Why aren’t there any posts on this blog?

For the new readers (hahaha As if): Well, I finally lost it.

For the old readers( hahaha as if): You knew it was coming.

I used to watch Two and A Half Men, you know back when Charlie Sheen didn’t have any tiger blood in him and Jake Harper was cute, oh and Jon Cryer had hair. So in a particular episode, fuck it, I’m not transcribing, what are pictures/memes for anyway?

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My dilemma is, I’m not particularly fond of alcohol. So I’ll do it manually. Beginning with this blog.

There were posts here, there might be new ones after this. The thing is, I have no fucks to give.

This, my friends, is a breakdown.

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Goodnight.

To the man in the pink slip

To the man in the pink slip in the metro,

You were wearing a pink slip, jeans, rouge and a matching pink lipstick. You were merrily singing along to songs with your earphones plugged in.

“Next station is noida city centre”

As you moved towards the doors, the horde of people (mostly consisting of young men) moved to one side giving you a wide berth. And you kept singing along. They laughed at you, and conspicuously started talking amongst themselves. You just exited the doors and made your way to the exit gates. As you were doing that, two old couples expressed their anger at your attire.

I also saw you two weeks ago, in the same metro. I was making my way to the coach nearest to the stairs. You were in that coach, arguing. Or defending yourself, I later realized. You were wearing a shirt which had an open back. (This is relevant because I only heard snippets of what followed.) A man raised an issue with it. And this time you replied. It came down to abuses flung your way. Horrible words spoken by callous morons.

But they aren’t to blame, no, not entirely. You were vigorous in your defense, sir. But you were alone and I was a bystander. I am sorry.

You were cornered. You have the right to express yourself. But you also have the right to my support. It’s not asked of me by the law but by the nature of sheer humanity.

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

I was silent and I am responsible too to an extent.

You don’t deserve this. No one does. I am happy that you stood up for yourself, a feat that I haven’t accomplished. I prefer to ignore.

You, on the other hand, inspire.

I hope there isn’t a next time but we live in a country that outlaws the very expression of your existence so there probably will be.

I am sorry.

 

How do I write when there is nothing left?

Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.

My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.

Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-.  Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)?  Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.

Regardless, I was happy.

Well, mostly.

Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.

Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).

This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.

Because I’ve stopped reading.

I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.

Bare.

 

In conversation with.

Talk me off a ledge
you’ve put me on
Let me breathe
free from you
You are a struggle
and I want to win
So I keep trying
until I give up
I could be happy
but are you?

You will always
exist in my shadow
Can’t let you go
do I even want to?

……………………..

Another one bites the dust.

Now her gods lie abandoned
on lined shelves
Collecting dust
Instead of hastily whispered prayers

They aren’t wrong,
but neither is she
Faith lost
Impasse reached

Secretly believes
maybe in them
or in her
Matchboxes remain unused

Happy -Congrats, you squeezed out of a vagina today- day! Tra-la-la-la

This is one day out of three sixty five when I feel obligated to be happy.

The kicker? I am not.

Shouldn’t chirping birds awake me? Accompanied with a glorious sunrise, a picture perfect day and being surrounded by loved ones? Yet I feel more alone than ever. I used to revel in it. The disconnect appealed to me.

As I grow older(sadly), I have surmised that the cliche ‘No man is an island’ is somewhat true. But I have also realized that people are not my boundaries.

I have changed and I hope I reach a point of time in the near future where I learn to be okay with myself. I am certainly closer to that state than I ever was.

Here’s to being slightly weird and anti social! Here’s to still singing 90s songs in the shower!  Here’s to being miserable intermittently!  Here’s to defining a new normal! Here’s to an updated 15.0.3 version of me! I hope there are many more(versions) to come.

The thing I’m more perturbed about is the apparent lack of chocolates I received today.

Happy Birthday to me!

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!

Integrity.

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.