Tagged: random

words on a canvas

Sometimes I trace

blue words on my arm

wondering

what they would feel like

in red.

vi-shee-us

is what you told me

when I said

I don’t love you anymore

nee-ee-dy

is what you said I was

when I wanted to hear your voice

cu-t

is what I screamed

before it went dark

One.

Do you sometimes imagine someone standing behind you when you look up in the mirror?

Because I do.

She’s just a couple of blurred lines, too impatient to be sharply visible. She’s prettier and she’s thinner and she’s wittier but she likes the taste of blood. She has a cackling laugh that echoes in my head when she has left.

She loves reading badly written horror novels and revels in the irony of it. She likes reading them aloud too as if her voice was a gift to the world. It’s as bad as her laugh, really. And it smells.

I always know the ending.

That joke isn’t funny anymore.

‘Walking a path’, ‘a hard journey’ or the colloquial ‘haters gonna hate’ are some of cliches attributed to living one’s life. Why reduce this monumental thing to a frivolous phrase?

Life is something that chokes you, performs the heimlich and then chokes you again. Funny how this applies to love as well.

It’s something that breaks you until you can’t get back up and then forces you to get back up. How the fuck does that count for a lesson? I haven’t learned shit. How do I make it leave an impact? How do I change?

Yes, yes, change is gradual blah blah blah and asking questions is first step et cetera but is it really the first step if I have done this a million other times?

And I can laugh now, joke around, hoping I still get my letter but now my fantasies border on schizophrenia.

Making the same mistakes has now become my forte. So, forgive me if I resort to cliches but

It’s all downhill from here.

Curtains closed.

Title is That joke isn’t funny anymore by The Smiths

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.