The Life of an Unstable Kryptonite.

"The prettiest in crowd that you had ever seen
Ribbons in our hair and our eyes gleamed mean
A freshmen generation of degenerate beauty queens" Lana Del Ray

Are you alive?
Ok good, just checking. 
Last I checked I wasn't breathing and your heart wasn't beating. 
But we had a pulse. We always have a pulse. 
Am I far enough for you to see me now? Distance always meant two completely different things to us. I found out that for me it means castles, spirits, warmth within snowflakes and all things vintage. It means our own little puffy versions of grey clouds. Colours. So many colours that you can almost sense them pixellated. Accents you've never heard before, accents that are so exotic you're scared your hippie nature may not cope well with travelling to the exotic places they originated from. Snapshots from a polaroid. Fairy lights that make you jump. Travels that daunt you, mountains that haunt you. Seas that don't exist and seize, all that resists. 
Independence, not taken lightly.
You, just found a pit. And stupidly fell into it. Why now? Convention wouldn't call you stupid, but actions are now screaming at you. You let me slip away from your home, your neighbourhood, from your city, from your state, from your country, from your continent. And finally, from you. From you to the lure. To the temptation of being a muse, of being surefooted. From deep, dark desires to crimson desires bursting at the seams. Violent violets are making way for pristine peonies. A drug rush in a sweaty mosh-pit is so much more attractive than a neat tablecloth laid out for me that will eventually land itself in a controversial pile of smudged mascara, spilt red wine, loose strands of what was once an english rendition of a chignon and dapper heels. Oops. 
See that? I slipped away again. And you don't get any better at tightening your grip. Aha. Supposed to be a hold. Got you. 
I just watched the sun set. This morning I watched it rise. Weird that it does that, every single day. 
He may not be sitting and waiting with a guitar but he's technologically adept enough to have recorded versions of my life as a musical, ready and waiting for me by the time I return. 
Ugh. I think I may have a split personality disorder. If only I could dance like Beyonce. Oh, I try.

No, Really.

When was the last time it was 11:11 and you had nothing to wish for? 

When was the last time you were victorious and despondent at the same time? 

When was the last time something frightened you as much as it remained irresistible? 

When was the last time you could really live with yourself? 

And when was the last time somebody actually cared about you?

Because I'll tell you something, they probably didn't know who the hell you were.

You Don't Deserve A Name.

I don't want to be a pole vaulter. Never did. But to be told that I can't be one? I'm such a mess that I'm quoting Robin from How I Met Your Mother. Actually, some of these shows can really teach you some profound lessons. Pay a shrink, cram some books, and you may never get there. But download a hit American soap. And bam.

This is the first time I've regretted anything. Screw this shit. I'm leaving and I can't wait to board that flight. Next stop, London. I love London. It's going to help me discover myself. But you know what the best part about London is? You're not going to fucking be there.

Nothing's Gonna Change My World.

7 days.

I should be writing about graduating from a magical place. About stepping into a whirlwind decade and the realization of it by a glamorous age. About the upcoming distance from the only two life-long bonds I've known, or the only third genuine one anyone can ever know. About finally striking off a million options. About the hope of finding my 'calling.' Or being smitten by the charm of responsibilities. About figuring out the key to the lock on the old and dirty window-pane and slowly cracking it open. Or maybe even about the small number of beautiful people I'd like to transport with me. But instead I choose to rant like a child about these 7 days. It's ok, it's alright. 

On the third day now, I think I know about all the mistakes I've made. I never should've recoiled after the first time that I let you go. Never should've given in. But once I did I mistook the friendship for the love and the love for the friendship. And now I don't know which one makes it harder to breathe. Harder to not pause at your name. Harder to keep scrolling and pretending that I feel nothing. 

You said you weren't my type. And you couldn't be more right. My type would smell like the rain, taste like midnight, sound like the ocean, look like the pages of my favorite book and feel like hot chocolate. He would write songs through the day for me on crumpled sheets of paper, and then play them out on a broken guitar by night. He would say my name each time like he was saying it for the first time. He would have mastered the art of getting by but would only feel extremes by my touch, my presence, my thoughts. He would make sure I knew. He would be the only thing that mattered, that felt better than a combination of chai, cigarettes, a rainy day and Across the Universe. He wouldn't obsess over an adolescent city, but he would appreciate it's murky beauty. He would appreciate it's ability to show dreams, to be the projector of a slideshow, but never confuse it to be the dream itself. He would let his heart break, and then allow someone to fix it, to try and mend it in their own dodgy way. He'd make it rain when my life was a desert and then grab me by the waist and waltz for hours. He would know what, when and how, before I did. He'd be able to make cheap vodka taste like the finest scotch. He would believe in magic and somewhere-far-away and could make me believe in princes and fairy-tales again. All the world's a stage and he would be the director. He wouldn't say one thing and mean another. He wouldn't be able to tell the difference between thorns and roses. Between guns and bullets. Between bloodbaths and strawberry fields. Between me and him. 

My type would sweep me off my feet. I deserve my type. You're not my type. 

-You may be a lover 
But you ain't no dancer : The Beatles

The Dark Knight Hath Risen : )

It's some ridiculous hour and I just got back from the premiere of what could be the greatest movie in the history of time. Maybe I'm exaggerating, maybe I'm not, but I haven't quite seen anything like this. What. Was. That. Cinematic revolution? The coming together of too many geniuses, if there ever was such a thing? I think so. Do not miss it for the world. And if you're about to die, well make sure it's the last thing you watch before you leave. It'll be worth it. The Dark Knight Rises, you will haunt me for a decade. And I'm quoting the minimum. 


Christopher Nolan, marry me. 

Dear 50 followers, thank you for finally rendering me speechless. : ) 

Shiver.

I had a dream I stood beneath an Orange Sky : Alexi Murdoch


Now there's no room for negotiation and none for personally viable imagery. There's neither scope nor time for settlements. What you have now is what you'll hold forever and I wish I could say that you were a part of my scavenged dossier but I've sifted and even hunted in my last few bargained hours, but I found nothing. It's like you never existed. Just as well. 


Give me a lie, and I'll live it. Give me a robe and a fancy hat, and I'll don it. Give me a piece of paper and blood instead of ink, and I'll scribe it. Give me frivolity and I'll find a way to conjure short-lived beauty, peace and purity. Give me a pounding heart, and I'll pretend like I never heard it. 


This is us, old with no recourse to the past. What we have now is all we'll ever have. If you look at it through many rose tints you'd find it perfect and that's the best way to look at it. But if you dare lighten the shades...


You find one place that you hope will let you forget and forgive and forgo. But if you carry all your baggage on your arm, up-sliding into your heart, seeping into your nervous system, and igniting dangerous cells, you can't expect even paradise to set you free. I've seen heaven and I've seen hell and I've seen them simultaneously. The worst part of not having a time lag between witnessing the two, is finding each equally mesmerizing and tempting. The two feelings rendering you unfit for either. When you get sucked into a roller-coaster ride of promise and hope and dejection and failure, you start enjoying the feeling of each. The loss that comes after the highs and the euphoria after the lows. 


All you had to do was ask. But you wouldn't. All I had to do was tell you. But I didn't. All that ever needed to be done, was untying the cruel knots that fate decided to put in the ropes that at some point would tow us back to each other. Maybe they're still not bad enough. Maybe 10 years later. Maybe not. I hate not knowing. But knowing would make me God. 


You're not mine. But I'm yours. And if that's not cruel, what is? 

Now.

I dare you to move.


What do I do with you if I know you're soon going to be another myth in my treasure trove? Can I quickly steal your essence and hide you in the darkest corners of my heart where not a single clock, a cruel bearer of time, be able to find you? Or take your soul you lent me for a day and pretend like you never gave it when you ask for it back. I could cheat I guess, into making you believe what I believe (because it's all make believe anyway), or keeping us hidden from the musical notes that slowly but methodically change our song to something that you eventually won't recognize. But I won't do it. Shockingly, even after all this time, I still have a nagging conscience. Hate that thing. 


I could write endless stories about the inevitability of heartbreak, but what do you do when your soul crushes to an irreparable degree. What do you do, when your family, your friend, your love, your habit, your mind, your soul-- threatens to get up, with only so much as a single warning, and simply walk out of your state of being. If there's one thing that's worse than actually being crippled, it's the thought of its pending arrival. And so you leave me hanging, until I pull the chord. Until I do it to myself.


Of course in that game I played with fire, I won a lot of lotteries, but what I also thought I'd win was the Jackpot that mattered to me the most. The one that all the other players ridiculed. But for the sheer desire of it all, I lost. I thought mine would be a white horse, turned out it was shining, molten brown with streaks of jet black. I was told, I'd still worship him, like I would a white. And nobody would understand it.


So here I am. And there you are, from where I can conveniently worship what was meant to be mine so forgive me if I'm still a bit insolently stubborn about letting it go. And there everyone else is, neither understanding, nor comprehending. The soothsayers had their way. But there's so much more to this that is making it almost, almost impossible for me to wrap it up in a neat bundle and not let a single tear stray.
You're lying to me even now. You can't lie to me as much as you can lie to yourself. And I watch you with a sad smile while you still try so desperately to rationalize, to tell yourself more than tell me, that it's the right thing to do. That things must go the way as they have been pre-ordained. They have to. Or nothing will make sense, there will be no order. And that's why we can never really meet. Because I rejoice in every little grain of disorder. In every antithesis wherever there's a thesis. In every broken barrier in an organization. In every revolt against a structure. In every fallen leaf where there's a tree. In every love against hate. 


It would have made no sense to you nor would the spell have lasted for very long if I ran away at break-neck speed. But I needed to slowly withdraw, to make you notice, excruciatingly, what I was doing. I do not know if it tears you as much as I think it does, but if I'm right and it does, all you have to do is call me back while I'm here. While I'm still recuperating. Because when the healing process is over, somebody will snatch me away. And I say this not out of any overconfidence or smugness that you may so easily attribute it to. But out of fear. 


Save me before your armor refuses to dispatch any knight-like qualities to you anymore. I'm ordinary, but soon you will be too. But if you save me. I'll be able to save you too. 


I love you. 

Across The Universe.

What if the world really were to collapse this year? All our lives, simultaneously, cease to exist? Our death anniversaries, coincide? Would you be satisfied with what you've woven into the world thus far? Of course, to achieve that would be ideal and therefore, utterly impossible, but do you think you could leave things as they are? Or shift your gear to number five and finish all that you think you were meant to do? My questions are a way of delaying the answers I don't have. Whether or not this debate of 2012 being the year of our doom gets resolved (I have a feeling we will be in 2013 by the time it does), aren't we always advised to live each day as if it were our last? Carpe Diem and all that jazz? Realistically, keeping a provision for contingencies such as bad hair days, mood swings and PMS, why don't we instead try living this year as if it were our last? 


Through a roller-coaster-cum-maze my life has been in just (wait for it) two decades of its completion, I think I'd like to pick my last year as one that (I know you're expecting peaceful and saint-like) is the scariest and most unexpected ride of my life! Because what fun would it be otherwise? I've spent afternoons in dingy, musk-smelling bars with anticipation of where the evening will take us. In alleys trying to distinguish our breath from the smoke. In comfortable hand-me-downs, with an excuse of a winter, relishing warm tastes. In yellow-blacks, entangled beyond comprehension. In the lives and minds of others because nobody has left anyone a choice anymore. In Ford Fiestas. In a place that tries excusing itself by adopting a happy name but that doesn't rule out the memories it gave me that make me cringe, even today. Taking a full year break and then coming back to a life I always used to know. To people I love (even though some of them I don't like very much, but I still love). To the horrible, horrible, horrible inevitability of growing-up. To prospects of magnanimous success or stupendous failure, both equally exciting and fear invoking. To finding love, losing love, and then not knowing what love really is. 


But I do. You have to be selfish even when it comes to one of the most selfless concepts in the world. It can be love if it's one-sided, but it cannot be ego. It can be love if the balance is tipped to a 70:30, but it cannot be self-esteem. It can be love if you give all he asks for and never the other way around, but it cannot be healthy. It can be love if you've roughed all his troughs but never been the one he looked for during the crests, but it cannot be friendship. When you realize what you're worth is really a lot more than that, and when the realization hits you if there's even ONE person by your side to tell you that you're doing the right thing and that you're going to make it, you're going to make it. And here I am.


Something changed in me the night of the beautiful lights, an open sky, the grains of sand that I could feel, each and every one of them as distinct as if they were many times their real size, and the unconditional love that was coming to me from all directions and the love that was emanating from me. The night we welcomed the new year in Paradise. All this while we'd been labeling the feeling as ecstasy, when what it really was, was not a feeling, it was a state. A state of contentment. And of security. I had my backbone that night (R), and my eyes(N). But when I thought about it a little more, a few kilometers away, I just as well had my mind(S), left-hand(A), right hand(A), my two feet(P) and heart(S), safe and sound. And I wasn't apologetic about any of them.


Take these away and you'd think I'd be rendered inconsequential. But my soul is unique, and mine alone, and when the world (or the world as I know it) ends, it will know what to do, it will know who to tell, it will know what to tell, somehow it'll know.


So I have a picture in my head where boy meets girl, boy kisses girl, and the world could happily end at that very moment, because it's the simplest and sweetest kiss in the world... And sometimes that's all you need. 


This is late, but do have the happiest new year. :)