions transcended through

the nerves in his spine

to the tip of his left hand,

as the middle finger of his right

dripped profusely of red,

and finally he lay there in peace

for he had lived those memories

through the moments they were the best…

...

So it trickled down his face, washing away years of repugnance and pain.

Notes to myself #1

He switched the sun off,

Wore his glasses,

A faint effort to hide what he got,

darkness within.

He set out on the path he had been before

The path, pebbled

Had returned then with a battered soul,

Lost spirit

Sitting on a new milestone

with a sheet of paper, torn,

a pencil, broken,

he began to write

a new story with a new end.

Ting!

Not a lot of people have realized this yet but now that everyone is trying to be outside the box, being inside it might just be an out of the box choice.

Rekindling, they called it.

She slept with me out of sheer guilt while I was still searching for love. 

Murphy's Law

I never had a slice of bread, particularly large and wide, that did not fall upon the floor, and always on the buttered side.

, . , . ,

~add all the jazz you want to around these lines~

I am finally getting ready, for you to break

I am finally getting ready for you, to break 

I am finally getting ready for you, to break

~I live in a world where no two lines mean the same~

...

For me images die as soon as they slip out of my mind, out into the open...Rarely do they not..