Rivertigo.

The beach, the alcohol, the shacks, the conversations, the madness, the solace...
it's calling me back.
And so I'm going back!

Even though I am in a lot of pain right now courtesy my damn period, I know for a fact that if there is anything that would be more epic than Goa in January 2010, it is bound to be Goa in December 2011.

A moment. Or two.

There is something about time that,
regardless of your activities (however good or bad), sucks the life force out of you.

Sleep deprivation isn't it. 

From random mood swings to the acceptance of the futility of life.

Point being, the loss of the last ounce of energy in your system.

It's tragic.

Though, that period of sheer misery ends somehow
and you magically continue to still exist.

Driven by natural instincts, you turn to alcohol.
Lots of it.
So much of it that you swear at the end of each day that you're gonna give it up for good.

And then comes the next day.

Of course there are days of desperation.
Of Benadryll cough syrups. Of some other unmentionables.

Oh the sleep. 

The blessed motherfucking sleep. 

The sleep that refused to come to you for days together becomes your slave now.
You sleep with the hope of getting to sleep forever; it's that brilliant.

All of it, basically, is the quest for gaining your life back.

The energy you lose in monotony that doesn't matter to you.

Speaking of things that don't matter;
days of rendezvous with a chance lover. Or two?

But that is hardly the highlight of your week.

What is the highlight then, you wonder?

The loss of your wallet at a crowded local market, you think.

Or perhaps, that rather eventful  drunk auto ride with a loved one the other day.

How about him asking you out for drinks online without much introduction? Was that it?

Monotonous.

All of it.

You need your life back.

You need a release. 

You're out of alcohol. Sex isn't available.

You need imagination.

But you realize eventually, that all you need is probably yourself.

And that's when it happens...

On your favourite black leather couch, 

under the watchful eyes of Dexter Morgan and his accompanying commercials, 

you come back to life.

Twice.

Black.

A memory.

Face to face after years. Seven years to be exact.

I was dolled up in my being just as much as you were coupled in yours.

Exchanged greetings.

Ooh-ed and Aah-ed about how long it had been.

The father was present. He wasn't getting onto my last nerves, either.

Looking back, perhaps it was because you took over that spot for that moment.

Mum was inviting you and your  family over; your family of about two years?

Maybe it was just me, but I couldn't stand straight without feeling those ugly eyes on me.

No one knew what transpired in that room that morning.

No one knew about the possible murder of the person I could have been.

No one will ever know.

No one but us; you and I.

And we were not at the liberty to tell.

I call it Black.

No more.

No more stealing glances across a people filled room

No more  going to the moon and back on a broom 

Not that we care about the world ever, anyway

But now concerns for each other are also at bay
It's not like we completely change, or probably we do

Just, we don't always have each other to go to

No more praises, no more gifts

No more long conversations on a dreary shift

You don't tell me how I feel surreal like a dream

But that's not to say that you've stopped making me scream

Between the sheets and other places too

But we don't always have each other to go to

No more of 'us' being enough for sustenance

No more of sweet nothings for entertainments

There is nothing to worry about, though

We are just as great friends as we are foes

Only, once the two of us became one from two

Now we don't always have each other to go to

It's funny how romance gives way to reality, sooner or later.

I'm saving all my loving though;  am not yet a hater.

Day 10 - Your favorite superhero and why?

I like Superman.

I have never been crazily INTO comics/folklore etc, per se. But I like Superman. Always have. And I definitely like him over Batman.

Batman is no superhero. He's probably super-human, to say the least. He's so made- with his Bat-mobile and gadgets and Robin and even the fucking butler. Also, Joker has soo much more personality than him that it makes one wonder if he could have existed without Joker at all.
And then there's Superman. Takes off his fucking shirt and tada! he's out to save the world.
AND he flies.
Also, that Reeve dude was pretty hot too.
Not really my type though. Or is he?

baaaah! I don't want to take my University exams that start in two days...
Supermaaaaaaannnnn! Take Meee Awaaayyy!!!!

I have found my baby!

Quick Short Post.

I am hardly maternal. I cringe at the mention of kids and my face starts looking like a fucking veg momo at the idea of ever having to be a mother. Or at least it did.

Not that I have had a divine conversion and I am now even a tiny bit comfortable with the idea of shooting out babies from pee-adjacent areas. And yes, my idea of being the ideal mother still is adopting a pretty looking girl child of 5years of age when I am 30 and then make her exactly like me. But now I think the girl child can wait because I have found my baby!

I am overprotective about most of my people, yes. But with her, it's different. It's maternal. I feel funny even writing it. But it's true. With her small mouth and big hair, she walked right into my heart and how.

I'd be responsible for all your 'firsts' too. Always!!!

So because adoption is a huge long tiring process and also perhaps because I am getting my period soon and am feeling particularly gay at the moment,  I just want to tell you that I will make do with you, kid.

Forever. :)
I don't think I can let you out in the big bad world yet. I just can't. :( :(

And you should feel pretty cool knowing that you're probably the only kid in the history of humankind whose mother calls her up post midnight to say, 

"I think we should grow a penis, go to Manali and then write our names on the snow with pee."


I want to end this post with 'those three words', but I think I say them too much to you anyway.



Iloveyou.
Fuck! I don't think I can help it sometimes.


OkBye.

My Baby and I :')

It's Raining Men!

You know these men. You know them rather well. So much so, that you can scribble about them with eyes half shut and brain half asleep. It's past midnight, but these men- they're raining! No Pun Intended.

There are those who look you straight in the eyes, pick up your checks, drop you back home, insist on hugging you goodbye longer than necessary and tell you stories about how they get stoned every single day. Of course, they're kids. And you sort of have to stop to wonder whether or not it is illegal for you to even talk to them.

Speaking of illegal and age gaps, there are also those who should be doing all the wondering about them breaking some state laws when they talk to you. But of course, that's not their style. They are too classy and too bloody charming for such pettiness. They are the ones with the salt and pepper hair that just add more character to their ever so twinkling grey eyes, that are filled with one story too many. If only the slight complication of their marital status didn't exist, life would be so much simpler for you. Anyway, what would life be without people finding your mind sexy and hence wanting to fuck it all the time?

Then there's that bitch called comfort. And the sons of bitches; The Comfort Men. You know the comfort wont last too long because there are those who are probably almost their 'marriageable age' (whatever the hell that is!!!) and hence, well, they'd be married. Soon.
However, the brothers of these happen to bump into you ever so regularly of late. You wonder if that's a sign or just one of your many bad judgements from too much alcohol.

Now that comfort is out of the window, you might want to settle for 'compatibility'. Oh yes, they are completely different phenomenons. Compatibility is more on the lines of 'the one'. The apparent 'the one' and you wont end up together because it doesn't matter how much love/lust/passion (and all other ingredients that go in the making of  'the one'?) both of you may have for each other. What matters is that they and your friend have had sexual and love history together for some 2345686543 years. And even though they have managed to stay successfully 'broken up' for close to a year now, it just doesn't matter. SO ya. She wins. Not that this is a competition.

But if you had to compete, would you compete with the girls that those are in love with for 'emotional support'? You know, those men who make you pretty happy when they're around but don't matter when they're not? They are the ones who imply 'dirty talk' all night, walk with you all through the chilly evening, buy you smokes and just when you think your hormones are going to get happy, they tell you about some 'girlfriend' (oh! they use air quotes!) in a foreign land. You, like a sane individual, argue that long distance relationships don't work because of lack of physical intimacy. They defend it by saying she's there for 'emotional support'. You then realise that they don't have friends, are probably sad and hence, every part of your soul tells you that the sanest move now would be to comfort them. By sticking your tongue down their throats. 

You don't.

It's raining men, indeed!

do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

amen.

Exams Start From The 24th.

Who has two thumbs, must study but gets drunk all the time instead?

Sigh.

This Winter...

The nights should stand still.

I like this feeling of being inarticulate. Words don't communicate too much, anyway. They are just there... incomplete. You know?
I also like arms. Just being wrapped around them. It's prettier in my head than it is in words. You know? Since, words don't communicate much, anyway? In strong arms. It sometimes doesn't even matter to whom the arms belong to sometimes. Yea.. it's probably slutty that way. But wrapped cozy, the sighs almost hurt. They burn.
I like 'tomorrow' and the fact that I seemingly know absolutely nothing about it.
If I think about it... like, really think-
If I were a dream, I would probably be made of silk.
Again, it's prettier in my head than it is in words.
You know? Since, words don't communicate much, anyway?
If I were a dream, I would dare you to dream me, you little stranger.
We should stay close...
Forget the world.
Lie next to each other till the end of time.
Blame our bodies for everything, even though it's the breath that gets most action.
Let's be soulmates.
Only for this winter...

Of course, the nights should stand still.

Boblipop.

You're like winters this year;
You're Almost Here.

:) :) I start smiling like a fool right about now.

October.

"I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."

October is my favourite month of the year. The fact that it is also my birthday month has very little to with my undying love for this time of the year. But  I am pretty glad that I was born and all; but that's another story. Octobers are special.

 

All my life I've been a part of 'Team Winter' and with October is when starts the anticipation of  the beautiful foggy winter mornings and the chilly dark nights. Is it just me or is this time of the year particularly about a lot of 'firsts' of all kinds? Maybe it's just me. But it's the first time I was born, so I would like to believe my argument  holds some serious ground. October is also when people come back to you. Only to leave again, of course. But then, how would one know happiness if one didn't have pain to compare it to? 

 

Also, October Always Brings Love. One needs fair amounts of alcohol, sex, experiences, friends and escapades, not necessarily in that order, to realize that it's not love everyone is so crazy about; but the sheer idea of it. As harsh as it may sound, love makes you miserable. The idea, however... <MustStopSmiling>

 

Anyway, Guess Who's Birthday It Is Todayyyy??????????????? :) :) :) :)

 

     

 

The One With The Heart.

Yes, he's loud and fun and social and has all the other attributes that might make people associate the 'buddy' like quality in him wherever he goes; but I can tell it's not true. Underneath his layers of humour, painfully pathertic jokes and drastically different hair/beard styles, he's a greater person. I met him three years back, I think. We had to transgress through the  heirarchies of relationships:
From being my best friend's friend's boyfriend, he became my friend's boyfriend and eventually my friend. And what a wonderful feeling that is! To be his friend. Sure, you think it's all 'buddy' like.


I am not to sure of what time of the year or our lives it was and I have never ever spoken to him about it. Hell, I don't even remember the exact incident. And hence, I am almost certain that he would have no memory of it whatsoever. But it had something to do with my father; when things were especially painful with him. It was a time when I hadn't reached my current state of blissful indifference with him. But I digress..
My friend and I. We were at the usual shady smoking spot of  ours where Army kids socialize and always let civilians like me feel all 'group-y'. I said something about the father to him out of pent up frustration and I have no memory whatsoever of what he had said back to me. But I do remember no one else having made me feel as much better as he did that one evening.
And that's when everything changed.
He wasn't the little kid everyone cracked him up to me. He was a man.
A man who completely wronged his supremely ironic nickname, 'Nanha'. He is over 6', to say the least.


 You know how stories precede people and you end up forming an opinion of a person based on those stories? He is one such with the bag of stories. Not that I judged him earlier 'cause I know what carrying past baggage is like.
But over the years, with and without all his fuckups, he epitomizes courage for me. He has seen enough, felt enough, done enough; good and bad. He's minus manipulations, I feel. He seems to consider them way too trivial for his taste.
He's the friend. He'll be there.
He'll crib and make your life hell when you may not be that regular with your calling/texting/keeping in touch routine, though. But, he'll be there.


He has, just like all of his counterparts, a girlfriend, loving parents, money, car, bike, permissions, sense of humour... the works!
But there's that one little thing that sets him apart;
He's the one with the heart.

Getting Over People. 

What can I possibly tell anyone about it that hasn't already been told? So I'm not even going to try. Only, I thought for a long long time that you never get over people. But now that I am some years smarter, or so I would like to believe, I know that the 'getting over' bit is hardly the pain; 

it's the 'getting rid' bit. Isn't it true? 

You just can't get rid of people; long after you're over them, they'd still somehow always find a way back into your life from time to time and cause turmoils: happy and/or sad.

And no. I just don't mean the conventional hetero/homosexual relationships. Even with friends. And foes.

Also, is it just me or is the whole 'Friends With Benefits' rubbish almost always 'Not Friends Only Benefits'? Like, after years of believing that what you have is special and cooler than what most might have because you're so comfortable with one another in more ways than one, you find out that when you meet with your clothes on, you don't have jackshit to say to each other. You're Not Friends. You just liked to believe you were. I'm not to say if that's a good thing or bad. I'm just saying it might happen. 

It happens.

But that's hardly the point. The point, if at all there is one, is that of smell. The fragrance. 

I don't do it a lot but I associate most people from my childhood with their distinctive smells. Even my father, for that matter. When I was as high as his knees, I would go to his clinic room with my dirty bare feet just to annoy him; ever so lovingly back then, of course. And then he'd lift me in his strong 'daddy arms' and wash my dirty feet in the sink while making lame jokes in Bengali. I remember how the room smelled. And he.
Childhood is an awkward period, if you ask me. You end up remembering strange things.

The smell stays.

Growing up, I ran around happily with my red-painted nails, going off to places I wasn't supposed to be in, flaunting my cargo pants in front of people I wasn't supposed to meet and secretly smoking substances I wasn't supposed to know about. And that's when I met him. And then began the  most-fucked-up-relationship in the history of the most-fucked-up-relationships. All is almost gone now even in memory; all but the memory of his smell. His own smell- of his skin- that I remember distinctively from back in the day when he'd cuddle me, to say the least. It's not gone; the smell. It's changed.

I wouldn't recognize him in the dark.

So we just keep the lights on now. 

It's more fun that way.

The Scarlet Letter.

One shouldn't give out too many chances of being called Freud's wet dream. One should just smoke one's n-th consecutive cigarette post one's third glass of the rather strong Long Island Iced Tea and be in the corner.

But that's the trouble with one!

One can hardly do with just keeping to the corner.

Midst some dancing nights, pouring alcohol, puffs of cheap drugs and some more magic, one might lose oneself. It's pretty darn easy too. One doesn't have to be excessively bright, talented, lucky, unfortunate, pretty, ugly or anything else to feel happiness or pain. One just needs to be human. 

But what does one have to be to experience guilt? One would think integrity; but that's not it alone. It can't be.

Then again, one laughs when one is called superhuman; for apparent levels of endurance. The laughter primarily roots from the simple fact that one knows that one is hardly sub-human, if anything. One is just generally calm in life. About life.

Ah. But I digress.

The being in the corner doesn't work with one. I don't see anything wrong with that. It isn't about the spotlight each time, one says; But is it ever about the dark? There's enough darkness in the world. One sees the dark and makes no guns about rubbishing the entire facade of light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of sticking to the cigarette post the LI iced tea, one shifts to other spirits. One would think that the memory of the night would bind together all the people who were a part of it. Only, the memory is vague; fading even.

But just like that, one sees the need of the Scarlet Letter to be etched on one. Forever.

Just like that, one sees everything change.

Now one lives with unnecessary flirtations, frivoulous smiles and some other unmentionables. 

But more importantly,

one lives with the realization that one should just smoke one's n-th consecutive cigarette post one's third glass of the rather strong Long Island Iced Tea and be in the corner.

And while one is at it, one should keep one's heart and mind closed;

along with one's legs.

I call this part of my life, 'Happiness'.

I know we may have had issues in the past, but I am over them now. Now you're a part of me; now, you're almost me.

I may have sworn on one beloved too many to cut you off from my life. Most parts of you at least, if not completely. But it's too damn hard. I don't know or understand why I must blog about you at all. Aren't you just another little inconsequential blob in my life? Aren't you that which ties me down, apparently? It might just be true, you know? That's what they tell me. 

And they're hardly ever completely wrong.

Ha. Of course you'd deny it.

I mean, why wouldn't you?
All you've ever wanted is for me to get entrapped in your shackles and deliberately offend my pride, among other things. You know what's stranger? That I let you. Each time, I do.
Most times, I do.

You might wonder why I let you, though. Let you get me into the state of absolute passion wherein my eyes roll into the back of  my head more often than not and I can only see myself addicted to all the things you do. It's a different high. To think you weren't an active part of my life only ten months ago, sends a chill down my spine; and then again, you do too... send chills down my spine. And other places. Isolated evenings, happy nights, peaceful mornings- you've been there. We've been through a lot together. Last year-end was  especially hard, don't you think? But then, there's something about you and I.

I am so lucky to have found you. Found or discovered? I don't know if one's more apt than the other. My dear, Old Monk with coke, you're special. Every sip makes me wonder what your lips might look like, had you been a real person. On my higher points, I think I try and feel the shape of your mouth on my lips. I don't think they're trouty, though. It's got to be Old Monk and not Bacardi, for me. Bacardi's got this vanilla-like after taste. Nothing brings more warmth to my heart than when my company orders my 'usual' for me. Just, don't ask me, order me my drink and let it repeat over and over. And then some more. You'd have me smiling at you for hours while I probably picture you naked.
Nah. I don't picture all my women naked. Only, the one.

I am not too appreciative of my heightened capacity for drinking suddenly. That's heavier on the pocket, of course. But ah! the bliss. I have had my most intelligent conversations under influence; with men, women and dogs. Not to mention, the nirvana achievement in the dancing. *insert orgasmic noises here*
All that, with one cigarette too many, It's fireworks!

Just you and I and everyone aside,
especially beer;
I call this part of my life, 'Happiness'.

Some people sing, some people fly.
I  apparently have conversations with their dog when I'm high.
"You've got a great life, you dog! Be my purple money now?"

One of My 45984598789 Drafted Posts.

I am so happy!

I want to jump up and down, grind against strange men, sing crass Hindi songs very loudly, shake my booty, eat lots, hug a white Labrador.. Not necessarily in that order, though. But, you get the drift, right?

Anyway, do you ever think about death?

The Girl With The Latin Tattoo.

She goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass palace. It's a palace, indeed; complete with snooty men and condescending women sipping spirits and the likes in their intimidating china . 

Yet, she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass place.

It's lonely at the top, apparently. She's not alone, though. She has her shiny glittery black shoes in place that click loud enough when she walks; but only if she wants them to. She walks in beauty with her smooth gait in and then of course they notice her. One can't miss her being, wrapped in layers of elegance which is, rather sexually, intertwined with some fear. The fear may surprise a few. Not me. It's but the fear of self. 

She fears going on a journey. She fears she might not make it.

Don't we all? Sigh

She thinks Heaven's gonna burn her eyes, even though, in reality, it's probably her eyes that would burn Heaven. Her teary eye gleam tender shades of denial. Denial doesn't do her any good. She knows that just as much as I do. Anyway, the journey she fears going on would've been easier had it been in terms of location, you'd think. Or even time, for that matter. But hers is a deeper quest. I think it's trust. 

In her naivety, she trusts.

If only she knew she is stardust. As precious.

Also, ad astra per aspera — that's her fate. She just doesn't know it yet.

She's probably caught up and busy.

Busy because she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass palace. It's a palace, indeed; complete with snooty men and condescending women sipping spirits and the likes in their intimidating china . 

Yet, she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass place.

Food For Thought.

Don't you just love food? Like, love it more than anything else?

Well, I don't mean all the time. I, for one, have phases with my food cravings. I would like to believe that I have a generous appetite, to say the least. But most of the friends I eat with may beg to differ. Nevertheless, hungry or not, food is spectacular. Magical, even. And healing, of course.

The smell of garlic and chilly as it makes that crackling sound in heated butter is bliss. Add to that a little flour, milk, oregano and chilly flakes and you have the perfect white sauce for a yum pasta. And mushrooms. And cheese. Oh! Cheese. It's milk's leap towards immortality. Is it just me or does it make the world around really happy and musical? Just like in the movies. It's nostalgic too; reminds me of chaotic Sunday mornings of about year 8 of my life when my mum had the time and will to make pizzas for me and my friends with little cubes of Amul cheese. Amul cheese and tomatoes and garlic and chicken chunks and different coloured peppers with some seasoning. I remember feeling fancy because we were the only people I knew who got the fancy peppers in red and yellow, apart from the regular green. Peppers, if eaten right, can be a delight in its own. Crunchy peppers of all colours, crunchier lettuce leaves, onions, smoked chicken and dollops of olive oil along with some white gram and creamy dressing; toss it together, add some white feta cheese with it and some lemon zest and feel good about life. And then they say, salads are boring. I loathe salad of any kind for the simple reason that they're too..errm..healthy. But I humbly make an exception here and there. The sight of bacon and it's glistening body wrapped around cheese is mouth watering. Then there are the charmingly wafer thin ham slices which make the otherwise mundane bread rather colourful for snacks of all kinds. I am a huge fan of sandwiches. Anything between bread somehow rises up in my edibility radar. I think the simple cucumber sandwiches for tea, though are prodigies of the British rule, are highly underrated. The buttered slices of uncooked bread slices with thin-sliced cucumbers between them..ah! Slightly toasted and slightly buttered are my favourite form of bread with hard boiled eggs.

The use of chicken stock is always a delightful addition. Stock brought to a boil with coriander, ginger and garlic topped with appropriated dashes of vinegar and soya sauce makes me want to spend all my cold winter nights consuming it. I have never particularly liked the ever-so-popular momos, though. They're flour balls with a little chicken in them. But the fiesty red dip with it.. now that's the stuff! Talking about 'the stuff', Indian herbs. spices and food habits in general take the heart away. Minus the burps and its cousins, of course. The cube of butter melting over a hot parantha makes me want to cry with joy. That, with pickled carrot and sourish yogurt; that's the breakfast of the hills here. Sigh. The chicken curry with its overdoses of garlic and garam masala is extra terrestrial in it's being as it is spicy and full of heat yet humbling and gentle. The Butter Chicken is elevated taste, to say the least. And the kababs and tikkas; each melt-in-the-mouth bite can make one ponder upon its hours' marination in asafoetida (heeng), curd, cream etc. The delicacies of the tandoor are a personal favourite, especially when they are served with 'salad' (pronounced 'sa-laaaad') that comprises round sliced onions and fresh tomatoes. Tomatoes with basil is a treat, isn't it? Tomatoes and basil steeped in extra virgin oil and lemon zest - a go-to curry. Another go-to for me is definitely mac and cheese. Of course, alfredo fettuccine/penne is the adult's mac and cheese. However, nothing beats pizza. Nothing!
Nothing but potato wedges dipped in mayonnaise. 

Sigh.

I think I'm going to have a food orgasm. And I've only just written all this down.

Rachel- "What would you give up, sex or food?"
Joey- "Food..No, Sex..Food..Sex..Food..Sex..OH GOD, I DONT KNOW, I WANT BOTH, I-I WANT GIRLS ON BREAD!"

- F.R.I.E.N.D.S

^Can totally empathize!

Don't you just love food? Like, love it more than anything else?

The Sex Face.

It's not possible.

No matter how much of a stud you are;

No matter how popular among friends and family and beyond you may be;

No matter how much of the world you may be ruling; it's just not possible:

You can't have a not-hideous sex face.

One would think that only a seemingly heartless woman with no feelings or respect whatsoever can think or say something like this. But it's true.  The Urban Dictionary  defines Sex Face as 'The stupid ass face you make leading to busting a nut'. It's exactly that - A Stupid Ass Face. Once one is over the frills and thrills of making out and sex, in general, does one realize that the sheer expression while at it is hilarious, to say the least. 

That one fine day when one probably booty calls not for the purposes of hormonal satisfaction particularly but because one just wants to experience the feel of one's new pair of denims being pulled off for cheap thrills and hence the focus on the action is not completely enthusiastic. It is then when you're struck by enlightenment about the glaring fact. And you'd think that something that's indicative of the pleasure quotient of the moment is going to be so much more interesting and/or interested looking. I get all the shut eyes and the cursing and the lip bites (?) and the curling toes, but the face on its own could be quite the buzz-kill.

It's a strange look encompassing everything from fear, disgust, repulsion, pain, agony.. basically, everything. Everything but lust. Or love. Or any of their versions.
I, for one, am appalled and probably slightly amused.
One laughs, as much as one thinks is appropriate, at a guy's sex face and then enlightenment strikes again; one then thinks of one's own possible sex face. Sigh.

......................................................................................................................

I have been told that the blog contains more than necessary sexual content. I have never argued that notion with too much enthusiasm or effort anyway. Nevertheless, too much sex didn't kill anyone, now did it? Ooo. I think it did.
Anyway, I feel the need to mention my favourite IITian and the most condescending person I know of, here. He is a proud owner of an awesome but almost dying blog. Also, he thinks yours truly may be a sex addict- which is absolutely false! He is in Hong Kong at the moment. And sad. And alone. And sans any sex. 
And yet, I am the one who might be missing him a little bit. EWW.


P.S- Just for the record, The Sex Face post has not, in any possible way, been inspired by his beautiful face. True Story.

Some Advertising.

Ooo.. You know what you SHOULD read?

1) THIS

Also, there is this super cool E-magazine that goes by the name of Whackk, where yours truly is a regular contributor.
Hence, you should check out this and this, which were up for the month of June.

Some publicity never hurt anyone, now did it?
Even though I feel leetle cheap for the advertising, I have my reasons.

That'd be all :)

That friend.

We all have that friend. Well, most of us do.

That friend you'd meet when you are way into the prime of your adventurous streak.
That friend whose ass you had to cover each time they screwed up.
That friend who'd get suspended with you back in school for two weeks;
and then some more.
That friend who'd be a proud member of your back bench-er association.
That friend who'd go pick up a fight with the girl who called you names.
That friend who'd run away from home and live with you.
That friend whose mother trusts you to be the one to put some sense into them.
That friend who'd be an excited little blob when you make them bunk school for the first time.
That friend who'd write you love chits for no reason.
That friend who'd always make you want to go out of your way to protect them.
That friend who'd take a million pictures with you, without occasion.
That friend who'd be part of the 'people-you-can-never-speak-to' clan before they became That Friend.
That friend who'd spend all their summer evenings talking to you.
That friend who'd always pretend to be equally concerned when you'd fret over your potential balding.
That friend who'd often seem like an extension of yourself;
an unhygienic extension. But an extension nevertheless.

That friend with whom you just stop having anything in common with after a point.
That friend with whom the lack of commonality seizes to bother after a point.

We all have that friend. Well, most of us do.

That Friend who picked out the Red for you.

Dear Ryan,

Do you remember the time when we'd dress up and pretend to be movie stars, pop stars.. rockstars?

Or the time when we'd draw out little story boards on paper for Our version of the movies we didn't like and those that we did? 

Or the time when we'd use deo bottles as mike and sing songs of love with such passion?

That was the plan, right?

Do you remember the bizarre things I'd tell you?

I'd tell you how I was not going to do the whole long-gown thing for the red carpet. I'd tell you how I was going to show up in leather pants with pointy red heels that would bring out my ass, along with the colour of my eyes. I'd tell you to wear a plum blazer with baggies, for some reason. I'd tell you we'd make a statement. They'd think we are lovers. But we'd never clear the air when Simi would call us for a rendezvous, or even Oprah; because, 'lovers' didn't do it. 

"Just because we're barely 10 doesn't mean we don't feel as much", you'd tell me.

Do you remember the bizarre things you'd tell me?

You'd tell me how we'd walk into a restaurant and people would stop eating to witness our grand entry. You'd tell me how each of our many moves was going to be as precious as timeless art. You'd tell me that we weren't ordinary. You'd tell me that we were different; we were magic! You'd tell me that we'd make our way through the very expensive restaurant, take our seats and lose ourselves in conversations; conversations not about the work that's got us all that we have, but conversations about us. You know? Because we'd still be the humble souls in touch with our roots. 

"You'd still just order cheese pizza and coke, idiot!", I'd tell you.

You'd never disagree.

We thought we'd be rockstars! 

We never saw any reason to believe otherwise.

We were certain of the applause we'd get. We were certain of the autographs we'd sign.

We were certain that we won't tour too much.
Only Paris, maybe.
And New York. And China.

I'd planned to trick you into touring Korea too. You never wanted to go back to your roots, apparently! It was always Delhi for you. And people would think a Korean kid has it hard away from home. 

Such grand plans.

Then came 2004.

You died.

I wonder what you'd think of me now?

Of my right choices or the sheer dearth of them. 

Of each smoke curl that escapes my parted lips.
Of my excessive drinking.

Of each time I say anything. Or think it.

You're probably a rockstar in Heaven now - however fantastically foolish that sounds - and you're probably building up anticipation in our audience about my arrival.

A good thing, that.

Anyway, I write this to tell you that'd someday I might get to see you again.
Someday I might get to touch you again.
Someday I might have your breath in sync with mine again.
Someday, that's not today.
Today, I found a picture of you.
I burnt it.
In my defence, you left me alone.
YOU DIED!

Sincerely,
Me.

The Slow Life.

I have always maintained how I hate travelling. However, that shouldn't be misconstrued to believe that I don't like taking a vacation. Only, my idea of a vacation operates on one sole objective : 

To Be Able To Lead The Slow Life.

I HATE the journey part in general, sometimes. After the talking, singing, leg pulling is done, I take high medications that make me sleep straight through about 10hrs of my life on the bus/train and other fancy modes of transport. I hate having to get up in the morning to go out trekking or sight-seeing or some such. Vacations are meant for chilling; for long baths, breathing, sleeping, lazing around, getting high, eating -- C.H.I.L.L.I.N.G.

I seem to be the only person getting that. Anyway, having gone most of my life being used to getting my way, I find my ways of 'chilling' even when I go out of the city with my tourist-like-travel-crazy friends. Yawn.

So I really have nothing substantial to report or discuss or post for the simple reason that I am still in the flow of The Slow Life from the hills. But of course, it would be a little silly on my part to think that the hangover of the same would last long. What is even more of a buzz kill is the sudden outburst of one million albums of the trip. I think pictures of me are going to take over the damn Facebook and humanity will be restored at last. Now I know how superhero(in)es are born. Even though they made me walk paths I wouldnt even have looked at at because of their sheer height and angles, my little getaway was worth it. Now if only Delhi wasnt so fuckin' hot.

It rained yesterday though :)

Talking of pictures and my lack of substantiality, I leave you with nothing but a subtle toast to the trip that was, my inner peace that's going to run its course soon, the Slow Life and an almost-picture of self from the trip.

Of Funny Pants, Lots of Walking, Intoxication, Lots Of Walking, 'Joint' Accounts, lots of Walking, Yummy Eating, Lots of walking, Pictures, Lots of Walking, Monks (Old Monk and Otherwise), Lots of Walking, Hippie Love, Lots of Walking, Paradise Weather, Lots of Walking, People I Love, Lots of Walking, Butters, Lots of Walking...

Mcleodganj. ♥
Summer '11

Sexual Innuendos.

When you meet someone after really long, there's always this little void that exists between both parties. The void grows stronger with time. 

The void becomes strongest with sexual history...

"Hey... long time... How you doing?"

"Oh! Hi. I've been okay... you? Got yourself a car, I heard. Congratulations!...

........................................................

........................................................

........................................................."

Amidst the awkward conversation among other things, my forsaken tattoo decides to peep out from under my sleeve:

-" You gotta tattoo? You were never a tattoo person back in the day!"

Back in the day was when I was 15 and he was about 20.

-"Yeah... things change, right?"
*awkward laugh*

-"Show mee??"

-"No.. Be satisfied with just this. I'm not giving away the whole thing"
*trying to sound/look smug*

-"Not the whole thing, eh? Still?"
*smirks*

- :|

-"Haha.. I'll see ya around, kid? Been a while! Gotta hit the gym now. Bye"

-"Yeah..."
*smiles*

It's going to be  some summer.

Leaving On Jetplanes.

Here's the deal : Since the age of fourteen, each time I have liked someone enough to picture a happy future with him, complete with the cushions I want to buy for Our house, the person leaves. And no, I am not talking about a sad break up. Just magically (and tragically, believe you me!) the guy's geographical location would change. It's true! 

It started with Ryan, whom I lost to cancer. (RIP, you.)

Growing up with an Army circle had its flip side; the guy's Dad got posted out of Delhi.

This one time the guy's family had to move to Malaysia because the family without a father had suffered severe business losses.

And then when a certain 'he' was sent to a hostel in Chandigarh because he was caught by the father with a few traces of some innocent hash on him. 

Finally, my mother-of-all-complicated-relationships-in-the-universe guy had to move to the US for more than just a couple of months, when I was certain that he was the one I wanted to make some babies with.

I stopped falling in 'love' after that, for some reason.

Love or whatever the hell kids call it these days. 

I realized that maybe it's jinxed. It's the Universe's way of mocking my looking down upon the breed of 'long distance' relationships. It's true. I don't understand how talking on the phone and now Skype qualifies you to call what you have, a real relationship. I'm not questioning the love both parties may have for each other or the commitment. But I just don't buy the 'in a relationship' tag that they might choose to endorse even with their grand emotional turmoils.

Point being, I didn't do the whole love charade anymore. I did do all sorts of 'love things' though. With all sorts of 'lovely people'... just never with as much involvement, I guess.

Then last year came this blow of my confusion and subsequent dealings with my potential bisexuality; which ended very Very badly, might I add. I am still an all out supporter for one's sexual rights and choices. Only, some experimentations, like mine, don't end up like one might have played them out in one's head. 

Funny story, though. That, for some other day.

Anyway, during that 'phase' (?), I fed this obsession for this girl. This girl I love. 

As platonic as it is and as away from my cushion-buying vision as it is,
it's still love.

And hence, no points for guessing, she's leaving next month. For Bombay...

......................................................................................................................

So anyone out there who might be having any visa issues or some such, come!

Come and make me fall for you.

And before you know it, you'd have left for another land.

To those days.

This one is to those days that are like today.

When the futility of life doesn't bother me too much.

When I hardly prepare for the exam I am to take the next morning.

When I don't see the need to feed my only OCD, that is, bathing.

When I don't contemplate the miseries of my life or my worker-like feet.

When I don't get pissed with the world's happiness.

When I wonder why the use of handcuffs as kinky doesn't work for me.

When I want to get into bed just when most are getting out of it.

When I refuse to learn anything new and not only out of arrogance this time.

When I smile foolishly at the things I know are meant to last.

When I don't need each one of my smoke rings to say something to me.

When I don't mind when people don't take my insults to them personally.

When I understand my flaws and don't hate the idea of correcting them.

When I feel too lazy to even breath but know that it isn't laziness.

It's probably peace.

I am happy as a child, I think. 

Bring Me Flowers. Talk For Hours :)

I Was Always A Cool Kid :)
.....................................................................

Where the truth lies.

People lie because of their reasons. The reasons that make perfect sense to them, anyway. But the most common excuse for lying is because one 'cares'. I don't buy that at most times.

Then of course there's the great shield of the 'little white lies' that don't hurt anyone, apparently.

I'm no preacher who's going to go out of her way condemning lies and saying that she has never lied in her life; because that'd be a lie. All I am saying is, lying isn't cool and is so much harder than telling the truth. Also, how does one remember all the stories and little details that go behind backing up each lie? The sadder part is, most people I know don't seem to be taking as much offence about it. They see it as a part of life. 

I guess they're right too.

However, you know how there comes that one time when C really likes B and A is obsessed with B and you find A lying to B stupidly, in A's quest to keep B away from C?

As twisted as it is, C ends up feeling oddly at peace somehow. C likes the idea of C being important enough to cause someone to lie.

No points for guessing who C is.

Yes, it's me.

Us Sadistic Hypocrites...

Sigh.

Nerd Me.

How is it that even the cap of a stupid orange pen you're using to underline seems to be talking to you?

How is it that all your energies are channelized towards critically analyzing a wall?

Is it just me or does it feel like vacation period right when it is not supposed to?

Yes yes... yours truly is taking University Finals and chanting mantras in her sleep to get average marks. All my life marks have never mattered. They were always really just a number. Hence, to think for them to have gained such magnitude of importance before my last year in college is amusing, to say the least. 

Anyway, I took my first exam and by the grace of the Universe (and the University?) it went quite well. 

...And there were four!

You go around with no care in the world. You meet people, chill, dance, get high, love, laugh, eat, shop...

Also, there are other days when you feel this urgent need to strangle somebody. Sometimes yourself.

Over the years of your (rather unfruitful) existence which is filled with uncertainties of all kinds, you somehow manage to sail through just right. You learn your lessons, you pick up broken pieces, you learn to smile more often than not.

All in all, you realize that, contrary to popular belief, life is pretty long. And annoyingly so, sometimes. Couched in it's glory of bitter sweet moments, it's unreal how easy life is. 

So easy that it makes you laugh.

And then of course, it's exam time again...

The Painting of the Lions

There's an Aesopian fable of 'The Painting of the Lion'.

The lion complains about a picture showing a man killing a lion and suggests that if a lion had painted it, the result would have been different.

It is all about perspective and authority, is it not?
I am not questioning authority here and it shouldn't be denied when it's true.
However, authority must make itself accountable to the realities of experience.
The 'truth' of any picture often has more to do with the prejudices and predilections of the painter than the 'reality' of the subject.
This complexly mutual relationship must always be duly noted.

Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me...

I have nothing to write, really. Nothing relevant, anyway. But then again, do I ever?

It's 2:38am.
I am wide awake.
Waiting to be struck by inspiration. Or lightening. Whichever comes first.

I'm so bored of being me. It's happened! After years of (almost) self absorption, I want to be P!NK. I see how it's an unlikely choice, but it's true.
Why? 'cause she's strong.
How I envy strength! It's not like I don't have enough of my own.
Only, mine is purely feigned.
What is it about strength that makes it so bloody hard to have?
I would kill to be that girl who walks with her head held high, with her kohl-ed eyes carrying a thousand dreams and her bag carrying her entire world.
Oh wait! I am that girl. Only, that-girl me is an illusion. A carefully crafted illusion for the world to believe.

I think I need love. And till the time love makes it to me, some great sex would be pretty darn good.

For now, I'm going to sleep.
Hoping that I dream about wings on my heels tonight;
about the tattoos I want etched on me;
about the people I want to hurt out of spite;
about him and his recovery;
not about my lack of strength.
For now, I'm going to be that girl who walks with her head held high, with her kohl-ed eyes carrying a thousand dreams and her bag carrying her entire world.
Only, she also smokes like a chimney for no reason, laughs way too much, has a mood swing installed in her backyard, lusts after money, daydreams about drunk dancing in three weeks and continues to be oblivious about all things important and is favoured by all things petty.

Current Favourite Picture Of Me. I'm told this picture 'tells stories'...

Good Night.

People. Places. Faces. Phases.~ @Life Scenes.

People fail to fascinate me. They're so damn predictable with their set manipulations, loves, dislikes...et al. It's boring, to say the least. Why can't people dare to do something out of the ordinary? No, I don't mean the kind that would make them jump off cliffs for adrenal rush, but just something un-ordinary, you know?

Not extraordinary, just plain un-ordinary. I'd always figured that being clones of one another all the fucking time could get tiring, mundane and just plain dull. Not to mention, demeaning. People are too easy to figure out now. 

I could kill for someone to come and sweep me off my feet with intrigue.

Anyone!

Places, for me, are memories. They're like scents. I associate them with people. Yes, that same species that fail to fascinate me, no matter how much of a chance I give them. I have never been a traveler; not even an armchair traveler. I don't go out of my way to explore locales or plan a trip to the hills with nothing but a backpack. My holidays are, preferably, more luxurious than that. More indulgent. Or the beach. Or anywhere not as physically straining.

A little sleep, lots of bathing, some drinks, a few cigarettes, a couple of joints, a night of crazy dancing, straight hair, beautiful clothes...

I need a vacation!

Faces, I believed, faded out the soonest from memory. I believed that for the longest time. It was hard to reconstruct someone's face in the head, if there hadn't been an interaction for a while. But that was back in day; the good old days. However, today is the age of the Facebook. Even if you want to forget some damn faces, it's too networked to ignore completely Anyway, faces shouldn't ever only be about appearances. It should tell stories; and not your appointments to a plastic surgeon.

Beauty is A virtue, alright. But should it be The virtue? 

If only we lived in a world of shoulds.

Real Life Is Boring.

It should have been a sitcom. It sort of is; only here everyone isn't witty and funny and everyone isn't constantly getting laid. Ah! Getting laid is important. I just don't want to reach that verge of wanting to stick (any)things up myself. Baaaah. Back to sitcoms; real life is like sitcoms. Whatever we do is like a scene from our 800season long show, called 'Life', is it not? 

I'm just rambling now..

Here I am, at 3:08am in the morning, in need of a change, some colour, happiness, June;

My phases.

At Life Scenes.

It's almost too late to sleep now. Neverthess, shall go try.

Night.

Just a thought.

Yours truly has been studying. Gasp all you want, it's true!
Studying and day dreaming about what life-after-University-exams would be. Siiigggghhhhh.

Anyway, I was just thinking, if I were to randomly stop posting on my blog, would anyone stop to consider that I might be dead? For real?
Like, how would anybody who reads my blog find out about my death?

Just A Thought.

“Everybody knows how to raise children, except the people who have them.”

Is it just me or is the 'parent-child' relationship sliiiggghhhtttlllyy overrated?

I'm not the least bit ungrateful for whatever they have done for me.
And I thank my stars each day for the mother I have.
But aren't most of these things their duties?

I am not feeling a wee bit cynical right now, no.
All I am saying is that parents tend get over each other over time;
and then subsequently, they get over their kids too. We all grow up, don't we?
Also, it is a little more than little hard to stay with the parents once you're over 15.
Or 12.

Bah.

Need A Prayer?

Someone once told me that my life's greatest tragedy would be each time I am elated beyond belief, but being an atheist, I would have no one to thank.

Bullcrap, I said!

However, it is close to a great tragedy when in all helplessness you seek a prayer but you don't believe in it enough for it to come true.

All my life I have counted on the Universe, if anything, to make things right for me; never a 'god'. We have way too many to choose from, anyway. It's the complexities that make it petty, I think.

The sought prayer is for someone I would kill to forget forever, but won't be able to.

It's a little strange how Facebook has become the link between lives; even those lives that were tangled together, to say the least, only a while back.

"Get well soon"; "Prayers for your speedy recovery"; "Heyy! Snap outta it, bro! We got partying to do! Get better now!!"....

I wasn't worried a tiny bit. I was trying not to be.

It sucks when you call him and his mother answers.

It sucks when the mother has always been fond of you and hence thinks it's okay to cry to you.

It sucks when she says, "Don't you know, Beta? It happened on the 15th..."

No! I don't know! How am I supposed to? We don't talk every hour of every day, anymore!

It sucks when you realize that you hardly have any common threads who'd have informed you any earlier.

It sucks when she tells you that he got hit by a car and it looks bad.

It sucks when you have this little voice inside of you telling you that he may have done this on purpose.

Whatever times I had met him in the last three month, he had been stressing over the girlfriend. Yes, even to the extent of wanting to kill himself.

If I know him at all, I know he's capable.

This is not the best early-morning-news I could have got.

I sit here, with my lack of faith firmly shaken, seeking a prayer.

The 'god' hasn't ever really listened to anything I have had to say... 

So ya. That sucks too.

Get Well Soon, You :'(

Live.

Strawberry Fields.

.... Annnnnd is back :D

Anyone missed me?

No? NO? NOO??

Ok :|

I've been at peace for a while now.

I'm not cynical about my existence unnecessarily anymore. It's good, my existence. Everything is sort of falling into place, almost automatically. Here, 'everything' really means 'everything emotionally'. There are no hang ups for now and that makes me very happy.

I am not a patron of clubbing nights anymore. It's boring, the charade. However, I do want to dress up and dance. Just not grind with strange men. Not even dress up, really. Just Dance!

I am not bothered by most people now. I don't pull my hair out each time anything minutely human ticks me off. I ignore. They say ignorance is bliss. I am in no mood to argue that.

All this and so much more;

I am not bound by nothingness.

I am free.

What makes a person dubious?

I think it's a machinery. A machinery that validates the fact that what you see in people is a mixture of what you want to see in them and what they want to show to you. That, I think, is the root of all doubts.

Completely unrelated, I know. Nevertheless.

All the things I had been running away from have caught up with me. 

So now, I am free! I want to run around in my hot pants shouting that!

If only it wasn't this fuckin' hot...

"Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields.

Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about.
Strawberry Fields forever."

Stochastic.

I am majorly disoriented, of late. 

'Majorly' is not a real English word. It's slang for 'extremely'. 

Even 'mentality' isn't a real English word. It's like I have been sold a lie.

It sucks to be sold lies.

It sucks, even more, to be told lies.

Lies have never really been my 'thing'. 

It becomes too much to remember; too much of a responsibility.

Responsibility has never been my 'thing'.

It's a funny word, 'thing'. It's convenient, for starters.
Also, it puts across your point to the disinterested.
It's used randomly without cause or center.

The central alignment?

I think it's my quest to find the center. In life, generally.

This French philosopher dude named Derrida had interesting things to say regarding the center.

He said to define the center, one must define what is not-the-center. 

It works on the concept of the 'other' being responsible for identification and definition of an individual. 

Like, what is Black?

That, which is not white.

White is intimidating for me. It's too pure for my liking. Too fucking spotless.

It doesn't have stories to tell. 

It doesn't seem like it has stories to tell;

that's what is intimidating. The 'seeming' part.

It's a bloody appearance.

Appearance, we're all obsessed with.

I know I am. 

And I'm not even talking about the physical one. I'm more on the lines of the damn 'masks'.

The masks we wear are probably lots of fun.

They should be.

Otherwise, I see no reason for us all to be wearing them all the time.

It's all about the masquerade balls.

'Balls' are demeaning. No?

Men may jolly well debate about the presence or absence of 'balls of steel';

 but us women?

'Guts', 'Courage'... far more gender neutral.

Guts over Balls, any day.

Days pass me by like a blink of the eye.

It's got to be something to be this unproductive for days together.

'Together Forever'-- I used to love the super corny phrase.
And then life happened.
What is it about Utopian ideas of love that fade away?
Sooner or Later?
'Later' hasn't ever been my sign off.
It's way too impersonal. And abrupt.
I don't think it's warm enough; leaves an awkward taste.
Speaking of taste, I absolutely need good food. N-E-E-D.
I have been the eat-out/take-away girl for as long as I can remember.
The ever-so-popular 'ghar ka khaanaa' isn't my favourite cuisine.
At least not for some years to come.
You know what rhymes with 'come'? Rum.
It's been a while I had rum.  Exactly a week today.
Out of all of my 'substances', I like the flavour of rum the most.
Apart from its quality of getting me high.
I got high in the auto today morning.
The smell of weed makes auto drivers suspicious-looking.
Looking at people around is like a drug in itself.
It gets you high sometimes.
And sometimes, like now, it gets you down.
My lethargic, pathetic, melancholy self seems to have gotten the better of me.
Me? I am majorly disoriented, of late.

'Majorly' is not a real English word. It's slang for 'extremely'. 

Even 'mentality' isn't a real English word. It's like I have been sold a lie.

It sucks to be sold lies.

It sucks, even more, to be told lies.

Lies have never really been my 'thing'. 

It becomes too much to remember; too much of a responsibility.

Responsibility has nev...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wake Up !

Sundays SUCK! If I had my way, I would just scrap it off the calender. They're a wastage of my existence. I get up late, which is unlike me. I putt off my bath till as late as I can, which is also unlike me. I plan the things I need to do and never succeed.

Bah! A Fucking Useless Day.

Not to forget how I find unusual levels of love for the television set. Since morning I have watched : 

1) Friends

2) Dexte

3) Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham

4) Sholay

5) MTV (obviously!)

Now watching : Wake Up Sid.

I love that movie. It's almost aspirational. I would kill to have a pad in Mumbai a la Konkana Sen (in the movie).

I have assignments pending, unmet commitments, University finals in exactly a month's time. 

And what am I doing?

Sitting in front of the damn TV set, eating cheese-burst pizza, day dreaming about Mumbai and procrastinating anything and everything that's work.

D-o-o-m-s-d-a-y.
I blame Sundays for my miseries.
Bitches, them all!

Unfortunate Story.

I think I have become inarticulate. That really isn't that big a problem, usually. But when one has this growing burning sensation that seems to be coming out of the depth of one's soul, it's a fucking tragedy!

"Your dad issues are sexy", I was told yesterday. I just laughed. 

They were anything but sexy, I thought.

Later in the day I was made to realize that I am obsessive about my father. I didn't laugh.

It isn't entirely false, I thought.

It explains so fucking much!!

And I would have written better; but I have become inarticulate, remember?

I could hardly breathe. I think my deepest drawn fear is to turn into him.. or into any of his forms. Oh yes, he has forms. Forms that have always been out to get me; those that have been out to hurt me; those that have bred negativity over everything else; forms that re-establish the lack of a father figure in my life...

See! I am obsessive about him. I don't think I hate him, though. I thought in all these years when his physical presence in my life was in the form of his mental absence, his sheer existence would seize to matter. Clearly, I am being proved wrong. 

But we're convenient, like that. We don't talk. We don't see the need to. And that works.

But obsessive? The mere thought is shattering. It's confusing, like colour.

I am so much more calmer than I was just 24hours back. 

Obviously, in my own twisted way, I sought closure;

in pastures much forbidden, in lands much distant, in ideas much unacknowledged, in ages much older.

So, I called an old friend last night and met him today.

I met Rocky today.

We met after ages today.

I went to sleep today, fitting close against him, like the last piece of a puzzle.

I stroke his hair to annoy him as he made pasta for me.

We spoke about the Universe, nothingness, cosmos and all that in between.

I went to sleep today, fitting close against him, like the last piece of a puzzle.

I cried a little. We played random games.

We spoke about his wife and kids.

I went to sleep today fitting close against him, like the last piece of a puzzle.

The man is going to be special to me for always and beyond;

the greatest father, teacher, an Encyclopedia of grey matter;

My mentor. My confidante.
My world was monochrome again, minus the chaos of the colour.

Status-Of-The-Sought-Closure : Confusing.

My dad issues are sexy, apparently. Some see it as my glory.

That is the Unfortunate Story.