June 19, 2008, 12:00 a.m.
How could I be so base, so cheap, and so callous at the thought of wishing someone to be dead? I didn’t mean it. I know that for sure. But still, I spoke as if my personal tripping pebbles which are still etched beautifully in the mind are more important than wishing someone alive. For that particular moment I was what I have always wanted to be, purely spiteful and malicious. I didn’t need a reason to hate or wish for someone to die. But I did. I was reprimanded and I actually felt bitterness, almost the same that those ghastly and beastly characters feel when their vengeance is exposed and mended. Aware of the head’s every action and purposefully taking those stances, postures, throwing glances and giggling away, it’s all in the wanting to be. Fidgety hands, a deep rooted, accepted failure to look at myself as a lovable person, meeting people only to put them either above or below and to talk accordingly, are not me. Yes, I can decide and I am doing so. I am sure there are millions of flaws in me. No, I am not even nearing to debate what a flaw is. All I know is that unconsciously I portray a lot of my own self which I don’t choose to. Maybe it is that which draws them all and keeps them at bay. It again drifts into an acutely meditative tirade but I am all I have. It is so happening! I always wanted to run away and not have anyone keep asking me what was wrong. I achieved it very well today. And that is not what I want anymore. But today I also want a toast and some milk at night, being asked what is happening in my life, some pampering, some wise gaze over me which tells me, “Listen you little thing, this is no shit. Come to me with a dumb face and I am not going to take advantage of your ignorance, your laziness or your fears. Rather I will make it a cakewalk for you.” But it doesn’t happen. No one has willingly heard my rants. But I still do it for others. But then listen! Even I am not going to be the happy mannequin face that takes all your woes and tries to swish a magic wand so that at least you move out of the damage area. If this is goodwill, I mean it, I better get returns.
The worst grief is that the moment I cry, everything appears clenched in a very familiar old muck. It is like the same rotten Burberry biscuit that you bite into on every birthday, just which your taste buds develop a bit more each year, giving you a more wholesome experience of the putrid taste. I am doing way too much and I don’t feel happy about it. My joy needs to come. There will be no didactical pedantic description of how to be happy. Normalcy and the loss will be spoken of later.