Cities Are Like Tattoos.

To Delhi <3

Another serenading suicide. Another trip to insanity. I hate this part of the city. The part that surrounds home. There are stories written in the wind. Memories are scattered here.

I walk on with a lonesome song blaring in my ears. I want to walk to those parts of home that trouble me, that madden me. Autos, blue buses rush past. I walk past the 'favourite chicken roll' shop, and then, pass that old red van. Noone knows what I'm thinking. Not even close people can guess that I'm constantly comparing myself to that girl in the picture postcard, whom I wasn't even supposed to find. I get flashes of the photographs I saw last evening. I create stories about that girl in my head. And wonder how this idiot wind with infinite memories could never ruffle her thoughts.

I walk ahead. I curse K on the phone who has kept me waiting knowing how this place torments me.

I want to purge myself off this city. Of certain people. Even if it leaves bruises, even if it leaves me empty with an unendurable void. I want to close the doors to this part of this city. I want that retrograde amnesia to continue. I want this city to be devoured by that Korsakoff's syndrome. I want to search for an Axis Bank ATM, pick up whatever money I have and run away where this city won't find me.

I'll walk you to wherever , gets you weakest in the knees.

I fall asleep earlywith half my stationery around my head, socks on the window sill, grip at the edge of a waking dream. What has this done to me- i wake up with a start at 4:44 AM to look for your words stuck somewhere in the telegraph line, hanging like pigeons dead from the shock of a spark,letters in a puddle hidden from sunlight.When i am in love  I quibble about the way you love, i smell my shoes in my sleep. I'm taking too many showers, im taking too much time to listen to a song, im taking too little into consideration and too much to heart.

Your moonshine glow is trapped in pieces of words pressed in the pages of my mind. It's something that you do with your kaleidoscope eyes. You have my sky in your eyes.. puddles of unspoken, unwritten words that create in rhyme our gossamer fairytale

 

 

I am a naked heartbeat, let it not be a daydream.

thats something I wrote when I was very high and would not have left the depths of my gay purple journal under normal circumstances. i just found it two days back,and i dont have any memory of having written it.but its here because you should know .

Just nothing.

Only if you could be me, now. there is nothing that i do not have. nothing. i have everything. everything that you, if you were not me, would be jealous of. everything that you, if you were not me, would have regrets about. everything that i hid from the world. everything. i have music in the folds of my skin, a plethora of words under my tongue and the rainbow in my eyes. noone, not even you, can take this away from me. yet, if you were never me, you would be a bead wrapped in envy and regret.

yes, only if you could be me, now. i have everything and nothing.


Goodnight.

Four feet on the ground , a head full of foliage .

 Fingers curled gently touching palm bottom thumb placed over forefinger: a skin telescope. Pretend pretend. Left eye closed and the right eye hurtling through infinite space the right eye slowing down and brushing against bird wing. Right eye riding bird back gliding towards mountaintop in search of nothing. Off back now spiralling through blue white air here there here there. Losing focus focus back the eye moves downwards into pits of history the core of the core of the core of the core. Nothing to see. Up again and down again and nothing to see anymore.

Spells like Spleen Spirit

I never learned how to arrange my face into that blank expression which makes you look like you belong there, anywhere, everywhere, even in the middle of a riot in Jakarta. Oh no. When I don't know what I'm doing , I look like I dont know what Im doing. When Im excited or nervous.And when Im lost , which is frequently , I look lost. My face is a transparent transmitter of my every thought.

The Wind Brews

As I suspected, I grow more and more inward than I am expected to. Home is living out of a suitcase, and life is only just reading and music. And I have a plan. Also, there is work. Tucked away is a sheaf of paper persons not even worthy of mention. And, some thrown away also. Fake and talkative. And yes, did I mention work? There is so much to do. So much to look forward to, and yet, so much to leave behind. So many to leave behind, in fact.

There was never an easier way to let go. Closure and work. The Formula, yes.

________________________________________________________________________________

-Nothing -Nothing at all -

His is one of those solemn situations where I decide to put into public view my thoughts on things without the fear of counter criticism. Without being brisk, isnt that the point of opinion anyway? John Rawls died responding to it, well, not exactly, two days post his decision to not do it. Makes one think about purpose of human existence, really. Even Sir Francis Drake for that matter, he did what he was born to do. Circumventing the earth on a boat (Or was it?) and to be the first one to do it is no jest. When one is too lachrymose to even mention what is bothering them, it isnt the sorrow really, it's lethargy. I was told that I should do exceptionally well, only to laugh at a few worms who value this intense garble of loqacious pretense. Here's another sunset down the toilet.

Moving on.

Jackson Pollock, I dont know if its just me, but I cannot fathom any artistic credibility in his work. The only thing that perhaps, I would attribute to his oeuvres is his novelty. I wouldnt be able to replicate those random strokes, nobody would. Americans, yeesh.

An art critic who came over to my house a few months ago, gave me a remarkable insight on how one happens to judge art, how strongly personal experience affects the way one even perceives it. It is very difficult to rid oneself of bias when it comes to giving an honest opinion. That one meeting really made me think about a lot of things that I wouldnt spare a thought to. American art, I feel is very opaque, dangerously bordering on insensitivity. Why, because if I place it in context to what Mr Chopra said to me, I would, in my naivity believe that Americans live in a stark denial of their past, as colonisers, murderers. A strange degenerate population, a society that has been surviving on its insularity, arrogance and self consumption to the extent that the rest of the world with its primitive problems seems negligible, a joke. Then again, Im sweeping an unfair generalization.


Now excuse me while I exhaust this joint under a moonlit sky whose vociefrous hues scream mine.