Blasphemy

"Isn't it selfish of you to turn to God everytime you're in need"

" I don't do it everytime I'm in need."

"Only when you're trying to claw your way out of the net when you see sharks circling around you baring their teeth which glint with the evil that is just their nature to consume to sustain their own livelihood."

"Uh. If they're that helpless why don't you sleep with them."

"Because...... I'm saving myself?"

"Ohh the piggybank is so full!"

"SHUT UP! You didn't answer me."

"It helps me remember the net is a cage of tough steel so the sharks won't ever reach me."

"O-h"

"Yes"

"Will you be using that in your book of successful conversion formulas?"

"Sure. Why not! Why do you ask?"

"The tribals will think you're a hoot"

"Then why aren't you laughing?"

On leave.....

A strange liberation in cutting off the strings slowly and making an exit.
Temoporarily.
Without joy.

But it was a moment where curtains were to be pulled open.
When shutters were to be closed tightly. And sunlight was to be pushed out of every molecule of air within.

You could laugh that there wasn't enough light in this musty corner to begin with.
You could point this isn't darkness.
This is pitch black.

But so what if it is so?

So what if I raise my arm and not have my own eyes be able to see it?

So what if this black darkness clings to my skin?
Long after the lights are turned back on.
Like burnt nylon that can only be separated with bidding farewell to a part of your body.

There was a passion which pushed my blood faster through the narrow vessels, squeezing past, shoving eagerly into my brain. Pushing for me to write.

A messy fight of hands moving in wild gestures.
Now it has broken up with me and left without a trace.
The numbers changed. Addresses moved.

My ex has expressed a desire to not know me again.
Maybe forever.

So let me collapse into a heap.
In this heavy velvet air.
Tense with empty strokes of hand.

A moment of silence.
To grieve.

I dream.
Of being 13.

The age where our Friend from above sprinkles copious amounts of awkwardness and uncertainity. Chocolate sprinkles over our vanilla selves.
An age so delicious on a plate of memory.

When sweetness was a natural course of life from within. Even when the world seemed all but that.

When being alive was an absurd question.
As if anyone could want not to be.

....

My words left me when I shamed them with my behaviour.
Now even when my karma finds me back they will not return.

My little babies jumped out of their nest before they grew wings.

I was too bad a mother and now they're dead. Like my feet.

I feel no inclination to blog anymore.

kim bahuna?

The template must be changed. In my defense I tried several others which didn't work once I had completed working on them.

I must also relocate my blogroll which a layout accident shoved aside. I haven't forgotten you guys [the few who read this!] but haven't found the time to manually redo the entire tedious process as yet. After exams!

Hopefully :)

Hello again

My mummy is being unwrapped.
The mistake was just noticed.


By me.

Epiphany

The sadness of mute isn't the silence. No actually the silence hasn't been factual as it has been imagined.

One can imagine silence by pretending the air didn't just resonate with words. Or tune out.

So if the silence hasn't existed, how can there be a mute?

What if I told you: The greatest tragedy is not that mute is without words. You can see it like so. But that the tragedy is Mute really likes to say it as though it is moot. And so you're fooled into thinking all is essentially moot and thus as good as mute.

What?
I was just saying: You can turn the volume back on now.
But you were making a point...?
Oh. The point?

Is Moot.

A time once existed of abundance. When 55 words seemed frugal.
But here I am. Your penniless beggar.
Walk past me now as I mouth empty air.
To remember the songs I'd once known.

A film black and white.

Where is the box of colours?

Messy bed poor house

A nightmare, so subtle

Riddle half-solved in the season of jasmine.

A trip had been taken and the passenger was unknown.

A Greek star across the sky.
A French blank expanse for a ground.

Two women got down gracefully. As phone calls went unanswered, waiting was paid no heed.

A director of Importance.
Who watched movies to further the skill of appealing to the public.
Even when sleep was scarce.
His routine he didn't skip on.
Even if phones went unanswered.
Even if wishes floated as he was too busy to catch them.
The director of Importance wouldn't let it be known of the passenger unknown.

The cluelessness further heightened.
The train was also kept a secret.

Alas! 'twas the mighty Internet age. A tapping of fingers and a delayed inspiration. Ah! Wiki-it!, thought the clueless one and chanced upon half the key.

A greek Star across the sky.
A french Blank expanse for a ground.

The answer , if you will, was caught between the lines.
The train is now known as is the ride.

We don't know which of the two won, 'tis a shame.
For this, afterall, has been our director's cruel game.

But the Director shall not tell.
For our knowledge means nothing.
To people of Importance.

A fist traces circles upon a missing heart

I used to wonder how it was done.

Night after night. A slippery limestone cradling a person. Feet in floaters.
How could someone?
An incredible a thought. For the Immature.

A distant Pajero throwing up cooling sand.
Streetlights a safe walk away.
Gleaming glass doors sliding open a relaxing whiff of dampness where the cool air hugs the humid one in slow joyous tears.

I'd told you I liked the fragrance of my earth as it cooled with the monsoon showers.
But I wanted to tell you all now, that there is another such that I like.

I'd lead you through the quick tempered asphalt.
Down the glory of camel herders.
Flanked by the modest pointed trees we drew with dangling fruits for several years.
In Social Studies class.
That we also called Lu'lu.

Then I'd show you where I found the starfish with narangi hands.
Clutching onto a dark spotted rock submerged under half my arm's depth.
And I'd tell you....
I'd wondered if it would feel like the white coral that Mummy had found.

Small beady calciate under my feet that slip and twist the small ankles into a crash of crushing pain.
But it didn't happen.
Because I skipped away.
Only a bad kid would dig their feet into black waters at night. Haina?

But that fragrance was locked and stored away like the bottles filled with coloured sand landscapes.

That was never to be shaken.
Purchased for an unknown reason.
A strange pull to those souveneirs.Without which a foreign visit would remain incomplete.
That was often bought by the tourists we looked at in detached amusement.

Sucker!

He didn't take a fancy hookah away or an Irani kaleen. He'd probably think the heritage village was real and snap a roll away too! We'd shrug our shoulders and laugh.

But it is a fragance not a delicate balance of silica submerged in colours of a fake smile. I can't place it in front of you all.
It was never meant to be put in the curio cabinet. Nor was it purchased. It was an heirloom of sorts - I was the first to recieve it.

How could someone?

Feet in floaters.
Turn the left foot and see a prominent dutiful til.

A slippery limestone cradling a person.
That I took away from Atlas.

Night after night.
Now I know.