Let me soothe your transit

Somewhere close to a dedication to a few friends of twelve years or so. Even others:

Your longing gaze that now, is ever flooded and drooling, oozing a strange batter of odd ambitions and little failures; your little flutter of a heartbeat that has long forsaken peace, sleep and the option of a graceful defeat, listen. Ahead is a lot of noise, I am afraid I will lose you.Come back.

You left today. I don't feel anything at all. You felt sad and uneasy while leaving this time. It is like this I think. Our life works in two worlds. We work with our minds and hearts shut to all pleasant heartwarming scenes and sounds in the world outside. Then, we eagerly run home in the break and suddenly our frozen bodies come alive. We laugh, talk and play. The real person that I am, the child within, etc comes alive. This is a magical town. Maybe some replenishing quality in the water. On the other hand, the world outside in those cities is like Gotham city, or the "Flying Dutchman" and its people are like those half dead rotting corpses. No matter how much they spend, what they eat it does not satiate them. Meaning: They cannot enjoy anything they do or cherish it in memory unlike you and me who meet every summer and talk the same and still feel joyous.
Who says that growing up is all this? Who says it means having to swear like a pro? I love the way you put so much effort in your argot and still end up like the funniest spoof of Max Payne. :) I like that you are so stupid sometimes that I want to "uplift" you from life itself.Hehehe.
Don't ask me how it feels to be left alone at home a day before leaving it. I can so dream the Hogwarts express tomorrow, cold and bleak, rain lashing at my windows while I am transported to the sea-version of Auschwitz where a monster (deadlier than Kraken) devours all buildings, people, memories, dreams, desires ( the usual bundle of words) but asymmetrically.
More I dread is those scumbags of scholars who have well fashioned me into priding the fact that I know I am not sure of anything in the smart world outside. They are the ones to blame if you and I think "The lover is actually the beloved" is a lame thought. Down with them if I cannot enjoy the Renaissance art and sing sweet old village songs. I hate Derrida and his deconstruction. I think he was a real nutjob to be not able to pretend that he liked the aesthetic of big pictures and start critiquing my nose hair.
Come back, I do not know where the train stops. The stops will change every few years but the train goes on. The point is how far are we willing to go? Figuratively and literally.

Samarkand Sweetheart

The death of a bicycle.

It has broken "peddles" and the basket is gone, the victim of your stunt rides, the bearer of your school bag, the dragged burst tyres and the faded metal gray finish. In blood, wounds, sun, rain and sports days, what stayed with me was this bicycle. When I proudly picked it, saw it being assembled and rode it to school everyday I infested a coating of the soul on it. Some bond was made on 11th of November. Some far memory such as Samarkand cold sprang up when you proudly chanted away how it is daily bruised now. I see the glare and guilt inducing stare. I know I am your culprit my dear Devil in red letters.You stand in the courtyard like everyday, just a little more worn, rusted, feasted upon by my brother. My mate in ruins, sharer of my grandpa's hopes and the most comfortable seat in scorching afternoons, I leave you at the mercy/non-mercy of the brother. Sorry.

Wanted urgently!!

Standing on a fleeting train is the most fun a girl can have in the absence of a camera. I was comiing back on the train via Launda-Meeraj route. It was so liberating that it could untangle knotted life strands in seconds. I saw the most beautiful Ghats that I see all the time. Then, I decided. I want to work for 8 months a year, for the rest 4, I will travel, eat, cook, click, meet and pass the self through shredding machines of popular culture, collect various whoa artefacts and be happy. All this sounded really fun until I realised I would not like to do it alone. But, I am very particular as to who I may not want along. But, I really want someone, girl/boy to come on this journey by trains, buses, planes, feet,cycles, rain, sun,night, day etc.I do not have too much patience and bag packing is not required for this stuff. So, just whisper if you wanna come along. I ll buzz you when I run away. Something very motorcycle diaries minus the life changing,world improving ambitions.

Blame it on the Black Star

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

I get on the train and I just stand about now that I don't think of you
I keep falling over I keep passing out when I see a face like you
What am I coming to?
I'm gonna melt down

I can't help being anal. I ain't bossy but I have compulsive ticks.
Blame it all on me. But, return. Actually, return so that I can show you the new me. Then, I ain't interested.

Anna Belle Switchfoot Mahogany

Oh bab-ey! She bangs-she bangs-she moves-she moves! I am happy! I am so happy I could not describe. This is one of the Phew-hah's. Sunday and a pink braid in my hair with a fish at the end is fascinating. I so feel like a little chicken with pink attire. I feel nice. I hate stalkers. I genuinely do, because I do not like unknown unintelligent, possibly unattractive guys texting me. Rebuke the racism but Mals repel as well. I slept at a stretch for 16 hours again. Actually I have become so comfortable with my circadian rhythms that I have set them at 18th December, 7:30 p.m. That is the time I start journey to station. Until then all time will be spent in waking sleeping. Ooh! I love manipulating! I love letting out sly secrets of informal enemies. I love being a prick and then flashing the winner smile. And, I don't get my roommate's obsession with maturity. That's okay. I think all teenagers tend to be obsessed with such stuff.
We have this exemplary ranting about Anne Frank's livid teen experiences during WW in our psycho text. All in our time is war and there is no love in times of cholera. Then abey the demotivator barks: There is no question of my existence.
Now its me. I need to rely on my collective imagination powered by social fantasies. I have a very powerful visual imagination but a weak hand to realise the same. There are tiny pixies pink and purple caught in a glass globe. Pixies inherently, inertly carry out thoughts, dreams and impulses. I want such a pixie in the pit of my stomach for, I wish to be unattainable, the wanted, the desired, the comet on whose tail you can ride. Right now it may sound all vague passion boredom anarchy comic book that all kids prey on but trust me, in is a truth there:

There exists nothing in this world beyond what I want to see, the way I want to see it and the influence exerted due to my social contracts in the store room. I so originally say this (snigger):
Look inside. There is nothing outside. Ooh! I feel a high when I say this. Similar high as when I eat Rajma rice or self-made Pulao. I cook really good Pulao. Do you know you get wine for Rs 23 a bottle. Yummy wine.