dont leave quite yet.
you can dream and she shall lie.

a regular goddess and the lusty rain,
she wanted to kiss,
and your heart needed to be tamed.

be a lady.
mind the gap. 
the little infidel,
let their be forbidden romance.

stay.
her ignorant ego and your older arms.
indulge.


in moments of suspended reality,
darling, you devastate her.

Dear blog,

If you were pages of my diary, I'd have torn you up into pieces. I could then throw you out of my window, and see you slip away. My little fireflies of spring. Too distant to matter to me anymore.

It seems like ages since I last opened a word document.

All this while, I lived and I loved. I nibbled out fresh fixations, had an overdose of social networking, fought-cried-ran and returned in circles and saw people melting into the sublime smoke of deceit and consolation . I had ridiculous mood swings, sought comfort in flipkart deliveries, lived on roadside momo’s and cheap biriyanis, stayed up nights in fear and slept away evenings like an unashamed invalid. I found zillions of new stories lying forgotten in autumn streets, dreamt of superheroes and chewing-gums between talks that held meaning, saw words being killed between red tongues and blackened teeth and giggled away bursting bubble wrappers thrown out without sympathy. I quarreled all day and then waited agitatedly for the messages in between, splurged sickeningly at things I shall never need, this moment I sobbed and the next second I planned out great mischief.

I cried out loud proclaiming I have come of age, but deep down I knew I am not even ten.

I dented on people’s external harmony and then cribbed about the uproar that followed it.

And now,

I sit, dangling my legs, on the edge of another writers block;
so take it bitch,

A tomorrow is always there to take in today’s loss..

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.  From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.  One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.  I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.  I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

-The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath. 

What more can i say.

.abighugemagnificenttriplesigh.

Every time we meet, it feels like acid and nerves together. Like the languid sunshine after a November rain gliding hurriedly over shoulders and hiding between fingers firmly clenched away. It feels like sitting by a sea with the wind in my hair and a song in the head. Like the smell of old stubborn love that chops you up into unreal mad pieces if you carelessly breathe it in. Like a million fireflies setting on fire a damp spring night.  Like some frayed-edged old poem that breaks through mirrors, pulling all inanity down down down to a bottomless lonely abyss.

It feels likes free-falling. back into nothing. over and over again.

Promises stuck in the sky, they break and fly, with wings that were clipped and feet within jars of weed. 

Come, fall on me, I shall wave and smile, come fall again tonight.

Let there be stardust before my eyes.