Waiting on a friend: In the hope that you still read my blog.

This is probably the only post I’ll write about you, actually, to you. Take these as my last words since “I shall fuck off” are perfect for dramatic effect but they hardly sound apologetic.

I don’t know if this post is going to be entirely about you, I might wander off in the middle.

I’m not asking to be forgiven. I’m just saying that I’m sorry. No more pretending, no more back talk, no more blocking. It’s just a sorry. Throw it away if you like.

I changed. We’ve talked about ‘change’ at length, I remember. Countless hours spent on justifying that it isn’t growth but a disassociation of sorts, a feeble excuse for erratic behavior and disregarding all that is holy. And I changed.

I hope the person that I became wasn’t actually me. I was a pathetic, selfish, desperate, vile creature. Do you realize vile is just an anagram for evil? And so is live but I’m guessing the latter was more of a coincidence.

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, “evil”. No wait, “vile”. I could have reacted better. I could have done a lot of things a bit better. But I didn’t and that’s what mattered. I became ‘Gollum’ from LOTR, a pathetic creature clutching fiercely to the last vestiges of an erstwhile great friendship.

I know that you don’t care and you probably shouldn’t too. You’re done, I understand. It’s the end of an oddly weird era. This isn’t a last ditch effort, just so you know.

I’m sorry. I failed you. You trusted me and I failed you. Yes, I’m quoting Alfred here but it seems so apt. Batman is more relevant than one might think.

I hope you are well. And Happy Birthday in advance, way advance.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword but then, a sword is never reconciliatory, so where does that leave us?

On the way to Mordor, I suppose. I might give walking there a try.


The song is Waiting on a Friend by The Rolling Stones.

Life is not a box of chocolates

No matter how careful one is, being hurt is inevitable. Yes, one has to move on but that doesn’t make it any less painful. Be it love, family or friendship, each relationship leaves a mark.

It becomes harder to move on when there is no closure. Subtlety isn’t my strong suit. I can never be subtle or understand it. So, I hate when things are left unsaid. Why put on a show? It’s not going to help anyone. Just rip the band-aid off and let the wound heal.

Life isn’t like a box of chocolates. They have  everything written on the back! Flavour, ingredients, the presence of nuts, manufacturing address and other such things we ignore.

Life is like a big box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. Yes, the little grey one looks funny and smells fishy but you eat it anyway. Life is a series of weirdly delightful and artfully obscure experiences.

Let curiosity kill you. You still have eight to go!

Lackadaisical attempt at a story.

Two sleepy people

on a ledge,

befuddled minds

make a choice.


The gilded photo frame on the mantle begins to tell a tale which the empty chair next to him finishes.


It’s a simple click,

he looks at her

she smiles, it lingers

a last remnant of what she used to be,

Not so simple after all.



Sure! another drink won’t kill me, she says

he smiles,

and whispers, “maybe it will”

She doesn’t see his hand hovering over the drink.


The system fails

She seeks reckoning

he seeks another alcoholic


A cloaked vigilante

on a ledge

saves two sleepy people

from themselves.

Fix me

We live in a hole and spend most of our life trying to climb out of it. To rise above it, to be able to see the ground above, blossoming with promises of a better tomorrow and a forgotten past. We trudge ahead, among the dirt and mud to get to the ocean.


Some, however prefer to live in that hole. Making it larger, expanding it, day by day and that takes dedication too. They don’t see the light much, maybe they don’t want to.  There’s nothing wrong with them. Nothing at all.


Lights will guide you home. 

Maybe not the end of the road after all.

The End Of The Road

I’m struggling through an If-Then scenario currently. If I fail, then I…..

Two years without even a semblance of a suicidal thought balanced on a precarious ‘If’. Unbalanced more like.


And why shouldn’t I? I see no choice but a choice. I hear no evil but only the truth and that is the evilest.

Yes, it is my error and no, I absolutely refuse to carry the burden.

After all, existence is an arbitrary notion.


“On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Paraît que le bonheur est à portée de main
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou”
Carla Bruni – Quelquun m’a dit

Down The Literal Drain

Is it sheer desperation when you start replying to your friend’s “What’s up’s” with “the fan? /the ceiling?/ god?” (for the pious ones).

Is that the end of the road for your weary sense of humor? Or does it still have a few miles, a few tricks up his sleeve?

It does say a lot about me when I personify my (barely there) sense of humor as a male. I tried to evaluate him.

Me: So, Mr. Sense Of Humor, what’s up?

Mr. S.O.H.: The ever churning blades of a fan, soon they will disappear.

Me: Yes, I can see that. You sound a bit morose, are you?

Mr. S.O.H.: Oh, no. I’m just dark. Been left out in the sun too long, you see.

Me: Ah, yes. So, Sense, erm, May I call you Sense?

Mr. S.O.H: Oh, go ahead. I’m here to please, aren’t I?

Me: Why so literal, Sense?

Mr. S.O.H: Do you have a better plan?

Me: I see. Mr. Humor, Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?

Mr. S.O.H.: Because it’s illegal.

Me: Oh. They taste funny.

Mr. S.O.H: What tastes funny?

Me: The clowns.

Mr. S.O.H: What clowns?

Me: From the joke.

Mr. S.O.H: What joke?

Here lies my Sense of Humor, rest  in peace.


Well, this is what I’ve been feeling for the last couple of days. Not sad, not morose and not depressed just devoid of my sense of humor.  I hope that it comes back to haunt me.

Dear Departed Soul

Nobody bothers anymore. Use and throw and then use again. Continuous cycle for infinity and beyond.

Friendship is just a word. Irony spews from F to P and hatred fills the potholes. Ignorance is unavoidable and narcissism is its soul. Selflessness demands an audience but is denied and ridiculed. “There is no place for you here”, they say.

Love gained but love lost. Indifference rules like a booze addled king.

So dear departed soul of mine, it is good that you left. Cruelty would not have been your forte. My Ego will replace you, a much better queen. She is blind to the sunshine, the rain, the stars and all other wondrous things in life. She thirsts for a pond, a lake, a mirror; only a reflection will appease her.

Background Noise

She tries to fly with the flock but a sword hangs above her,

of misgivings, distrust and compulsion

darkness she brings into the fray, they say

and abandon her, they do

onward she goes, a path unknown

in lesser worlds and amongst glorified seasons

contentious, capricious and notorious, she conquers,

So if you cannot be with them, be against them, little birdie.


Whenever we do something , we always have different possible scenarios at the back of our head so that even if we fail, it won’t come as a huge shock when it actually happens. Sometimes, we see success too, a vision of what we could be. These illusions are always at the back of our head, taunting us.



Surrounded by a cage of steel,

clipped wings sits on a perch,

adores the little luxuries of her existence,

chirps sweetly when they beckon,

little do they know

It’s all an act.


She flew! She flew! they scream,

an uneven sky beyond

an uneven landscape below, she’s trapped.

And she remains.