Cheap, cheap penny Cheap

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.

Biraha

June 16, 2008, Monday
Biraha, the grief of being separated and away from what perceives as one’s own or the sadness that surrounds when one senses a future loss of a perceived important person in one’s life. Such Biraha surrounds in urgent hours of ten at night. The loss is not painful because it depicts the going away of them but that it indicates emptiness when you suddenly turn a card and become a page that is long turned and yellowed. Helplessness twirls around like small leftovers of a whirlpool. All you can ask is why such persistence. It makes one wonder if they actually realize how important time is and whether they know that in spite of using all cosmic energies they will never be able to return to this point in time, emotion, situation and age as now. I want to run like Whitman, naked and undisguised and gain that ideal, godly stubbornness and loaf around. But attachments make me weak. I, who has never had attachments and have willfully ranted, will persevere to be so, but in a more tranquil and introspective way.

Splitting Headaches

Karma. I am in search of peace. A never ending peace. Peace that denotes joy. At every step I should meet with an astringent that is not as electrified as mine. Not so impatient. Not so bubbling with surface froth. But forgive me before that. I am genuinely washing my cheeks with tears. Eyes see more clearly than ever. The whole night, with the burning oil, I have burnt my own soul. Trust me, for once more. Or, actually don’t. But don’t forget me. It will take time to let loose the insecurities, dreads and fears that surround me with the night when I am alone with my own self. The thought of you makes me look back at blemishes. You are that which I was and I have come a long way. A full circle almost. From disbelief, effacing limits of the conscience, hedonism, pure physical pleasure to partially forced tears to realizing the need for peace in my heart, I have come a long way. It is like a lamb. I hurled it around. Threatened it and locked it up. I stepped in a world of sheer need and want. I grew feeding on your happiness. I myself cannot imagine how I deserted you. I confess it was base of me. That is where began the journey of what I am today. But there is a path that I see. What is gone is irreplaceable. Should I regain faith in Karma, I should only try and be forgiving, understanding and calmer. That is how the maze of sentiments, that drives what one sees upfront, will be visible. Self dignity is lost somewhere. I need to regain it because that is how I will love and respect myself when you are gone. Flames light up, little lamps full of fire, at an ungodly hour as soon as I sit up and agree that nothing divine exists. Embracing agnosticism, uncertainty and the absence of things is scary. Affreux, in French describes it perfectly. How is this heart to be at ease when all around there are gazes and stares looking through the body stripping it off? Also, what seemed quite inscrutable, enigmatic and seductive, now just appears animal. A swamp, a terrifying swamp of buzzing cars and slithering slimy men look to be deliberately grazing your physical space. The space of “I” is so negotiated, so cramped that I shudder at the thought of standing nude in a public square and declaring that I want to erase limits between me and the objects that I use. I read somewhere; darkness is not an entity by itself. It’s a mere counter-entity. It denotes the absence of a characteristic and not the presence of another. It is precisely why we cannot control the amount of darkness, cannot increase or decrease darkness. Cats seem to draw attention and distract me. The mysterious element must be the key. But can’t you look beyond words since I agree that I cannot translate the emotion into sentences aptly? An opportunity is lost. I dare say after an eon, maybe (God) served me right to feel so miserable and cry like a dodo because wisps of ideas are caught in my throat but they fail to transform correctly. Maybe this is the punishment of a writer.