I just breathed out these that follow. Literally. One person can get you so highly reactive and can make mind race at X speed with a feeling of twirling laughter. Marcel Proust could not see me pitying my own past and reverting back to the old wall like a chewed gum. So, he did some shaman magic and I got a call. Only later, I realised he was a scientist.
Can you not know the fact that you like someone? huh? huh? Can you ever just be so and not want to tell it? Tangerine spice. Fungal webs on the old golden wired chappals. Cold earth starts tickling my feet, I know winter is in. Can you smell it? Can you feel me (and my extremely heaving longing)? Have you shaken a tree after rains?
If you have not, then you may have never passed the foolish phase of puppy love poetry. Sheesh. Puupy love poetry all around the "inderned". Proust is better. So is Claudel. But we need to find out fast if they are the aim or talking is an excuse to bring them up and much more. I love Fugly Schmuck. I am a fit baybe. Fugly schmuck fit baybe!
Oh blue! Did you know Russian toilets work the exact opposite way? Conversation: Yes, they sit facing the flush. But, then how would they know if someone barged in from behind and stabbed 'em? Probable cause why Soviet Union fell. Hehe. But these immigrants disrupt hygiene in India.
2 comments:
I don't know if this is the high talking but I found it beautiful. Narcotics tend to disrupt perceptions though. I'll read it by night again to see if it still reads the same.
I find Proust intimidating and Claudel, unrhymed and mystical.
Did they get you to trade your heroes for gold? Your comforting blow for a stare so cold?
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