Little maladies of the ever molten heart

But, there is always an ounce of pragmatism in all affective dealings of the heart. There is always an element of personal reveries and side business in the distributed matters of the bargain.
There was once a black cat, lanky, little fur. Someone went round and round and wound her in red wool, tugged somewhere, pulled at other ends, fit the cat in awkward corners in an open room and then tied an end to the wall on a side. No matter how much the cat jumps and throbs and pounces and purrs, in the end she is flung back with equal action and reaction to the wall. The poor wall is constant though, silent and calm, as pale as never, perhaps hurting a little somewhere with all the throwing but resilient in pain and composed in multiple layers of paint. The cat could only feel one.
Foolishness is sine qua non to all rationale of love and so is the act of balancing. Just that here the ingredient is extreme patience, understanding, packing bags, graceful goodbyes and an utter state of chaos that plagues and stings the mind like a deep stuck splinter in some skin fissures. It keeps going black and blue amidst phases of resolve, of standing up, of forgetting, of joy, of thorough anger. Pure anger and pure madness. If I were you, I'd never throw it all away with the softest and lamest reason of distances. First you distance from you, then you distance from mind,then you keep in distance a solid pretty image of our beautiful frozen time together.
Edit: I felt like there were bricks in my stomach, each preserved as futile as the other rags, old papers etc. But, those should also lift magically and melt into clay and time that apparently heals it all should cork your movements. So is not true. Every evening I skim through almost a spectrum of emotions ranging from immense detachment to extreme disgusting creepy clinging. Only some of them at certain times I can show you. But, as I distance, I am confident that old self is wakening. I just can't get over one conundrum of broad daylight, why all that needed to be dumped into the sewers.

Tagging blind with a man

Throwing the head back in laughter or the folding the laughter back in the head, he dispels all the doubt as I breathe into sudden normalcy. But, to think of it, I had been hoping for exactly the opposite somewhere deep down, no deepest, at the same pit of the vertical well of spiraling madness that hangs just a rung, suspended from my stomach. I was lifting and depositing huge boulders of literal, dried, thickened cement there and going in an eight formation only to collapse in the last shadowy cold portions of the caves that sprout from each spiral section of the stairwell. The well is just one of the morbid fleeting emotions you evoke when you bind me up in circular posters and plaits of black cloth, hook me by the arm and take me on a stroll in some black cube. It blinds me, little fleeting betrayals of emotions, all terrified, all jutted and ashamed, melting, drowning and sinking in my own lugged, gassed flipping doors, one by one, open and close, close then open, then regret then relapse, resolutions, I knew the better of me then, or wait! It is now that I have what I should. I am blind, not seeing but hearing the constant mumble, the low rumble, that like of leaves, of the only language I have not known, of bolted bronze locks, thud! The sound of the world tightly knotted in your fists while you strut me around the arm, of the only little place that I cannot squiggle into. All remedies in vain. I am begging on the knees and searching each inch of the relic for overlooked openings. Such terror of the polished beauty, sure of its worth. Makes you feel all sand like, being poured again and again, slithering effortlessly down to the same ground, squirming in limited ability.

First of the heartfelt fuzzy farewells

To,
Missus Literature clad in elaborate sequined shawls and beautiful saris, standing like the Marianne with a more urgent cause on the brink of a literary revolution. The churner of all the plodded fat greasy brains in my half fantasy and half nightmare of a real classroom. To study, to learn, to write, to talk, pose and proclaim poetry, misquoted paragraphs of long dead revolts, all this comes carefully arranged in an embroidered exotic cloth bag to us Jezebels of the civilisation of coded clothes and numbered people. To foster such beasts, little devouring, completely shunning responsibility, dragging you in all mirth to the same marshes of pale drying grass and thorny mud dips, where the pride is of reclaiming the dirty, the thrown, the rejected, the drunk and smashed heap of pigs with a guitar, crooning to silly dead mean of the long past revolts. How your eyes gleam at revolt? How pitifully naively you indulge in the big fat project of futile trips to the past, kitschy mimicking of hope fuelled trips to glory? Coming in, like a mad little swirling wave, the seriousness of a physicist and the aspiration of a young girl who furiously paints by the sea. Such ridiculous statements, you. Such painful flogging, like a swarm of moths we do. Tongue that stutters while drifting into reveries like you, mind that sticks so faithfully clerklike to the residual prudish modest writing. That which sifted and escaped in three years of rigorous iron-cut literary studies, needed the hoarse barking of a lily you.
In what you and I share and bleed for in our secret conversations, and for all the smirks that others who stuff our blank dazes with, we gladly saved what we both love dearly. Suspicion of my fate has it that someday I might be pounding head similarly on some other grey walls, that could be my only giftworthy promise to you.

Simple till the start of ending

Long long time since I haven't written. So, I see that people stick on only for the cheap thrilling stories of the upturned life of teen-ish girls, I must commit to writing again. Though there's not much of a 'bang' idea to rant this time.
What do you do when you push yourself, consciously into something that you've always envied in others? Does it ever happen to you? You keep staring at a face and the nose seems suddenly so big, like a misplaced cartilage on a mummy's face and the jaw is no longer so sharp and strong. And, when you could only stare and groan in fantasy, plunge in horror tales of unfortunate non-happenings, the beast was so marvelous, little almonds for slits and fingers like glued pieces of symmetric bone. Then, well you boned it and you can't stop moaning about it. Later, its just quick pulses of feverish pretense in the name of love fever. No fervor, no odes, in it and you have it and you know it that you don't want it but you never probably did and were not meant to fall for it. But, while you have it now you must keep it since all do it and you won't get it if you don't act it. If you kept wondering, falling asleep with an open mouth, if something was wrong before you figured it all, nothing was. Perhaps the only problem was an overdose of philanthropic company with a misle of horny deficient toads (of whom you thought you were one). You tripped for the ugliest story and launched yourself in complete earnest desire for sane little happy givings and gettings and might in the between of the gap of the fingers, smell the ginger or fish for a ring and find a Dalloway in the bag, get uneasy where the Woolf dreams went away. But, why need them at all when perfect bliss encounters you very ordinarily. There's no mistletoe, no blood tear sweat either. It's very simple and uttered in plain English. To return, rather to force return from such astoundingly simple encounters is painful.

Pleasures of youth are always unhealthy

There will be excerpts. There must be more of them. Eventually, they are just obvious proofs of what will turn out to be the most interesting book ever written and read that could be produced out of me.
I could feel each click as I breathed in and out, laid coiled heaped at the gray stone steps of the cold temple within fifteen meters of the snoring saddening heavy sand by the insignificant moonlight, lingering, adding to the meat freezing numbing sickening cold. As my body lay huddled like a heap of twine I dipped in a burgeoning stream of indulgent thoughts, remembrances and half accomplished meetings. As fatigue mixed with old age drained from my eyes, shaping my shoulders percolating into the dusty orange of my flowing flimsy skirt, I thought of you dear Lord like deserter. In this same mellow cotton of the beach, I would run forward, toward you, yet looking behind. The nape and the back, the strings tying the exploding excited limbs that themselves could not contain beads of furtive encounters. A quarter of me losing direction of the wind and a half is measuring the receding dithering you.
[cut to]
Warm smoke is clouding the folds of my neck. Now, I can sing along very well. I'll tell you everything about living free! I like purple filters and orange lights in my bath tubs as lather flows down my Siam skin. I was feeling kind of sea sick but now I am smelling salts. Switching like merry radio channels and closing my eyes only to see the coast. I work now and make clean bread breakfasts and walk through swept chrysanthemum streets. I love my clean kettle and I will tell you what made me disgusted.
The pleasures of youth, the overdose of comforting margarine foods, the strained night hopping to slap the morning sun in his face, unwashed drowsy tired scents on clothes. All the pleasures of youth are always unhealthy.