Will I ever reach... or the last dramatic breath

This is the most dramatic moment to word this agony and tiredness and complete the ritual of a post after every semester. Though, this one seems the longest ever which started with film making and what not and ended in shams of me. Finally, the exams are over. The wait is shortened by a flight back home so that I don't have to rot away in the train. I have had this intense urge to reach home which is now culminating in the worst of fears. Dramatic because I am sitting at the airport and writing this. Battery dying. Will finish later for sure! Argh!

Dosa and soap

Yeah, well you won't understand. It's complicated. You don't have the privilege of access to our chats and messages. Yeah, well we are friends, not really. A little different. I mean, we are a little crazy. We stop and think and talk and stop and hate and like then love then fight then write then click and delete and tear and eat and jump and shake and wiggle and smile 'cos we are like that only. You see, it's complicated.
We are sometimes like Dosa and soap. Slime and base and eyes and lick and tickle and pinch and poke. You can't eat Dosa without soap because once you eat and then layers will form of oil and then you will want to put those flying strands of hair behind your ear because nowadays girls cut hair to make it fly so hair will fly and oil will touch hair and hair will stick and moisturizer plus shampoo will become useless and dust will stick. I will run to you, on the steel wash basin and see you are not there but I knew you wouldn't be but I still see a phenyl bottle and in desperate hope for good measure I open and put some hoping it is you, soap. No rescue because you throw my beautiful exciting tales in my face like flying polythene bags shoved under the trash can right when I start ranting and have no remedy to make oil less viscous.
I have taken many a long breath of my lives because it is good to breathe long. Long and short, long makes proud of life more delayed and short makes guilt of stacking huddled life. Long means healthy and short means hurried curry. But only you understand and the other find oh-so-enigmatic and only you catch conceits but the other oh-so-debate. Layers of us, Dosa and soap.
Ps. You take the foul words too.

Certainly deciding what I don't want

They all blend in together and seem to rush in together, brick, orange and rain. While I walk on extremely tangible gray stones seen through coffee mixed with bitter orange juice in perfectly melody synched deserted towns and tying a gold amulet around my neck I can feel the mad, lingering, biting, plaguing powerful feeling of wanting to lay affect like rubbing round circles on the back of your palm and toeing the first hair on your leg. That gleam makes me surge like a sandy wave filter through my porous clothes leaving a tanned sinful good feeling about my body. The dead, the nude and the fillers in the frame seem to urge me to go on because sunset is not the place to keep feeling this. Till then, colorful little washed out jaded purple cloth pieces and rusty salty iron bangles keep me busy. Buy some paper and scratch flowery curves, paper thick yellow cloth and fold it quietly into the big cloth straw bag, brown and deep red. By night time freckles and red spots make me comfortable with the skin I wear and the balmy evening's oily nudging and the book under the armpit are both in rhyme with how I may feel the best about me. It is then and only there that you may access what I want to see, show. We all three should witness the spectacle together.