I almost feel a word constipation in my head.Or rather the disorder of will to make an effort to write.
I have believed that a writer's block is an excuse of a writer to facilitate his inconvenience and apathy at not being able to meet her own standards.It happens to everyone.
Why do you think people made such a big issue in school, as kids, about consistency?
Its sad we still can't accept that consistency is absolutely proportional to so many things.That not being the point of my post, over here.
It is to tell you, all, that I have around a collective of 7 saved drafts in the past week for this blog alone, that are incomplete.
I'm planning to consolidate all those 7 to make a single one.
Hopefully it won't turn out like my infinite attempts to sketch Jim Morrison.
=|
I can draw some of his features pretty okaly.
:\
And I have exams soon =\
Also I have come to a conclusion about why I don't find hot bodied men fantasy worthy.Not that I would mind one imposed on me :|
Well if its imposition I really can't do anything, right ? :P
anyway.
"Take me, I am the drug; take me, I am hallucinogenic. "
"At the age of 6, I wanted to be a female cook. At 7, Napoleon. After that, my ambition just went on growing. I wanted to be Salvador Dali and nobody else."
(Salvador Dali)
Oh yes, fixation on men.I think I'm secretly a case of mental fetishism for necrophilia.
My first heartbreak was when I learned about marriage and its weirder than just having your dad around.
But I think every kid goes through that, often condemned for being truthful about innocence and it of course being an apparent euphemism for mistake.
Then you get to know that people kiss on cheeks and never on lips anymore.
Then they never kiss.
You're growing up.
Then I almost promised myself that if my physics Sir in school was just a little younger I'd fall in love with him.He was around sixty or something.
After that Marlowe, I had promised to live my life for him, go to Cambridge, in his memory, grave, Rhodes, life was good.
Anthony Beal, I said while I'm at it, why not, find a living companion / fixation, he's too far fetched I think.
Oh yes I must tell you one day of my fetishism for Jim Morrison,I do hate him, you know, like I hate Shakes for being a Marlowe rip off, but I love Speare boy, I spent days and months reading blank verse and prose in BCL.No I'm not a fanboy and I usually don't talk about him for the fear of hearing outrageous things.
Anyway I shall go now.
PMS SUCKS.
Just one Woman Law that everyone agrees to, all kinds of women, manwoman, lesbowoman, necrowoman, norwoman, bimbowoman blah blah
PMS is an EXCUSE for almost anything right from crying about not being able to eat more chocolate cause there's none in the fridge to throwing a flower pot on a random man's head cause he doesn't bleed.
=]
YAY TO PMS.
Dad avoids me completely during such days, I can be a menace.
8.2.09
skittles
He was playing with marbles.
Trotting about like a sturdy race horse, in training, he gathered the colored red ones and put them in a bag.
He quickly stepped away and when no one was seeing, he ran into the wind.
He lurched forward and panted his lungs, his feeble knees supporting his demeanor.
He walked over and sat under the wet grass.
Morning sprinklers were so inspirational.
I looked on by, reading my book at the tree over the corner.
He, was mesmerized by the marbles he owned.
He looked at it, closely and seemed to love it all the more.
He chose one out of the few he had, all of them looked the same.
We sat there for almost an eternity.
He still was at it.
Ridiculous boy, I thought.
But what was I doing there a whole eternity?
I walked over, annoyed at myself for being distracted and also slightly perplexed at why I thought this boy was intriguing.
So I put on the my brightest toothy smile and he looked at me suspiciously.
Whattakid.
Well he told me later it was just that lots of people thought he was a weird kid and they always wanted to find out why.He obviously was oblivious.
I realized I could have just gone on to him without preparing myself to be sugary.
So anyway, he told me he played with the boys and when they got out their sets of marbles, he vanished.
Their other sets, that is.
Red, Blue, he said he liked yellow the least but marbles were marbles.
He ran away not cause he didn't have all the colorful marbles that they did, he ran because he was happy with his color.
He'd have liked to have all of them, but he couldn't and he still couldn't be happy cause he couldn't play if he didn't have the right colors.
I looked guiltily at him.
I left then, knowing that I'd meet him the next day.
Marble Boy, Mmmm.
As I walked along the lane, lighting up, I passed by trees and playing children also dogs, I blew smoke into the air, somehow this time I didn't acknowledge the trees or the children, I just was habituated to their existence.
Also to puffing smoke, to an extent that I was scared I followed a stereotype of two drags per stride.
I stubbed it with my big toe.
I should use my heel the next time.
Shower and dinner were quick.
The boy was sitting the other side of the tree.
I walked straight to him and before my last step, checked my cigs and lighter, I didn't want him to see.
He asked me why I smoke?
Kids, off late.
I need to ask myself that, though.
He told me some more about his red marbles.
He taught me to hold it, he said, I'd get the rest right.
Before I knew, the birds were back in their nests and feeding littil chicks and all that.
We had to leave, the mosquitoes wouldn't.
The next day, he told me about the marble, out of all.
It was his favorite.
The glass was dented, somewhat making it prettier than the rest.
It won him, two others, once.
And he really didn't even mind that it was dented, not until I almost reminded him, before which he told me that marbles are not like other normal things.
So I smiled at him, showing my teeth, this time, it was just natural.
He smiled back, coyly.
I ruffled his hair and left.
Two days later, I went back, walking to the marble boy's tree.
Walked around the tree and something felt wrong.
I saw, THE, marble.
I knew then, he'd never come back.
I knew then, that things won't.
I slowly looked around, lurched forward and picked the marble, quickly thrusting it in my pocket.
I walked on.
-
Thankyou for being the marble boy tappu.
Trotting about like a sturdy race horse, in training, he gathered the colored red ones and put them in a bag.
He quickly stepped away and when no one was seeing, he ran into the wind.
He lurched forward and panted his lungs, his feeble knees supporting his demeanor.
He walked over and sat under the wet grass.
Morning sprinklers were so inspirational.
I looked on by, reading my book at the tree over the corner.
He, was mesmerized by the marbles he owned.
He looked at it, closely and seemed to love it all the more.
He chose one out of the few he had, all of them looked the same.
We sat there for almost an eternity.
He still was at it.
Ridiculous boy, I thought.
But what was I doing there a whole eternity?
I walked over, annoyed at myself for being distracted and also slightly perplexed at why I thought this boy was intriguing.
So I put on the my brightest toothy smile and he looked at me suspiciously.
Whattakid.
Well he told me later it was just that lots of people thought he was a weird kid and they always wanted to find out why.He obviously was oblivious.
I realized I could have just gone on to him without preparing myself to be sugary.
So anyway, he told me he played with the boys and when they got out their sets of marbles, he vanished.
Their other sets, that is.
Red, Blue, he said he liked yellow the least but marbles were marbles.
He ran away not cause he didn't have all the colorful marbles that they did, he ran because he was happy with his color.
He'd have liked to have all of them, but he couldn't and he still couldn't be happy cause he couldn't play if he didn't have the right colors.
I looked guiltily at him.
I left then, knowing that I'd meet him the next day.
Marble Boy, Mmmm.
As I walked along the lane, lighting up, I passed by trees and playing children also dogs, I blew smoke into the air, somehow this time I didn't acknowledge the trees or the children, I just was habituated to their existence.
Also to puffing smoke, to an extent that I was scared I followed a stereotype of two drags per stride.
I stubbed it with my big toe.
I should use my heel the next time.
Shower and dinner were quick.
The boy was sitting the other side of the tree.
I walked straight to him and before my last step, checked my cigs and lighter, I didn't want him to see.
He asked me why I smoke?
Kids, off late.
I need to ask myself that, though.
He told me some more about his red marbles.
He taught me to hold it, he said, I'd get the rest right.
Before I knew, the birds were back in their nests and feeding littil chicks and all that.
We had to leave, the mosquitoes wouldn't.
The next day, he told me about the marble, out of all.
It was his favorite.
The glass was dented, somewhat making it prettier than the rest.
It won him, two others, once.
And he really didn't even mind that it was dented, not until I almost reminded him, before which he told me that marbles are not like other normal things.
So I smiled at him, showing my teeth, this time, it was just natural.
He smiled back, coyly.
I ruffled his hair and left.
Two days later, I went back, walking to the marble boy's tree.
Walked around the tree and something felt wrong.
I saw, THE, marble.
I knew then, he'd never come back.
I knew then, that things won't.
I slowly looked around, lurched forward and picked the marble, quickly thrusting it in my pocket.
I walked on.
-
Thankyou for being the marble boy tappu.
5.2.09
Then there was a life for art.
Clenching teeth and eyes moist with tears withheld.
A swivel through air that was circled by bated breaths, a tense silence.
Another swerve, feet that were accustomed to follow the beat, defying science and the mind.
Raising the dust off the loose foot boards on the floor, the anger of the womb of a hurricane, she stopped, tapped her toes, her eyes full of desire, and as she extended her right leg toward to front, the seams of her plaid skirt lifted, revealing skin as smooth as satin, waiting to be tickled by the meanders on a fingertip.
And just as appetizing as it was to the eyes, she took a step backward, her skirt slipped along her smooth skin.
Like the drapes fall in the lover's room.
Her anklets echoed through the empty room, through the loose floor boards, into the room below, resonating distress of a trapped fly.
She felt like a ribbon, being casually fluttered in the air.
A red ribbon standing out in all aspects of texture, color and ease as opposed to the pitch black setting of a dingy room, been shut for years.
She was fluttering, with a broken wing.
She was twitching as gracefully as there could be but she still felt like a fish out of water.
She drifted like an angel falling from the sky.
Exasperated, she lifted her feet off the ground, hoping the ground beneath her feet would open into a void, with the outside pressure so high that her body would burst into pieces of flesh strewn across barren death land where scavengers and eagles feast on the remnants of the departed.
A lift so easily executed, like a floating balloon, suddenly, she ricocheted as it was burst in its glory to drift as opposed to the others.
Pinned to the wall, tied in chains, bound by flashes of anger that nullify the heat in her body, letting her cool off to frost bitten skin as she conquered each spasm her mind put her body, through.
She landed on the floor, a thud, and she lay there on the cold floor, with her cheeks pressed into the dusty wood.
And like a crackling whip, she moaned, a sharp piercing scream, that tore open the drapes of putrid doom, of the night of ravens and howling curs.
And she bawled into the silence, screaming at its intensity, she had to run away from silence.
It was not long before her finale, that she performed the same piece, and her experience and practice gave her away, she tripped over her brimming skirt, ripping it with the edges of her sharp ruby anklet, tripping over the seams of her lucky dress, she fell gracefully onto the floor, her rubies scattered across the grand stage.
The silence now, as opposed to the silence during her performance, were so different she cringed.
The pain and blood that blinded her eyes making them moist, added to the tearing dryness in her ears.
The silence now, was of a disappointed audience, that were once in reverential fear of her grandeur and poise, when she danced fiercely.
And when she fell, a mighty fall.
They were quiet.
The floor board was as firm as it had been, loose but firm.
Yes, like her, talented but a failure.
Sustainability is like the fertility of a womb, it has value only till you can justify its existence.
To my art, to yours.
A swivel through air that was circled by bated breaths, a tense silence.
Another swerve, feet that were accustomed to follow the beat, defying science and the mind.
Raising the dust off the loose foot boards on the floor, the anger of the womb of a hurricane, she stopped, tapped her toes, her eyes full of desire, and as she extended her right leg toward to front, the seams of her plaid skirt lifted, revealing skin as smooth as satin, waiting to be tickled by the meanders on a fingertip.
And just as appetizing as it was to the eyes, she took a step backward, her skirt slipped along her smooth skin.
Like the drapes fall in the lover's room.
Her anklets echoed through the empty room, through the loose floor boards, into the room below, resonating distress of a trapped fly.
She felt like a ribbon, being casually fluttered in the air.
A red ribbon standing out in all aspects of texture, color and ease as opposed to the pitch black setting of a dingy room, been shut for years.
She was fluttering, with a broken wing.
She was twitching as gracefully as there could be but she still felt like a fish out of water.
She drifted like an angel falling from the sky.
Exasperated, she lifted her feet off the ground, hoping the ground beneath her feet would open into a void, with the outside pressure so high that her body would burst into pieces of flesh strewn across barren death land where scavengers and eagles feast on the remnants of the departed.
A lift so easily executed, like a floating balloon, suddenly, she ricocheted as it was burst in its glory to drift as opposed to the others.
Pinned to the wall, tied in chains, bound by flashes of anger that nullify the heat in her body, letting her cool off to frost bitten skin as she conquered each spasm her mind put her body, through.
She landed on the floor, a thud, and she lay there on the cold floor, with her cheeks pressed into the dusty wood.
And like a crackling whip, she moaned, a sharp piercing scream, that tore open the drapes of putrid doom, of the night of ravens and howling curs.
And she bawled into the silence, screaming at its intensity, she had to run away from silence.
It was not long before her finale, that she performed the same piece, and her experience and practice gave her away, she tripped over her brimming skirt, ripping it with the edges of her sharp ruby anklet, tripping over the seams of her lucky dress, she fell gracefully onto the floor, her rubies scattered across the grand stage.
The silence now, as opposed to the silence during her performance, were so different she cringed.
The pain and blood that blinded her eyes making them moist, added to the tearing dryness in her ears.
The silence now, was of a disappointed audience, that were once in reverential fear of her grandeur and poise, when she danced fiercely.
And when she fell, a mighty fall.
They were quiet.
The floor board was as firm as it had been, loose but firm.
Yes, like her, talented but a failure.
Sustainability is like the fertility of a womb, it has value only till you can justify its existence.
To my art, to yours.
4.2.09
If only.
His palms had lines,it was like staring at railroad tracks, all of them, all over the place, when that is the only solace on a long train journey alone.
She held his hand, the journey ahead was long.
She stared at his paw like palms, they cupped her voluptuousness indeed, but its the lines that fascinated her the most, each etching a different path on the same ground.
He had little fingers, like babies, babies had nice toes, small and stout fingers that have girth, made to fit, in.
As the rail wagon pulled the rest of itself along the slope of the hill, she shut her eyes.
She still saw, in the darkness, closed eyes, meant ears, that will get up at the sound of anything that doesn't fit the reason why eyes were shut.
His palm was in hers, a tad bit sweaty, warming her with comfort.
Sweat, she loved rubbing against his, and then soaking up together in water, to prepare for another round.
She tricked herself into peeking just once more, at the slope of his nose, she could see his neck and his only undone first button, she wished she could undo them all, to look about at his broad shoulders and take a whiff of his manly hair.
She loved being his woman.
Her face was plain, or rather not as fancy as the women, who then, used to paint grandeur on their faces.
She wore a smile, that opened to show clean teeth, that hid her strength.
Her smile was called, Grace.
Strength, is a rather manly aspect, more or less attributed to the dominating counterparts.
But if beauty really is about, being hidden and elusive, you will know a beautiful woman by her strength.
He always told her she was strong.
He rubbed his palms into her hair and held her face, he gazed, and she saw right into her man, and quickly looked away at his soldier boots, he couldn't know she knew his secret.
The train rattled, somewhere the distant hum of night insects mating met the whistling smoke of the coal train, it would be dawn soon, her eyes were still shut tight, in guilt of opening them to take a look at him after he slept, his palm, in her hand.
But this guilt was an indulgence to take her mind off, the morning that followed.
It was the morning that would change the meaning she attributed to the warmth created by epinephrines during love made which met the cold harsh morning.
She would still be warm, and perspire for her man, but she would alone, in the hollow of the morning whistling breeze that would whip through her locks, bereft of his hands entangled in them, she, hoping and praying that he was safe.
They were traveling, all of them, she, fear, him and them together.
It was time for duty over priority.
It was time to pull out mittens to warm her hands.
To sit by the fireside, staring at the crackling wings of fire and the playful wind, and ignoring hunger pangs of the night because she cooked and ate only so he could feed her.
Curling up on the rocking chair, pretending to be asleep so that he would dump their dinner dish,they ate lots of times in one plate, and quickly gather her, he also cradled her to sleep.
It was suddenly damp, it smelt so, she was guilty of thinking about all of this, she was betraying them, their last sleep together for days to come.winter was indeed, bitter.
But she couldn't help but stare at his face, his eyes, were like marbles, they looked bigger and watery up close, they were embedded, like.
His lips were so perfectly shaped and had more lines across the length of them, pursed in a tiny straight line, curled at the ends.
He breathed with his nose, in a slow rhythm, concentrating too much on it would put her into the sweetest, sleep could offer.
It was early in the morning and the rhythm of his breaths were quicker, his body said, it was happy.
She knew he would wake up, soon.
And he'd know if he looked at her puffy eyes that she was crying.
So she'd sleep, now.
Afterall he would come back once winter was over, they could stealthily make love in the lake then.
And she needed him to go happy and not worry about her, so she licked his lips, and he held her waist tightly, and she thought she saw his eyes open.
But he slept well, and he always pulled her closer in the morning to stop her from trembling in the cold white light of morning.
She would miss that, too.
His eyes were shut.
She shut her's and swallowed a breath.
He turned her around and wet her dry lips.
He teased her skin and blew hot air into her ears, and curtly said, it was time, and before her heart could fall, a mighty fall, he blew hot air into her ears.
She huffed back at him and wanted to throw a tantrum for being disturbed during her nap.
But she saw his eyes staring at her making bratty faces in her satin night slip.
She quickly kissed him back and wore her shirt while he pulled up the suitcases.
The train hooted a victory siren as it pulled up at its destination.
A big board that read, Welcome Sarge, almost choked her tears, but she held them back.
She was to go back in the same train.
She had insisted on coming along and he had insisted she don't.
But if being difficult to let go had kept her back she wouldn't have spent those guilty moments, that accused love as the culprit.
He pulled his hand around her tighter and turned to look at her, and he pressed her thigh as he left.
She sat there, mesmerized.
She wished she had looked at his eyes, but she would cry, so she did not.
She loved seeing herself in his eyes.
His eyes, told stories of bloodshed and war, or raped pregnant women and dead children.
His eyes told her of secrets that they saw together with them closed, as he sucked her little musky sweet breath.
His eyes that twinkled as he suckled like a baby.
His eyes full of hope while she laid the plates for dinner
His eyes reeking of fear of not being able to return back to her when he left her alone as he fought for them all.
His eyes when he ate right through her, as she teased him in bed.
His eyes that spoke to her of the greatest feeling of elation as he saw her messy haired, stuck between two heavy cupboards trying to find a lost hair clip.
If only you'd known the woman she was, for him.
If only he'd return from war.
The train pulled over with a similar distant mourn, she stepped down onto the platform as she was circled by army suit clad officers who handed her, his suitcase, the one he had pulled out from under her legs as he left her in the railway coupe, wanting him as much when all she wanted to do was be a twelve year old brat and drag him back.
She opened the suitcase and smelt his clothes, it filled her head.
Her insides.
But it was displaced by a void.
Of never being able to smell him fresh.
Of never being filled by his girth.
If only he had taken along his memories.
If only he'd returned from war, with them.
She held his hand, the journey ahead was long.
She stared at his paw like palms, they cupped her voluptuousness indeed, but its the lines that fascinated her the most, each etching a different path on the same ground.
He had little fingers, like babies, babies had nice toes, small and stout fingers that have girth, made to fit, in.
As the rail wagon pulled the rest of itself along the slope of the hill, she shut her eyes.
She still saw, in the darkness, closed eyes, meant ears, that will get up at the sound of anything that doesn't fit the reason why eyes were shut.
His palm was in hers, a tad bit sweaty, warming her with comfort.
Sweat, she loved rubbing against his, and then soaking up together in water, to prepare for another round.
She tricked herself into peeking just once more, at the slope of his nose, she could see his neck and his only undone first button, she wished she could undo them all, to look about at his broad shoulders and take a whiff of his manly hair.
She loved being his woman.
Her face was plain, or rather not as fancy as the women, who then, used to paint grandeur on their faces.
She wore a smile, that opened to show clean teeth, that hid her strength.
Her smile was called, Grace.
Strength, is a rather manly aspect, more or less attributed to the dominating counterparts.
But if beauty really is about, being hidden and elusive, you will know a beautiful woman by her strength.
He always told her she was strong.
He rubbed his palms into her hair and held her face, he gazed, and she saw right into her man, and quickly looked away at his soldier boots, he couldn't know she knew his secret.
The train rattled, somewhere the distant hum of night insects mating met the whistling smoke of the coal train, it would be dawn soon, her eyes were still shut tight, in guilt of opening them to take a look at him after he slept, his palm, in her hand.
But this guilt was an indulgence to take her mind off, the morning that followed.
It was the morning that would change the meaning she attributed to the warmth created by epinephrines during love made which met the cold harsh morning.
She would still be warm, and perspire for her man, but she would alone, in the hollow of the morning whistling breeze that would whip through her locks, bereft of his hands entangled in them, she, hoping and praying that he was safe.
They were traveling, all of them, she, fear, him and them together.
It was time for duty over priority.
It was time to pull out mittens to warm her hands.
To sit by the fireside, staring at the crackling wings of fire and the playful wind, and ignoring hunger pangs of the night because she cooked and ate only so he could feed her.
Curling up on the rocking chair, pretending to be asleep so that he would dump their dinner dish,they ate lots of times in one plate, and quickly gather her, he also cradled her to sleep.
It was suddenly damp, it smelt so, she was guilty of thinking about all of this, she was betraying them, their last sleep together for days to come.winter was indeed, bitter.
But she couldn't help but stare at his face, his eyes, were like marbles, they looked bigger and watery up close, they were embedded, like.
His lips were so perfectly shaped and had more lines across the length of them, pursed in a tiny straight line, curled at the ends.
He breathed with his nose, in a slow rhythm, concentrating too much on it would put her into the sweetest, sleep could offer.
It was early in the morning and the rhythm of his breaths were quicker, his body said, it was happy.
She knew he would wake up, soon.
And he'd know if he looked at her puffy eyes that she was crying.
So she'd sleep, now.
Afterall he would come back once winter was over, they could stealthily make love in the lake then.
And she needed him to go happy and not worry about her, so she licked his lips, and he held her waist tightly, and she thought she saw his eyes open.
But he slept well, and he always pulled her closer in the morning to stop her from trembling in the cold white light of morning.
She would miss that, too.
His eyes were shut.
She shut her's and swallowed a breath.
He turned her around and wet her dry lips.
He teased her skin and blew hot air into her ears, and curtly said, it was time, and before her heart could fall, a mighty fall, he blew hot air into her ears.
She huffed back at him and wanted to throw a tantrum for being disturbed during her nap.
But she saw his eyes staring at her making bratty faces in her satin night slip.
She quickly kissed him back and wore her shirt while he pulled up the suitcases.
The train hooted a victory siren as it pulled up at its destination.
A big board that read, Welcome Sarge, almost choked her tears, but she held them back.
She was to go back in the same train.
She had insisted on coming along and he had insisted she don't.
But if being difficult to let go had kept her back she wouldn't have spent those guilty moments, that accused love as the culprit.
He pulled his hand around her tighter and turned to look at her, and he pressed her thigh as he left.
She sat there, mesmerized.
She wished she had looked at his eyes, but she would cry, so she did not.
She loved seeing herself in his eyes.
His eyes, told stories of bloodshed and war, or raped pregnant women and dead children.
His eyes told her of secrets that they saw together with them closed, as he sucked her little musky sweet breath.
His eyes that twinkled as he suckled like a baby.
His eyes full of hope while she laid the plates for dinner
His eyes reeking of fear of not being able to return back to her when he left her alone as he fought for them all.
His eyes when he ate right through her, as she teased him in bed.
His eyes that spoke to her of the greatest feeling of elation as he saw her messy haired, stuck between two heavy cupboards trying to find a lost hair clip.
If only you'd known the woman she was, for him.
If only he'd return from war.
The train pulled over with a similar distant mourn, she stepped down onto the platform as she was circled by army suit clad officers who handed her, his suitcase, the one he had pulled out from under her legs as he left her in the railway coupe, wanting him as much when all she wanted to do was be a twelve year old brat and drag him back.
She opened the suitcase and smelt his clothes, it filled her head.
Her insides.
But it was displaced by a void.
Of never being able to smell him fresh.
Of never being filled by his girth.
If only he had taken along his memories.
If only he'd returned from war, with them.
26.1.09
Plooie.
A sudden pallor spread over the lines happiness had etched into her face.
A moment occurred, engulfed her, and washed by.
She still stood there like someone had frozen her time; the one’s alongside seemed to move on.
She asked, “Why?”
Watching them drop into a nullifying void, she stood there, a trench around her, and all those who advanced, were victims, to the amplitudes of black rays that took the form of darkness, they fell, a mighty fall. She ran around the moat, the one that appeared inexplicably.
It was difficult not falling and continually running in circles around the moat was not the most convenient.
The red sand had seemed to tan her brown skin.
She had to wash the stains.
Her gait matched that of a duck waddling into the pond.
Only she didn’t know how to swim.
She walked around trying to find an answer.
Stumbled, across the headstone of life’s most sure gift. Death.
Delayed the journey to its destination.
She saw her.
Cruising like an unwanted wet cloud on the horizon, covering the highlight of a pure morning.
She ran into the graveyard, the nearest escape route.
Laid herself in a coffin, the smell of freshly shoveled mud filled her insides.
Before the varnish on the inside of the coffin spread and took over her senses.
It was dark, in the distance she could hear chants, and she remembered the smell of sandal scented rosary.
She had to get up, and leave, the coffin didn’t need her, not now.
More mud stains.
She walked along.
Into the sunrise.
Mornings, just after night.
Before the sun erased the melancholy of the perturbed sky, there was an aroma, like the one that was, that made her happy, like the scents of pure love, she recollected an image, the one that was framed like a moment, captured, of the still, once occupied bed, of sheets that weren’t made, of the pillow that lay in the center to uplift her hips, stained with wine, that he let flow as he devoured her. The sun was yet to rise.
She walked beneath the elm trees, stepping on acorns that crunched under her foot.
They sounded really different from stepping on dry leaves.
But both of them were being stepped on.
Her legs ached, but she had to run, from her.
Her shoulders pined, to be able to slouch into warmth, she knew so well.
She shuffled, and noticed a flicker of light, it was unusual, the foliage wasn’t merciful to the trespassing light rays, but this one had made it to her eye.
She followed it, not knowing where it would take her, till she saw the brook, the one that foamed at the edges, it was the end of a waterfall, or you could say it was where all ends met.
Do ends meet?
Parallel lines never do?
She stood there, transfixed, till she sensed her toe twitch in delight, the water had found its way.
Where was hers?
She walked into the water, anyway.
At least she could hide here, without having to leave.
So she did.
And as she stood in the pool that covered all beneath her torso, she waited for it to rise above her and wash her away.
She kept waiting.
She plucked a few big leaves, she’d always known they’d come handy to wipe off grime.
Walking out of the water, and back on solid ground, she obviously didn’t think that the swirling dust would entrench her wet lower body.
Oh well, the pond had taken her, alright, but it wasn’t home.
She had his home, theirs; she had to hide from her.
She walked along, the afternoon and its grace had been denied to her.
The pine and oak trees were mighty, yes.
She missed basking in the warmth of the morning sun, the one that woke him up so instantly, making him sit back and rub his big eyes, and smack his lips, before he went to adjust the drapes again, and she never let him sleep, not after he’d woken up, he couldn’t not until he’d warmed his legs that had touched the cold floor in haste.
So he’d put up a mock protest and entwine his legs, under the sheets, slytoy.
The water had felt like that, the sand that swept beneath her feet, through her toes, when the water pulled back, felt like his toes and hers. She needed to be back home to cook them a warm meal.
Before that she had to find the perfect hiding spot, she would today.
A sudden lightning crackled.
Like a whip, made of the best.
It reminded her of her, the one she was running from, hiding.
She had indeed protected her during her worst.
Lifted her up and put her back on heels.
Dragged her out of the shower, where hours were spent under the running tap, in deliriums that only an addict comprehended to.
Pulled her back as she pressed her face against the cold of glass on a random morning, too early to be awake, as she drooled her fears out, over the window pane.
Choked her self pitying tears and slapped her out of it.
She made her fight, back.
But why avoid her, now?
It was necessary.
She walked quickly, in short, brisk steps.
The clouds threatened.
Hastening, she dropped his ring, bent, picked, and walked on.
She’d pluck tomatoes on the way.
As she quickly shuffled through the road, she stopped, she stood, and looked up, she couldn’t stop staring.
The magnificent tree, spread across, around, its stump, filtered the rain drops as they pattered around her.
Each drop hit a branch, maybe a leaf, slid along it, the ones that fell straight through the foliage, broke into two and dropped down as gracefully onto the floor as the ones that effortlessly slid.
More drops, as she observed blatantly, fell on her face, she loved the way it felt.
You could tell, as the drop slid down the curve of her cheek bone, that had now, uplifted nonchalantly and without her own notice, as her lips grew into a smile.
She did a quick swirl and then a slower one, feeling the rain singe her stains, corrode them away, each time, washing away her bitterness, her past.
Strength had indeed, saved her, not her sanity.
That is why she had to hide, cause she didn’t need bitterness.
She walked through the rain and the wind whistled through her curls.
A soft hum in her ears.
There she saw her, standing at the end of the road, she didn’t turn back this time, and she walked towards her.
Into her.
And then she broke into a run, her surroundings blurred, her focus was what lay ahead
What lay ahead?
And she was almost there, it was then that she saw him, secretly talking to her plant, the one at the doorstep, she did that, he always made fun of her.
She stopped, her feet fixed, growing weaker by the minute, her body slightly arching toward the front, toward him.
He cruised over and fit effortlessly into her open arms and held her before she’d fall off because of duck knees.
She had forgotten to notice that it wasn’t raining anymore.
As she brushed her lips against his, he lifted her up and she squealed like a pleased cat, and tossed her curls, they were wet.
And as he carried her in and put her on the bed, she wrestled her way onto the top of him, and he said to her, then, that her dripping hair felt like the rain.
She playfully nodded them onto his face and he enjoyed his rain.
Theirs.
A moment occurred, engulfed her, and washed by.
She still stood there like someone had frozen her time; the one’s alongside seemed to move on.
She asked, “Why?”
Watching them drop into a nullifying void, she stood there, a trench around her, and all those who advanced, were victims, to the amplitudes of black rays that took the form of darkness, they fell, a mighty fall. She ran around the moat, the one that appeared inexplicably.
It was difficult not falling and continually running in circles around the moat was not the most convenient.
The red sand had seemed to tan her brown skin.
She had to wash the stains.
Her gait matched that of a duck waddling into the pond.
Only she didn’t know how to swim.
She walked around trying to find an answer.
Stumbled, across the headstone of life’s most sure gift. Death.
Delayed the journey to its destination.
She saw her.
Cruising like an unwanted wet cloud on the horizon, covering the highlight of a pure morning.
She ran into the graveyard, the nearest escape route.
Laid herself in a coffin, the smell of freshly shoveled mud filled her insides.
Before the varnish on the inside of the coffin spread and took over her senses.
It was dark, in the distance she could hear chants, and she remembered the smell of sandal scented rosary.
She had to get up, and leave, the coffin didn’t need her, not now.
More mud stains.
She walked along.
Into the sunrise.
Mornings, just after night.
Before the sun erased the melancholy of the perturbed sky, there was an aroma, like the one that was, that made her happy, like the scents of pure love, she recollected an image, the one that was framed like a moment, captured, of the still, once occupied bed, of sheets that weren’t made, of the pillow that lay in the center to uplift her hips, stained with wine, that he let flow as he devoured her. The sun was yet to rise.
She walked beneath the elm trees, stepping on acorns that crunched under her foot.
They sounded really different from stepping on dry leaves.
But both of them were being stepped on.
Her legs ached, but she had to run, from her.
Her shoulders pined, to be able to slouch into warmth, she knew so well.
She shuffled, and noticed a flicker of light, it was unusual, the foliage wasn’t merciful to the trespassing light rays, but this one had made it to her eye.
She followed it, not knowing where it would take her, till she saw the brook, the one that foamed at the edges, it was the end of a waterfall, or you could say it was where all ends met.
Do ends meet?
Parallel lines never do?
She stood there, transfixed, till she sensed her toe twitch in delight, the water had found its way.
Where was hers?
She walked into the water, anyway.
At least she could hide here, without having to leave.
So she did.
And as she stood in the pool that covered all beneath her torso, she waited for it to rise above her and wash her away.
She kept waiting.
She plucked a few big leaves, she’d always known they’d come handy to wipe off grime.
Walking out of the water, and back on solid ground, she obviously didn’t think that the swirling dust would entrench her wet lower body.
Oh well, the pond had taken her, alright, but it wasn’t home.
She had his home, theirs; she had to hide from her.
She walked along, the afternoon and its grace had been denied to her.
The pine and oak trees were mighty, yes.
She missed basking in the warmth of the morning sun, the one that woke him up so instantly, making him sit back and rub his big eyes, and smack his lips, before he went to adjust the drapes again, and she never let him sleep, not after he’d woken up, he couldn’t not until he’d warmed his legs that had touched the cold floor in haste.
So he’d put up a mock protest and entwine his legs, under the sheets, slytoy.
The water had felt like that, the sand that swept beneath her feet, through her toes, when the water pulled back, felt like his toes and hers. She needed to be back home to cook them a warm meal.
Before that she had to find the perfect hiding spot, she would today.
A sudden lightning crackled.
Like a whip, made of the best.
It reminded her of her, the one she was running from, hiding.
She had indeed protected her during her worst.
Lifted her up and put her back on heels.
Dragged her out of the shower, where hours were spent under the running tap, in deliriums that only an addict comprehended to.
Pulled her back as she pressed her face against the cold of glass on a random morning, too early to be awake, as she drooled her fears out, over the window pane.
Choked her self pitying tears and slapped her out of it.
She made her fight, back.
But why avoid her, now?
It was necessary.
She walked quickly, in short, brisk steps.
The clouds threatened.
Hastening, she dropped his ring, bent, picked, and walked on.
She’d pluck tomatoes on the way.
As she quickly shuffled through the road, she stopped, she stood, and looked up, she couldn’t stop staring.
The magnificent tree, spread across, around, its stump, filtered the rain drops as they pattered around her.
Each drop hit a branch, maybe a leaf, slid along it, the ones that fell straight through the foliage, broke into two and dropped down as gracefully onto the floor as the ones that effortlessly slid.
More drops, as she observed blatantly, fell on her face, she loved the way it felt.
You could tell, as the drop slid down the curve of her cheek bone, that had now, uplifted nonchalantly and without her own notice, as her lips grew into a smile.
She did a quick swirl and then a slower one, feeling the rain singe her stains, corrode them away, each time, washing away her bitterness, her past.
Strength had indeed, saved her, not her sanity.
That is why she had to hide, cause she didn’t need bitterness.
She walked through the rain and the wind whistled through her curls.
A soft hum in her ears.
There she saw her, standing at the end of the road, she didn’t turn back this time, and she walked towards her.
Into her.
And then she broke into a run, her surroundings blurred, her focus was what lay ahead
What lay ahead?
And she was almost there, it was then that she saw him, secretly talking to her plant, the one at the doorstep, she did that, he always made fun of her.
She stopped, her feet fixed, growing weaker by the minute, her body slightly arching toward the front, toward him.
He cruised over and fit effortlessly into her open arms and held her before she’d fall off because of duck knees.
She had forgotten to notice that it wasn’t raining anymore.
As she brushed her lips against his, he lifted her up and she squealed like a pleased cat, and tossed her curls, they were wet.
And as he carried her in and put her on the bed, she wrestled her way onto the top of him, and he said to her, then, that her dripping hair felt like the rain.
She playfully nodded them onto his face and he enjoyed his rain.
Theirs.
18.1.09
Call me Kittazoid
Walk around in fast circles.
A dizzy need to stop, but the force around you requires you to slow down before, you decide to stop.
Again, this can be answered by science. Root Cause. Energy.
Non Believers asking the ones who do, to believe. That too without options.
Oh, I am a critic. And I can be so pessimistic; it could blow your mind.
But I choose not to. Cause then, it would end and begin only with me.
See, what makes you think is collateral to axioms of science, and its opposition.
It’s a debate, no one is wrong, no one right.
The one who presents his views aggressively and instills belief in its existence over the other, wins.
Off late, I.
It’s an insanely masqueraded fervor.
Ask a burning wick, the wax that melted because of heat and now falls down into space, cooled off by time, falling as a piece of ice(melted cooled off wax) flat.
Like most things do, in your head, when it looks like sagacity. But what must you ask the wick?
Ask it about change.
Molecules, dots, circles, the ones I want to draw on your back while you lie on me, covered by the red flaming sky engulfed by the rays of black.
Black, the color that absorbs all, physics.
A Spanish riff, unfinished, played again, wont match the pace of your heartbeat , the pulse of it racing, that could have been fingers running through the sharpness of strings, cutting fine lines of some of your best, engraving its existence on your finger tip.
The one that you run across places most deserved. Alternating across a stormy night with a cooler breeze whirling around your ears that are warmed by hot breaths you exhale across my neck.
Like warmth to condense fragile and still preserve its essence.
In sheets of milky silk, seams of bales of thinned and hand made wool,
Bits of cotton and feather. Bury your face in my universe, engulfing my pride of being me, you made me feel.
Moist aromas, shooting into my nostril, singing it with excitement, doused by the retina, as it waters and then in a soft moan I engulf all of you and littil bubbles foam into my head and flood my ears. A passage of spasms bind me in a fierce grip, just like you did, before letting slip, in me, all of you.
Sitting beside where you held me in your warmth, recreating smell, feel , but not presence.
You gave me, it, presence.
I try to, too.
Concentration. Involvement.
Tell me the difference. Think.
They are like those theories that talk about the same things but completely contradict each other, hence, in the process becoming only the proof of the others existence, as its own absence creates such a condition.
Anyway the point of this post being, my rebellion, to my weaknesses.
Yes, right now that’s all I feel. Weak.
But out of all of these, there is one that I succumb, to.
One that is pleasant.
You.
Its keeps me from resisting pain and coupling it in pairs and hiding it at the back of my mind so that they can fight each other and then I could, them.
Now I don’t.
And I know you know, and so I don’t feel the need to say it.
Also this post is not even remotely close to what I wanted it to be.
Though for all the people who yawned while reading this, let me tell you a joke.
If you knew me, you’d spare yourself.
I have this quality, ever since the drinking days, the drinking binges have been overcome by, age, ahem, maturity maybe :P
But the quality still stays.
I have taken it upon myself to find humor in non humorous things cause it takes effort to make something that :X
It’s a thing you commoner shall not understand.
Lame jokes are my thing.
Also yes, I have a knack for saying stoopied things at wrong times, which makes the situation worse.I am schoopid.
I have this thing which strikes me later, always, that I indentify with psycho women.
Like Mathilde, from the woman next door, or Rebecca, but Hitchcock’s distinct character traits, and Truffant’s amazing ability to portray complexity and habituation of the human mind, is something that caught my eye.
Well, yes, I would love to play them. As an actor.
To this year, when I step back onto the stage.
Where I belong most.
Cheers.
Signing Off
Kittazoidxox
A dizzy need to stop, but the force around you requires you to slow down before, you decide to stop.
Again, this can be answered by science. Root Cause. Energy.
Non Believers asking the ones who do, to believe. That too without options.
Oh, I am a critic. And I can be so pessimistic; it could blow your mind.
But I choose not to. Cause then, it would end and begin only with me.
See, what makes you think is collateral to axioms of science, and its opposition.
It’s a debate, no one is wrong, no one right.
The one who presents his views aggressively and instills belief in its existence over the other, wins.
Off late, I.
It’s an insanely masqueraded fervor.
Ask a burning wick, the wax that melted because of heat and now falls down into space, cooled off by time, falling as a piece of ice(melted cooled off wax) flat.
Like most things do, in your head, when it looks like sagacity. But what must you ask the wick?
Ask it about change.
Molecules, dots, circles, the ones I want to draw on your back while you lie on me, covered by the red flaming sky engulfed by the rays of black.
Black, the color that absorbs all, physics.
A Spanish riff, unfinished, played again, wont match the pace of your heartbeat , the pulse of it racing, that could have been fingers running through the sharpness of strings, cutting fine lines of some of your best, engraving its existence on your finger tip.
The one that you run across places most deserved. Alternating across a stormy night with a cooler breeze whirling around your ears that are warmed by hot breaths you exhale across my neck.
Like warmth to condense fragile and still preserve its essence.
In sheets of milky silk, seams of bales of thinned and hand made wool,
Bits of cotton and feather. Bury your face in my universe, engulfing my pride of being me, you made me feel.
Moist aromas, shooting into my nostril, singing it with excitement, doused by the retina, as it waters and then in a soft moan I engulf all of you and littil bubbles foam into my head and flood my ears. A passage of spasms bind me in a fierce grip, just like you did, before letting slip, in me, all of you.
Sitting beside where you held me in your warmth, recreating smell, feel , but not presence.
You gave me, it, presence.
I try to, too.
Concentration. Involvement.
Tell me the difference. Think.
They are like those theories that talk about the same things but completely contradict each other, hence, in the process becoming only the proof of the others existence, as its own absence creates such a condition.
Anyway the point of this post being, my rebellion, to my weaknesses.
Yes, right now that’s all I feel. Weak.
But out of all of these, there is one that I succumb, to.
One that is pleasant.
You.
Its keeps me from resisting pain and coupling it in pairs and hiding it at the back of my mind so that they can fight each other and then I could, them.
Now I don’t.
And I know you know, and so I don’t feel the need to say it.
Also this post is not even remotely close to what I wanted it to be.
Though for all the people who yawned while reading this, let me tell you a joke.
If you knew me, you’d spare yourself.
I have this quality, ever since the drinking days, the drinking binges have been overcome by, age, ahem, maturity maybe :P
But the quality still stays.
I have taken it upon myself to find humor in non humorous things cause it takes effort to make something that :X
It’s a thing you commoner shall not understand.
Lame jokes are my thing.
Also yes, I have a knack for saying stoopied things at wrong times, which makes the situation worse.I am schoopid.
I have this thing which strikes me later, always, that I indentify with psycho women.
Like Mathilde, from the woman next door, or Rebecca, but Hitchcock’s distinct character traits, and Truffant’s amazing ability to portray complexity and habituation of the human mind, is something that caught my eye.
Well, yes, I would love to play them. As an actor.
To this year, when I step back onto the stage.
Where I belong most.
Cheers.
Signing Off
Kittazoidxox
11.1.09
6.1.09
The blizzard circled around,the wind seemed more than playful,like a spurned lover, the snow, glistening as it was lifted off the ground by the disappointed gusts of wind as it met the rays of the playful sun that made its way through the thick foliage that almost made daylight in the forest a distant dream, the shards of alienated rays of the ball of fire, seemed to caress the ice cold pieces of crystalline snow,levitating mid-air in its diamond like form ,magnifying its sharp edges and hitting off in directions it thought it could never explore, the rays found reasons that defied motion and physicality, as if mocking the dreary scientists that spent hours and days trying to make naked nature and its miracles fit in a definition of a few words bereft of mysticism.
An empathy of sorts,like all of nature, together, echoed, their displeasure,mirrored his mind, maybe heart, that had seemed to freeze in the bitterness of arctic winter.
The pitch dark of the forest, enveloped by pure pallid snow, in its virgin appeal.
Walking through Serbian land,in footsteps forcefully dragged through the flurry on nature's disposition.
His foot sank, every time, he tried to take a step,forward,the snow engulfed his ankle, holding onto it,trying hard to make his numb toe,feel, that peeped through the torn leather of his foot.But the sanguine in his body, had a mind of its own.Just like he had drifted from his battalion, that was now a part of one's most feared question to life, its gift, after the passage of defying victory, like gravity without anything to prove its existence,buried in layers of the soil, the putrid of rotting carcasses covered by the white angel of nature,nullifying the stench of blood lost in a fierce combat against an undermined and undiscovered enemy.The Landmines planted skillfully by their adversary.Blown into tiny shards,one with the tiniest particulate embedded in the ground beneath.A gift for exhibiting their divine, unquestionable love to their motherland, as they marched without any strategy, and he pleaded them to wait and formulate, but youthful vigor and undirected hate, combineered by their fateful existence bereft of even wild berries that nature seemed to have made unavailable to them, to punish them
and teach them that if they shall be empty headed, they shall have to go empty stomach, also.
He dragged his bleeding foot, that left a trail, like a raped virgin, running away from the very place she lost her guarded possession, not because she wants to run away to a new life, but because she wants to run away from her old.
Run far away into oblivion, with a heavy head and maybe a bastard in her, she flits like a fish out of water, seized by a paranoia of an epileptic, she runs.
He was running too, only inside his head, it felt like a world in its own.
The blood drained from his limbs, his face had already merged with the flush that winter painted, all around him, but he felt not one bit, not cause he was strong, not anymore.
It was cause he decided he wanted to be weak, to succumb and choose to not feel.
Or maybe there was no option anymore.As he fought the enemy within himself, he felt a shooting pain, steering through his spine, like a serpent had encoiled around his back, he felt, his ears twitched in the delight of his skin and its thirst to feel,his bloodshot eyes, forced a tear to seep through the ends of his eyelashes and hit the dry of his skin, that seemed to withdraw to this unaccustomed wetness and suddenly, he realized that his denial to feeling, and his question about not being so, were all proved wrong.
There was too much to feel, physical pain that manifested itself in various parts of his self, like a famine hit motherland that was infertile.
His body had been plagued by locusts after bearing a weak, cheap fortune of crops, because the land could no more nourish anything, not even itself.That is how his body felt.
The plight of a distressed farmer who doesn't even have enough to feed his family,and under various debts taken on, to improve his crop.The soldier imagined those days when all of his village thought he was a derelict, because when the war didn't beckon him, he sat himself in the warmth of a foam chair, in the country library around a pile of books, that he touched, he leafed through every page, smelt its age, its ability to give, and dreamed of what could have been in it.Yes, serving his country had left him no time, for alphabets and education.Toys and the little pleasures of learning.They all laughed at his way to compensate this, to imagine and submit to the autistic demands of his existence, which flowered during his lonely days in a town of people who thought him no more than a man who lifted guns and protected his motherland, an unskilled servant who fought to fill the empty stomach of his downtrodden family of sisters and drunk husbands.
But it was all, now ,a distant dream, an illusion that made him bitter, something that he didn't need, as nature already was manifesting its bitterness into his skin, corroding through the lil layers of his manly hide.
As he took his fifth step since the beginning, he felt like a man, who wasn't so, because he couldn't give to his wife, what he bore in him, the white of his existence.He was infertile.
The soldier couldn't walk his sixth step, the serpent coiled around his spine, was tightening its grip, the doctor in the army base camp had warmed him to take care of his back, it burned and fussed, like the steam engine of a billowing train.
His nerve was the serpent.It gripped him and rubbed against his muscle, he wouldn't have known all of this, if he couldn't imagine.And the friction between these had created a raging fire, penetrating his leg, seering through every inch of skin, like the center of a bonfire, little, but the hottest, he collapsed in his path, and buried his back in the cold of layers of snow,he felt it, wet, the raging fire being quenched,the flames of pain in his back,seemed to succumb to the misty stiffness of ice.As he sank his back deeper and thrust it in frustration, into the snow,all he felt was the pain of a higher being, a pain, that didn't cause unrest, a pain that the body enjoyed, as he felt of the mighty jolts through his veins, quickly numbing like the wheels of a train applying pressure on the rail tracks and it lifting up after the passing by of the vehicle, his veins felt the quiver of existence and then numbed.
He had stopped breathing now, the air was too cold, and it felt like his nostrils were bleeding, or maybe they were seeping plasma of life, as his blood had already been drained, through his broken leg.A peaceful pallor dressed itself upon his countenance, like the grace of a bride dressed to perfection.
He had already dug his own grave by pushing into the snow.Like a fluttering bird, shot down by a man impressed at his shooting skills, he had twitched and sunk into the womb of his mother.
And the raging playful blizzard covered the remnants of his uncovered body.
Ps: I wanted to write about my backache and the frustration it is causing me,I have an exam to give and I can't sit, yes, I shall go die on my bed now, for the millionenth time.
An empathy of sorts,like all of nature, together, echoed, their displeasure,mirrored his mind, maybe heart, that had seemed to freeze in the bitterness of arctic winter.
The pitch dark of the forest, enveloped by pure pallid snow, in its virgin appeal.
Walking through Serbian land,in footsteps forcefully dragged through the flurry on nature's disposition.
His foot sank, every time, he tried to take a step,forward,the snow engulfed his ankle, holding onto it,trying hard to make his numb toe,feel, that peeped through the torn leather of his foot.But the sanguine in his body, had a mind of its own.Just like he had drifted from his battalion, that was now a part of one's most feared question to life, its gift, after the passage of defying victory, like gravity without anything to prove its existence,buried in layers of the soil, the putrid of rotting carcasses covered by the white angel of nature,nullifying the stench of blood lost in a fierce combat against an undermined and undiscovered enemy.The Landmines planted skillfully by their adversary.Blown into tiny shards,one with the tiniest particulate embedded in the ground beneath.A gift for exhibiting their divine, unquestionable love to their motherland, as they marched without any strategy, and he pleaded them to wait and formulate, but youthful vigor and undirected hate, combineered by their fateful existence bereft of even wild berries that nature seemed to have made unavailable to them, to punish them
and teach them that if they shall be empty headed, they shall have to go empty stomach, also.
He dragged his bleeding foot, that left a trail, like a raped virgin, running away from the very place she lost her guarded possession, not because she wants to run away to a new life, but because she wants to run away from her old.
Run far away into oblivion, with a heavy head and maybe a bastard in her, she flits like a fish out of water, seized by a paranoia of an epileptic, she runs.
He was running too, only inside his head, it felt like a world in its own.
The blood drained from his limbs, his face had already merged with the flush that winter painted, all around him, but he felt not one bit, not cause he was strong, not anymore.
It was cause he decided he wanted to be weak, to succumb and choose to not feel.
Or maybe there was no option anymore.As he fought the enemy within himself, he felt a shooting pain, steering through his spine, like a serpent had encoiled around his back, he felt, his ears twitched in the delight of his skin and its thirst to feel,his bloodshot eyes, forced a tear to seep through the ends of his eyelashes and hit the dry of his skin, that seemed to withdraw to this unaccustomed wetness and suddenly, he realized that his denial to feeling, and his question about not being so, were all proved wrong.
There was too much to feel, physical pain that manifested itself in various parts of his self, like a famine hit motherland that was infertile.
His body had been plagued by locusts after bearing a weak, cheap fortune of crops, because the land could no more nourish anything, not even itself.That is how his body felt.
The plight of a distressed farmer who doesn't even have enough to feed his family,and under various debts taken on, to improve his crop.The soldier imagined those days when all of his village thought he was a derelict, because when the war didn't beckon him, he sat himself in the warmth of a foam chair, in the country library around a pile of books, that he touched, he leafed through every page, smelt its age, its ability to give, and dreamed of what could have been in it.Yes, serving his country had left him no time, for alphabets and education.Toys and the little pleasures of learning.They all laughed at his way to compensate this, to imagine and submit to the autistic demands of his existence, which flowered during his lonely days in a town of people who thought him no more than a man who lifted guns and protected his motherland, an unskilled servant who fought to fill the empty stomach of his downtrodden family of sisters and drunk husbands.
But it was all, now ,a distant dream, an illusion that made him bitter, something that he didn't need, as nature already was manifesting its bitterness into his skin, corroding through the lil layers of his manly hide.
As he took his fifth step since the beginning, he felt like a man, who wasn't so, because he couldn't give to his wife, what he bore in him, the white of his existence.He was infertile.
The soldier couldn't walk his sixth step, the serpent coiled around his spine, was tightening its grip, the doctor in the army base camp had warmed him to take care of his back, it burned and fussed, like the steam engine of a billowing train.
His nerve was the serpent.It gripped him and rubbed against his muscle, he wouldn't have known all of this, if he couldn't imagine.And the friction between these had created a raging fire, penetrating his leg, seering through every inch of skin, like the center of a bonfire, little, but the hottest, he collapsed in his path, and buried his back in the cold of layers of snow,he felt it, wet, the raging fire being quenched,the flames of pain in his back,seemed to succumb to the misty stiffness of ice.As he sank his back deeper and thrust it in frustration, into the snow,all he felt was the pain of a higher being, a pain, that didn't cause unrest, a pain that the body enjoyed, as he felt of the mighty jolts through his veins, quickly numbing like the wheels of a train applying pressure on the rail tracks and it lifting up after the passing by of the vehicle, his veins felt the quiver of existence and then numbed.
He had stopped breathing now, the air was too cold, and it felt like his nostrils were bleeding, or maybe they were seeping plasma of life, as his blood had already been drained, through his broken leg.A peaceful pallor dressed itself upon his countenance, like the grace of a bride dressed to perfection.
He had already dug his own grave by pushing into the snow.Like a fluttering bird, shot down by a man impressed at his shooting skills, he had twitched and sunk into the womb of his mother.
And the raging playful blizzard covered the remnants of his uncovered body.
Ps: I wanted to write about my backache and the frustration it is causing me,I have an exam to give and I can't sit, yes, I shall go die on my bed now, for the millionenth time.
3.1.09
Brush your teeth with rum.
This is an old note I found.
Dated : 26 October
The crevices in the attic whispered through each, itself, soft rays of the blatant, passive aggressive moon light.An ice cold mist clouded the upper chambers of my nostril ,breathing was suddenly more tedious, so one gulp, one struggle epic story, of a murky quick sand pool drowning the hero, before glory crowned his soul,she took breaths through her mouth,like his brevity she swallowed in her universe,she nurtured his white soldier in her shelled egg, which collided in a thunderous applause, nature paused.
Her body felt like an amusement park.
Crawling, the thing was learning.
But the scent of damn blood, torn nerve synapses, loose flesh ends, dangling togetherness of a falling doll beckoned her into the room, pitched at the top of all other ransacked rooms.
Who will pick the morsels, lay them across her bare chest and taste sweat of fear in every bite,swallow.
Tear his limb and shove it up the bottle of ruby red liquid, a few toluene dipped kerchiefs and brain altering experiences.
Why introduce a new element in muddled up pools of confused hormones.Drain those vials and powdered paper fumes.
Make a mistake, make love to a stranger, a used god.
The abused death which took away the glory of a soldier dead, in her womb, he took birth again.
And she waited patiently in the cold underground dungeons, crawling the attics, finding her wedding ring,it was missing.
Her better half was blown into shards of dust, falling flat,moist blood on ice, inking it divine.
Coursing through crystalline pieces, a slow venom.
These alphabets. together a piece, embedded in you,infected are you?
Dated : 26 October
The crevices in the attic whispered through each, itself, soft rays of the blatant, passive aggressive moon light.An ice cold mist clouded the upper chambers of my nostril ,breathing was suddenly more tedious, so one gulp, one struggle epic story, of a murky quick sand pool drowning the hero, before glory crowned his soul,she took breaths through her mouth,like his brevity she swallowed in her universe,she nurtured his white soldier in her shelled egg, which collided in a thunderous applause, nature paused.
Her body felt like an amusement park.
Crawling, the thing was learning.
But the scent of damn blood, torn nerve synapses, loose flesh ends, dangling togetherness of a falling doll beckoned her into the room, pitched at the top of all other ransacked rooms.
Who will pick the morsels, lay them across her bare chest and taste sweat of fear in every bite,swallow.
Tear his limb and shove it up the bottle of ruby red liquid, a few toluene dipped kerchiefs and brain altering experiences.
Why introduce a new element in muddled up pools of confused hormones.Drain those vials and powdered paper fumes.
Make a mistake, make love to a stranger, a used god.
The abused death which took away the glory of a soldier dead, in her womb, he took birth again.
And she waited patiently in the cold underground dungeons, crawling the attics, finding her wedding ring,it was missing.
Her better half was blown into shards of dust, falling flat,moist blood on ice, inking it divine.
Coursing through crystalline pieces, a slow venom.
These alphabets. together a piece, embedded in you,infected are you?
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