M for Murder

The only sadist cold-hearted murderers are memories. 

No weapons, no hurtful words,

They just transport you into the past

And leave you to re-live till death. (And Repeat)

Babble mumble

I can't weep.At least not anymore. All the tears, the red burning tears that I was so used to shedding, scarcely serve to quench my now-frantic heart. 


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For, what are tears if it is just brine. They tinkle down and you, oh you terribly divine you, just wipe them off with your charming smile, which leaves me feeling mushy inside.


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Tears, to be taken seriously, should be thick, bloody and should dry your heart with each falling drop, leaving you, exhausted, lifeless. Unwipable. Only to be healed. 


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If corpses could talk, mine would probably -through it's weighted tongue- force out through faded, choked sighs the loss of the briny-sweet tears and the charming/disarming smile.  


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The eyes would,then, probably bleed the real tears again. For a corpse, even a corpse much-in-love, doesn't need a heart to be quenched. Only memories to breathe off of. 


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Muchas gracias, you.

mea máxima culpa

It rained today. A lot. I sat in my room and got to thinking about the things I've done and the things I plan to do in the years ahead. Suddenly my thoughts were clouded by a memory, which now seems very distant, almost as if it never happened.

I killed Nadia Joseph. Calling the authorities will be pointless. They won't find anything. I've spent years thinking over every detail.

I can still see it vividly-  breathing her last few, painful, breaths. Her eyes look so un-Nadia- like. Cold, dim, fixed on a distant vision of the forgotten past-on a regret.

We were seven when we first met- Nadia and I. I knew then that one day she would die and that it would be me who would kill her. Her family had moved in into the next apartment. I was on the swing trying to touch the leaves of the low branch hanging over the swing with my feet.  Nadia, wearing a yellow bib dress and flip flops runs down with her locks flowing like a cape behind her. Without a word, she grabs my arm, pulls me off the swing, sits on the swing and swings higher and higher in a mysterious bliss, which I was not a part of. I stared at her, dumbfounded. She tossed back her hair, flashed the first of many gorgeous smiles I’d learn to loathe, and went higher with her toes stretched to touch the wet leaves I had set my eyes on.

I began to plot her death.  I thought it noble and poetic to use my own bare hands, the very ones she grabbed that day and fixed the venue in the park by the swing. It was months later when I actually made an attempt. It was late evening and we were playing in the park. She was excitedly talking about the presents she got for her birthday last night. I could not bear the ring in her voice, the aura around her and that wretched incredible smile. 

Without much conscious efforts, I pushed her hard from the back. She fell, face down. I ran quickly and smothered her face harder into the soil. Her socked feet  flailing, and hands trying to grab on to something- maybe to life- encouraged me. A few moments passed, she went limp. I turned her around. She lay there with her dress muddy and her face smeared with dirt.  I cleaned her face. It was beautiful. Ran my fingers over her brows and kissed her forehead.

I could have sworn she smiled.

Rescue

The dawn felt like the warm something she felt while spreading a good helping of nutella over bread for her mid-night snack. It had been over 2 days now. She knew she just had to keep awake for a few more hours and someone would come and pull her out of this hell.

Value added Services

Dear The One,

I haven't met you yet; or maybe I have and  am unaware. This is to let you know that you are being thought of very fondly this moment.

Sincerely, Me

Image credit: Aby Abraham

p.s: shared with Monkey Man as a Sunday 160.
Like to text? Say what you want to in 160 characters, including spaces.
If you're brave enough give it a go - it's not as easy as it looks!

Rules for the next ride

Neyyar Wildlife Sanctuary,kerela

You swept me off my feet.
I'm carrying a parachute, not so thrilled about the fall.

Butterflies in my stomach
Let them fly off to flutter somewhere new, somewhere not as unloved.

The nice words, the wishing well,
The plagiarized letter,the plunked hope.

The sighs, the wait.
The impatience, the habit.

The beating heart
Fear, not love.

The Faller in love
You, NOT me.

Balloons and butterflies

Each morning, I wake up with the enthusiasm of a 6 year old, happy with life, with a desire to 'live today'; only to be disappointment and worn out by the unavoidable web of judgments by end of the day.

But

each morning, I wake up with the enthusiasm of a 6 year old, happy with life, with a desire to 'live today'.

Unusually Unsaid Understanding Vol .III (Wings)

Mecca Masjid, Hyderabad

...one of them perched on the cornices not flying, yet, but at peace with the wings that would have me fly through possibilities,  still undreamt .

Unusually Unsaid Understanding Vol .II (Stairs)

Among the mapped out uncertainties and the vague certainties, the spiraling stairs lead to the , even if undesired and neglected, destinations.

Stairs, Charminar

p.s: the p.s here

Notes from an Incipient Misanthrope (Stage I)

Confessions

"Sometimes I wake up early and even my soul is wet"

                                                                       -Pablo Neruda

-Grief is a product of idleness and isolation- a combination that I failed often to solve/escape.

-I've been :

• a patriot but inactive citizen,
•  an affectionate but distant sibling,
• a jovial but remote friend,
•  passionate but lost love;
• dull with brightness,
• unkind to beauty,
• an egoist to laughter , 
• with power, passive.

I have been everything that I thought I would never be.

-Was It I who suffered ,suffering in style the illusion of change, the poison of hope?

I shall give in to the image I see reflected in the cruel eyes when I look at you with an innocent desire to be spared the indignity of rejection. I give in, I give up.

'too soon',  you say.

You did not live my life, living helplessly each moment snowballing into years and decades reasserting the crack between the mind and the soul - having to see the wreckage of the bliss that you knew existed within you, one speck at a time.

-Sometimes tears seem so irrelevant. The cause too perverse. The soul drips with the tears I don't care to shed anymore.


-I am a cynic, an indifferent realist, I am all that you would care to define me as, for I have failed. I have failed my definition of myself. 

I finished a chapter with House(M.D.)

For some weeks now I have been watching a TV series Incessantly - House M.D.
Whether it be at 3 o clock at night or 7 in the morning; before class, after nap, in between assignments, on the fight, while waiting at the airport.

Why this series attracts my attention so much is because Gregory House, the protagonist, is grossly imperfect and yet defines what it is to be so unhappy, so much in pain, so flawed, so human and still have a life where in spite of all that one  has reasons to look forward to the next day.


The last year has been an emotional roller coater for me. I have had ups the level of Mt. everest and downs the as low as the 18th level of hell. But I have somehow(phew!) gotten through. I don't think half of them are even worth talked about even with my closest friends. I just have to bear it out and remember not let myself be numbed coz to miss the experience, even the pain, is to miss the most important moments of your life. "To err is human" they say.
 Polithinks: 'to feel is human. To err,well, is to'. what is life but an assimilation of moments felt and remembered.

So like a soldier, proud of the scar gotten on the battlefield, I wear my wounds with pride. I think at times I get overwhelmed and obsessive about them but I am what I am.They define me. I , like House, have a cane(not literally, duh!) which i would not let go. I am not perfect and don't want to be. Perfect is boring and is independent in the absolute sense. This independence would definitely take the fun out of living. I am working on my flaws but there are some which I can't change even if they embarrass me or get me into trouble more often than not.


Anyway enough blah on flaws and imperfections. This blog post is a dedication to House and the effect he has had on me.I have finished watching all the seasons and waiting for the latest episodes. A part of me is sad. I did not quite want to start the last episode for I new about in an hour I would run out of events from House's life... Okay I am getting more sentimental than I am allowed to be for a fictional character. I would like to take this opportunity to Thank House for the lessons which I never thought I would get from some stupid American TV series. But I guess one can learn something from everything around them. remind's of my Prof's quote(see the end of the post)


Since its a dedication it would be unfair if I didn't share the famous House quotes:
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Gregory_House


p.s: The lack of posts here is because I am on a trip (read less time for introspection and contemplation which I am fond of)and hence concentrating more on my travel blog http://amropali.co.cc/

Hope

"For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,

and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying."

                                                      -Rilke 
'Life is almost perfect for you.' I hear that once again. I see the smiles that snaps have so beautifully captured; guiltless,carefree. reason enough to sleep with a light heart and unthinking mind.

But the dreams had something else planned. Moments of unbearable clairvoyance. Within moments, under my exhausted slumbering lids, my dreams start gnawing on the bubbles of blithe blessedness that I had blown around me. Dreams - the reality that I thought , although impossible here, were real somewhere; a sort of a parallel matrix of events that worked much to my liking and wants- had now betrayed me.


In the glimpse of sheer bluntness, all of it that was bright and sparkly turned to obnoxious, unsightly banners, more real than I have ever felt while awake. I had lost something in my sleep last night. I had lost the dreamworld i used to take refuge in, in my moments of crisis. A world which seemed better than what went on around me while awake. Dreams are no longer a haven, a utopia. They are just the the strong flashes of a 'good' digital camera which in the name of clarity show all the flaws that you work so hard to hide.(I always felt a average camera with 3 mega pixel worked gave better pictures when it comes to clicking people.)
It felt worse than losing Santa and the myth of eternal love. 


 I have lost my soul in the mirth of masquerades that i so try to avoid, I have sold my faith to the lies that I want to believe in, my hopes have been trampled and strangled not once,  But i am LIVING, even if  in a state when all eludes me - all the dreams, wants, a future- the past is a lie and the present a joke and mere hope, a little light, is the only thing I can wish for. 


I refuse to be wished 'sweet dreams' hence forth.