Love...Shite...Clueless!

Love stories they say are made in heaven. But my question is, are they truly? You couldn’t possibly have a cupid flying around half naked, with a tiny bow and arrow, shooting or rather trying to mark a target for the perfect ‘love struck’. Love, if it has to happen, happens. Or happens only if you take it seriously. Treat it like a task.

•   Find boy/girl
•  Look deep into his/her eyes
•  Fall in love
• (Try to) Sustain it

I mean, love definitely doesn’t strike a chord like that. Maybe there is more to it than what merely meets the eye. Maybe the physical proximity is also what calls the shots. The brushing of hands, the entwining of fingers, the caressing, the hugging...well the list can go on. Basically the point is, to find love, or even to fall in love, one needs to get close. Take a step at a time probably, and not rush in to it.

Or maybe ‘m blabbering here. To love is to just cut the crap and know the person, inside out, quite literally. Shoot down the damn cupid and break his arrow. Make your own mistakes and find your own way to it.

Love happens. But then so does shit!

Vengeance in disparity

(For lack of certain characteristics in the English language, this write up makes use of profanities)

The title comes through as a very strong, deliberate attempt to sprout anguish at the lethargy that this world exhibits. For certain people, that is the way of life. Whatever happens, happens. Whatever doesn’t happen, fuck it!

In this debate of ‘happening’ and ‘fucking it’, there are certain immortal souls that go through an ordeal that only their (yet) patient minds have been experiencing. Then comes a point, where in nothing happens and all that remains is ‘fucking it’. With time, comes a phase where you give in or rather give up, to the continuous cycle of this anhydrous so-called-life. Nothing holds potential anymore and nothing seems appetising.

(Not even this piece of pie that lies obsolete in desolation!)

(Fuck! Food deviates me!)

So, coming back to the point, the title comes from the point of view that people, are in fact dickheads. It is not to offend you, or anybody for that matter, but my friend, it is time to face reality. Come out of your cocoon, break the shell, get the fuck out of hibernation and take a wide-eyed look at the universe that surrounds you. It is a rosy picture alright, except for the fact that they never tell you that it’s fitted with thorns. One prick here and another prick there. Dickheads.

But the question still remains unanswered, what is the motive? Why this dickheaded-ness? What pleasures does it give?

(ermm...please avoid thinking anything perv...)

The only conclusion my tired, fickle mind reaches at this hour of the day (yes it is late....very late...in the night!) is that for them, the universe is one tiny speck, that they rule. And this speck, floating aimlessly in the arbid and existentially impotent world of ours, is as rightly said, aimless. It doesn’t matter, what hinders, if anything hinders at all. “I’m a free-floater and I will float freely in my little cosmos!”

As someone rightly said, whatever happens, happens. Whatever doesn’t happen, fuck it!

(oh wait...that was me!)

Justifications...

Justifications...

Why do we need justifications?

Why do we need to explain our stand?why do we always need to prove?

Why do we unconsciously, begin to explain our actions, when not a single soul is interested?

Why do we scream our heart out, when not one person can hear it beat?

Why do we need a 'hence proved' when there is no conclusion that is seeked?

Questions, doubts, fears...an endless sea.

The answer, probably just another 'JUSTIFICATION'.

Escapist...

ESCAPE. From relationships. From sunshine. From lonely winter nights. From the lime-light. From surrounding laughter. From downpours. From romantic candle-light dinners. From classic reunions. From tears. From jealous prying eyes. From over-confidence. From thoughts. From idleness, and Idolness. From friendships of the heart. From undying love. From eternal happiness. From melodies and symphonies. From materialism. From soul-searching and wandering. From daydreaming. From hunger. From favouritism. From prejudice. From two-faced-ness. From gyrating questions. From finding the right answer. From trying to be someone you're not. From high heels. From bare feet. From walks hand-in-hand. From poetry written on dried walls. From the road that beckons. From the mall that entices. From exoticism. From the unrealities of the world. From change. From being constant. From getting scared to speak your mind. From being too blunt. From withdrawing. From exploring. From creating. From demolishing. From writing. From putting pen to paper...

Escape...from Everyday!

an ode...

She lay still. Eyes half closed, a mouth parted, probably gasping for air. Everyone
came and hovered around her. The soft murmurs seemed to upset her. The
eyelids that were half parted now seemed to be glowering at those around her.

She seemed to remember, the Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock. 'In the room,
women come and go, talking of Michelangelo'. The first two lines also seemed
to fit in well,and she recited them silently in her mind.'The evening is spread out
against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table...' Although the evening was
far from what Eliot would've proposed, she did look like a patient etherized upon
a table.

People walked around, making sure they didn't touch her feet or hurt her in
anyway. Thank god for so much sensibility. Some kept staring at her, hoping
she'd open those half-closed eyelids and stop playing peek-a-boo! But nothing
happened. The hands and feet were tied together and she couldn't do anything.
The head was covered and so was her soul, probably in emotions that were kept
hidden from her in years. Tears, smiles, memories, all lashed upon her like a
tsunami of unforseen gestures.

She lay there, still. Not a muscle twitched nor a hair moved. She was content, in
seeing everything hover around her. The world truly now moved for her, and she
was the center of the universe.