Balloons.

India Gate was the pretend-like-everything's-alright-in-the-family venue for most of her childhood. Only, there was probably little pretense back then; at least on her part. In retrospect maybe years later, she realizes how she was probably the glue keeping the miserable family of four together, who needed to pathologically ignore their feelings in order to survive. At least two out of them had to. She would often credit her happiness to her weak memory. She had this magical filter since the day she was born wherein she could easily forget everything she didn't want to remember. What a blessing that was! Is. But sometimes in the little tug of war between magic and memory, memory wins. Sometimes.

"I want a balloon", she said.

"It'll burst. No point.", he said. 

That was that.

I want a few balloons strung together for my birthday. 

I wish October comes soon enough - 19th October. Everything makes sense then.

This Is Where You and I Meet.

A room. A room lit only by television. Reeking of smoke. I wonder what mum would have to say when she returns. One drink down. Post coital. Pizza crave-ey. Cold leftover pizza. My shoulder hurts. Pizza just reminded me of someone. Haha. Makes me smile. Makes me want to draw. I think my biggest regret in life is that I can't draw. I'm irrationally and unbelievably jealous of everyone who can draw. Well. This blog wasn't supposed to be like this. Not that I know what it was supposed to be. Not that I ever know what anything is supposed to be. But, it should probably be about pouring my heart out. 

But what do you know? There's only so much my heart has. Or maybe I don't have a heart. Or an ambition.