I don't write much these days about how I feel. It feel futile, writing things down in a frenzy. I'm not 19 anymore. I'm more seasoned now. I know now what I feel at this moment will not last. I betray myself with my  coping mechanisms. But there's not much option anyway. I can't allow the floodgates to open, again.

I'm baffled at the insensitivity. I'm baffled at how only I am expected to understand. I'm baffled at how I am expected to let insensitivity be, that that's how it should be. It's been 2 years and I haven't yet been understood. I've tempered down, a part of me has realised the futility of vocalising. I think I naturally bypass certain things now. This wasn't how I wanted to be- but anything for peace, right? Silence for peace, because digging dirt out will always mean war. Let's just be pretty and happy. That's how it SHOULD be, after all. 

Fuck. There goes another dream.
And this time it was for the both of us. should have known it was too good to be true.

Kashmeer

I heard it snowed in Kashmeer.
Only that it wasn’t just ice
But blood.

Blood that drinks blood
And thrives on it.
Just like fire that feeds on fire
And grows.

The line in between is not a line at all
Not marked with a scale
Or laid down with twigs.
You know the border with the red dots on snow.
Of course
the reds are different.
How else would you know whose red it is.

It’s a wonder all that red and white
Hasn’t become a messy pink.
It’s a wonder how fire thrives on ice
Like the bullets in the snow.

The snow hasn’t melted with all that fire.
Not yet.

The graveyard is hardly a place to die.
It’s where the dead live,
not where the living die.

Meet  me.
Meet me on our first date, meet me where we first kissed, meet me where it all began to end.
Meet me.
Look me in the eye. Tell me you love me. Lie to me.
Meet me.
Tell me why you left. Tell me you pushed me away to make your way out.
Meet me.
Tell me you never loved me, you were in love with love. You were.
Meet me.
Tell me you were bored. That you needed the suffering. It excited you.
Meet me.
For once, tell me the truth.
Meet me.

What you ask from me is to not think. not think. They're terrifying words if you think(lol) about it. Not thinking makes one complacent. Not thinking makes one insensitive. It stops you from feeling.

I cannot do that.
Tell me anything, but that.
Console me any way but with cliches.
Tell me anything but THAT.

For the longest time, betrayal will smell like stale alcohol, sweat and the cool breeze off the air conditioner. It will look at me with unblinking eyes from across the bed, giddy me into silence and scrape into my insides with its urgent claws for a very long time. It will leave angry red marks and look like a friend and the next morning and  for all the mornings after, it will still look like a friend. It IS a friend, and it's not betrayal, it's impulsive, and it's not anger, but affection. And there will be no words because these things happen, they happen everyday, they happen to everybody, hell people choose to betray, and this is mere infatuation and a random gesture. I am terrified of randomness, I need some order, I am craving for it right now. And I cannot talk to people because they are ballrooms full of other people and all I want now is a closet, a corner, a room to stay in. But I crave people too, people in their own corners maybe, only that it doesn't happen quite so often. There's too many realities to handle right now. 

Play boy from the hills

You.
The boy I wrote poems about,
you're an asshole.
I think all our muses
are really assholes
They wouldn't have been muses otherwise.

Anyway,
Boy from the hills,
you played me pretty well.
First with words and then with silence
And I didn't know what to do with the latter.

So when you waltzed back in
a fortnight later
I said goodbye, for you never understood
that I understood
that you played me.
And even as I write this
I feel so sad.
I am too old to imagine, but you were a puzzle
I wanted to complete.
So as much as I want to forgive you, I can't because
although i'm too old to imagine,
I'm not too old to stop what never began.

I can forget the boy who lik me
loves post rock and secret poems
who like me looks for love in blinding lights
and who, unlike me, leaves like a breath.

Give me time, boy.
I'll forget you well.

The girl at 2

That girl
With hair like a storm
black cloudy waves
and a face like the sun
scorching angry round.
twirls a black stick
at 2 every night

Dips it into my world
and
sips me in
into
Technicolour blasts

And I see her go
at 2.30
through smokes
of
yellow and black
fading iridescence

I hadn't done anything like this before.
it'd been six years, three boyfriends- two year tenures with the
last one still running
and here i was
on an almost blind date
with a guy i barely knew.
a neighbour, a fellow english enthusiast
dreamy eyes, stick thin
smoker.
that's all i knew of him.

until
a planned coffee date.
only that we didnt really have coffe
and i dont know if it really was a date.

but i do know
that among the 7 fuckin billion people
in the world
i met one more.
a stranger from the hills
who showed me his scars
and let me in
for one hour
into the life of a boy
lost in a huge huge city.

I want to write to you
And tell you that when
At times you feel like you'll break
with another breath
when you melt into the sheets
like a stubborn stain
and feel the waves on you
drowning, stifling-
screaming SOS under water comes out as just
another air bubble
full of vacuum
and no words
When you're knocking at hearts
fifteen fucking thousand kilometres away
and you feel a million laughing eyes
breathe down your words
burying them deep
down your throat chest belly and finally your toes
until you finally wriggle them off
with the flip flops you wear everyday
and you leave them behind on streets and in rooms
words you breathe out in
night skies or smoky rooftops
Looking like invisible air bubbles
silent, and full of vacuum.


I want to write to you
your words
that got backspaced into eternal oblivion.

You win.
every time i write of you
you win.

All I looked for
When I came here
Was a piece of the sky I could call my own

My matchbox room in Vijaynagar
Looked up at a sky
That looked nothing like it

Here in Indravihar though
I have a sky of my own
Bigger than I am used to.

Some days I feel so fragile
I feel like I'll break
If I take another breath.

The sky doesn't help then
Neither do you.
Nor does anything as such.

But that night
When the distance finally invaded us
All that saved me

Was the steady glow
Of a cigarette
In the verandah opposite mine.

Crushed

So there you are,
Teasing and enticing
a hot pink square
by a circle of green

my first crush in delhi

my first crush at 22
you make me go all dizzy
like most crushes do.

i see you everyday
in red bricks and hearts
through smoky distances
but you seem galaxies apart :(

i feel all elizabethan
writing love poems for you
when halfway across the city
you have no fucking clue

but the first thing i noticed
on the first day i met you
was that your eyes were like storms
and that's the best i can do

for storms drive me crazy
with their madness and their calm,
and if that's just what your eyes did,
i can't even imagine... damn.

we haven't talked much
i believe i'm too shy,
but somehow, for some reason,
i don't want to try.

this seems it,
though unfinished and cruel,
but without any distance,
there'd be no pull

so stay away from me,
so i can love you from afar
but maybe sometime,
we can go out for dinner?

There has to be a channel,somewhere. It isn't a person, I realise that now.  It isn't you.
Then who? Then what? Where should i go?

Reading through my past posts, I've realised that I have been behaving like the cataclysmic dump of pessimism I'd so wished to evolve from. I have, in most ways. Certain fragments of bitterness are at times, due to lack of better places, hurled out on this little secret shelf of mine- but it'll be terribly unfair to present my life as a single experience of a love affair gone wrong.

I'm in love. Delhi has begun to feel like home- the wind seems familiar, the roads don't seem too strange, and the people don't seem so alien anymore. Now that I have a place in this city I may call my own, it almost-almost feels like home. I believe I've found my people, and much to my joy, I have reunited with my moments of solitude. Life doesn't seem like a long drawn out sigh, neither does it feel like a race I'll never finish. It's spaced out, just as I wanted, doing just the things I wanted to do, reading just the books I wanted to read, just the way I wanted to read them. Memories are forming pictures- and that's how I always love them. And yes, I'm terribly,terribly in love with a boy who might be the sweetest little one in the world, He looks out for me in his own way-which might be awfully different than what I was used to, but damn, does he love me. We're careful,but delicate-sensitive, but relaxed-emotional,and yet,practical. I admire him. I may sound like a teenage schoolgirl gushing over her new crush- but I am in awe of him, It's been two years, and we've had the ugliest fights where everything seems incredibly futile, but if anything, I've learnt to be patient, I've learnt to give people a chance, and I've learnt that not all kinds of love are same, and hence, relatively immeasurable. But most importantly, he helped me slowly,and very very carefully, rest my faith in something I thought was so completely faithless. I will not place the burdensome responsibility  of being a savior on him, neither would I ever believe that I needed saving. But if I did- then he would be the one who did actually, save me. It's so incredibly heartwarming, that I turn into pulp everytime I really want to pen this down. Maybe three years down the line, things will change drastically-maybe this won't be the kind of love I'll subscribe to-maybe my kind of love will cease to work for him. But for now-I am happy, I am at times,ecstatic. I seldom have nights where I can't sleep because the fear in my mouth tastes like vinegar-or the bitterness eats me up into an icky green mess. I sleep well, like one in love with a beautiful friend,

I hope we last,K. I hope we do. :)

" 'Lets not forget that we love our mail-chains.
Lets not get rid of it, even if we break-up.
Cool?
Promise?''I do love our mail-chains. 

Won't give it up,probably, if we break up.. but then again,that depends.' "

It's been three years since.
I don't miss you. I don't love you either. I never can, anymore. But I'm waiting to be indifferent about you, about us.
You know what I detest? I dislike the person you are now- maybe you were always that person-I wouldn't know: but I BELIEVED you to be someone you showed me you were. And I can find absolutely no semblance to the person you are today. It's baffling- I can't seem to trust myself, then. And if I lose faith on myself-which is my greatest and only faith ever- what would I hold on to? I've let myself down in loving you. I still feel stupid.
Maybe I overdo it in my head- maybe I still give it too much importance- maybe it's a suffering I can't live without. But I want to, believe me. It's not you I'm just angry at,though. I think I'm mostly disappointed by myself.
I can't help but wonder at times- at times like this when I dare to open closed doors- how is your life now? which phone do you use? do you still wear that paint splattered jeans? do you still fight through nights? have you gone back to princep? but most importantly, does what we had matter to you? do you still think about it at times?