Bitter Night

Unwrap the silence and perish.

Your lips smooth
and lonely, piercing
with every word
unsaid.

Take into account
my sadness, my
withdrawn attempts to
salvage phantoms
of promise.

Scream.
I want to feel words
hurtled across my heart,
moments cold
like needles, the novelty
of your body now
a burden.

Scream, for I have
forgotten how to
speak.

I cannot leave
till you hate me, words
like scissors cutting
illusions that might
gleam.

Your lips smooth
and lonely, piercing
with every word
unsaid.

Book In Hand, Late

There are lights beyond, I dream.

Someone faintly ascends
wooden steps, creaking like old
age, and steals the amber drizzling
across half-open books, ageless.
Hey, come back, the words
softly crackle on my tongue.

Sleep, a word slips gently
into sleep, where the lights
flow once more, like a river.

..

What is beautiful? Robert Frost and the smell of winter. Sleepy mornings and green jackets. Ice cubes and long walks. Heartbeats and mountains. Brittle leaves and the lone bird at 3 AM. You in my head. Music flowing in a mist. Wet palms and flickering streetlamps. White moon in a black sky. Crumpled paper and silent puddles. Mangoes and Norah Jones. Random words in last day's newspaper. Everytime I decide to say Baby and stop. Shoulder taps that mean nothing. The promise of change. Images that make me feel I'm dreaming. The word butterfly and not the insect. Everytime someone says Hello when I thought someone never would.  Littleness and strangeness and pretty pretty vagueness. Plumcakes and blue cars. The feeling that there's more to what is left. Songs I want to hear a million times. Idle afternoons and laidback future plans. Flamboyant football and laughter. Moments and moments and moments. And yes. 

Possession

Cut-out photos, your nose 

glued on my dusty green

schoolbag, the one left

in the cupboard to

rest. ( There was a torn 

letter in the upper chain, 

words glimmer still, or

so I dream, still heady, half-

curious .) 

Eyes encircled using black

dot pens, perforated balls : 

model of an ant's craftmanship- 

scattered in square little 

boxes on a floor smelling

of late summer love. 

Give it to me, I said,

and the face came apart, 

like weak clouds, or weak 

names, or weak sticks 

supporting a painting. Given,

I trembled to hold. Maybe there

was a breeze that evening, shadow

of a howling storm.  

Lips pasted on the other

side of an unread maga-

zine, the only promise

can be your kiss. ( Or, that is

what my interested friend

tells me. You're dead, I

gesture, a lefthand swipe. 

He likes it. The thought of other-sided-

ness, love and darkness, candles

and ghosts, almost arouses

his imagination.) 

And When We Meet Again

M : Do you remember the days when I stared at you, from a distance, like there could not be anything more interesting and different than your face, your strange blue eyes and the
soft laughter waiting behind your lips to fall like a fountain of tulips? 

W : I saw a different man, a different nose and eyebrows too thick for my liking, a sadness beneath a battered smile, a slow blinking as if time held no meaning anymore, a grave shake of the head as if the world had been conquered and spat out and nothing remained to be achieved, to be played and forsaken and loved. 

M : Do you know that the evening mist was just an idea, like your footsteps tinkling like fragile winter bells was an idea, like the magic in your words was an idea, or maybe a dream, or a thought that made my heart feel significant?  

W : I saw him put out his hand, dirty and crumpled like a wasted oil painting of a promising landscape, I felt him press my hand like a tired man, dead passion resounding in a soft squish, I felt him say Hello like it was being repeated in an eternal phone conversation, I felt him like he was not there, I felt him like a stranger for the first time since I lost him. 

M : Do you know I told you love was what departure means, what the beginning of absence made you feel, and you shook your head and took my hand and felt it against your ears as if I was the only sound you wanted? 

W : I saw what I would not have wanted to see, what was worse than absence, than a memory which felt like needles and numbness, I saw a memory extinguish itself and become nothing. 

M : Do you know? 

Remains

You told me happiness was not far away,

that a broken cause is actually the

strongest there can be, that laughter was

the first word, you told me to wipe

the frown off and laugh, and so



I'm angry, I'm angry

that you didn't tell me

that your words

would not die

with you.

A Writer's Discourse

Often, while lines broke off, words
streaming wayward, pages and pages
disappearing in magical puffs, often
in the middle of such incongruity

I wondered if silence was a better
way of saying it.

Affirmation

I, Everything. 

Pop. 

After Re-Reading The Hollow Men Two Times Two, Failing To Realize That Unfinished College Assignments Need To Be Finished, I Write :

This is the way delay begins

This is the way delay begins

This is the way delay begins

Not with a whimper but a bang. 

and if you're interested : http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/784/

..

How The Overtly Verbose SmartChap Convinces His Gullible GirlFriend That BreakUp Is Not Only Necessary But Poetic

..Tumble down the stairs, changing colour every step, and fall into my arms, your hair sliding down my face like a cold wave of air. Look up, to see, to sigh, to stare, to dare me to pick you up and rush outside, into the windswept forests, where the moon glides low, peeping from between the clusters of leaf-stars, rustling, murmuring, trembling. Hand in hand, through the unknown haze, discovering ourselves as we gaze deep down into horizon’s face, noticing a couple of children play, their laughter seeping out like warmbright rays into the cushion of clouds, the sky of promise, the breath of day. Not without laughter shall we depart, your eye in my eye in your eye, as the path branches, blanches, and breaks into two, challenging us, playing with our wits, sending down ripples of bittersweet pain down our spines, our lines, our delicate insides . Possibilities at the end of the road, where everything begins all over again, twinkling, smiling, shy; possibilities merging into one grand story, when we shall not be separate specks of bodily being anymore, but a song of unison, a flame of passion, a haze of joy, continuous, unblinking, pure. 

Unfinished Business With A Pseudo-Conservative Who Apparently Wants It Slow

The candle goes out
Poof, like a sunburnt romance, 
As the shadows roll-up and vanish
Into the conjurer's cardboard lair. 

There, but not there. 

Plucking up courage,  
Boom, like gravity from the sky,
I fall on your lap, flowers dipped
In honeysauce,the smell skimming
Down your thighs, before

The hand arrives. 

Dreaded swish, the flowers squirming 
In air, gravity all too clear, fleeting
Mid-air despair, as Hello, whispers
The dust-baked ground, near, near. 

Not fair,

I scream into her eyes, glimmering
Stones showcasing the birth of desire 
In the dusty dark, as I gradually
Realize her burning fear; for all I
Care, I hope I am 

Nearly there.

Game

Spread your fingers wide, and ask for
cluttered rhymes, patternless and sublime;
Sprinkled wet, since the rain never stops
while I shape lines. If you resist, and I guess
you will, for your ego's still shy, it is with
solemn triumph that I shall announce :
Oh dear, the Goodbye's all mine.  

Inside

Dead night. Piano and stars, suicide notes and moonshine. I had been staring at her too long - silver lines dismantling, merging, bending; her body unraveling itself, a story decomposing. Trick light. I looked away, faraway, where lines and dots don't hold meaning anymore. Into space, ceaseless and open. 

Of course I love you. 

The birthday cake was smelling

strange, too much candlewax and salt - 

I knew I could trust you. Never wondered

why you cried.    

Candle flame. A shawl burning red, the laughter in her eyes. Should I call this resistance? Revolution? Love. The maze on her wrists, my kisses on dried scars. Does she not remember the parties? Grand turn-outs. Exquisite cuisines, from the most exotic, the most improbable of cultures . I tried. I always thought there was a gleam in her eyes: pale, but promising redemption, promising to fight the pain; the pain, invisible, permeant, born in images she could never describe.   

Of course I love you. 

Bright day. Another dainty robe, 

hair in place, bracelet grace. Just

what the doctor ordered, I say. 

You don't think I fought those 

bullies for someone else? Smile, 

it's not much, just more than a small

face. 

I always knew I was wrong. She wouldn't understand. I couldn't let her escape, dissolve in the vapour outside, lost as one more shadow wanting to find the truth, the lie, the concrete in the blur. Maybe I didn't understand. I never believed in stories, in myths she drowned while I shook her, while I tried to reveal that this is the real world, this. The dust. And the pills, always the pills. They came in all sizes, fuzzy colours, perfect shapes. Capsules of hope. 

Of course I care.  You think

there are ghosts in your closet-

now isn't that fantasy? Ghosts,

decked in sparkling pain, you might

say. Always the stain of memory-

let me help you lose it, here, 

let me love you.   

It was difficult. I lied to David about the bruise beneath her left eye. Only time I hit her. I saved her. Down, in the dusty cellar, cut off from the blaring monotones of pleasure, observing her sketching life with fingernails. A clown, a four-legged animal, and thumb-prints. She giggled after I hit her.  

It was you, when the clock struck

two, the notes rhyming true. 

My heart resounds this

time- for once, I know you are

one of few. Of course I

love you, of course I do.  

Chopin. Random notes, soft, loud, filled with an unkown, unexplored passion. Black and white. Pity, I never thought she would play, never half-expected her to lift the lid and bear the sound. I thought she would yield to the suffering she finds in every minute particle in this house, in what she wanly terms confinement. I had to protect her. Her protection was entrusted to me, and me alone by some alien consciousness pervading our relationship; if I let her go, if her road to emancipation had to be paved in my absence, away from my iron exterior, I would be crushed by the guilt of allowing her to lose herself, vanish into the jar of invisibility, into the promise of absoluteness.  

There are times when you

say it too, in whispers and

half-sighs, in the void of sleep, 

in the life of dreams. Of course I

love you. There are times when 

you..  

It might rain early morning. If I touch your neck, and find the coldness creeping down my fingertips, chilling my heart while I breathe : I shall only be certain that one more death for me, is one more life saved, one more light withheld in your bag of darkness. Cannot sleep. Cannot sleep. 

Let's See. Sandwich?

I woke up early today. Sipped my Glucon-D. Over. Lying down is a pain. Not a backache. Neck sprain? Nope. Arse mole, eh? Probably. No, not really. The time has come to pull my act together. Lying up? Pun. I was wondering if I'm trying to make sense of life. Having said that, I think I need to take a leak. Back to business. The regularity of naturality. Ooh. I write to liberate myself (from?) , structure my thoughts (why?) , and try to understand why I exist ( oh really?) . It all boils down to desire (of? for?). Emancipation of the soul (pseudo-intellectual?). Every moment, every miserable moment ( I mope? I whine? I, pessimist) I think I deluded myself the previous moment. The vagaries of memory. But, it's not just that, is it? Ranting is a pain. I am a pain. Arse mole. Prick. Swell. Prick. Pop? I wish.  

Actually, if I think hard enough, I might classify myself as an adventurer. Not the usual adventurous sort, sadly. In a more profound sense. Very good. Very deep. No fluids? Sorry, I'm not allowing anyone to jump. Crack head? Sure. There's a bottle of water staring back at me. I can look through you. Through your guts, into the other side. Continuum of space. In beginning lies the end. Vice versa? Don't dare. I don't waste time. I waste water. I waste electricity. I should not. O Conscience My Conscience. Pull my scrotum free. Don't you get it? Desire. It all has to do with desire. From the mid-torso? No, not that, not always that. Biologically, a large part of it. Filthy. Of the lowest, most ruthless primal kind. Involves back-biting and vertigo. Spin, spin, reel, crawl.  Fall? If you squeal. 

Speed burst. Sometimes, I feel I'm beyond how I express myself. That I'm not doing half-justice to the profound expanse that I am. Delusion? Oh, come on now. Words constitute the biggest limitation to my heartfelt enterprise. My weakness (my strength?). Words to express, but not enough, never enough. Or probably, I don't know enough techniques. Invisible, covert brushstrokes to spice up my canvas. Knowledge? Depends on what I'm trying to say. Why? Simple logic. Study, imbibe, build and then, express. My voice is gestating. Let's give it some time. And space. Impatience can only result in a deadly miscarriage. Slow, slow. 

Ideas > people? If I separate the idea from the person, does it not render the person dispassionate, dull and utterly inhuman? But if I have to understand the idea, is separation not only important, but necessary? I'm too naive. I can only ask questions. Curiosity of the innocent. 

I don't quite see the end. Not in my short-term future world. Thank you. 

No Change, Please

Man :  

I believe you.

I believe that the tea you made

Scalded my tongue. 

Woman :  

If cynicism is such a beautiful 

Game, wouldn't you be better off

Writing songs for the New World

Order? Don't believe me. 

I am inconspicuous, fleeting, hazy;

Unbelievably so.  

Man : 

It is beneath your dignity

To understand that monsters 

Don't breed in dark closets, but inside 

Unlocked rooms, hiding the face under

A mask, while concocting vile bitter

Words to hurt a few harmless sentiments.  

Woman : 

A reversal of roles? Oh, don't tell

Me, don't pretend to be goodytwoshoes

When you very well know 

The monster is you. 

And if I may add, a fat

One too. 

Man : 

Seriously, don't you have a heart,

Or worse, sense? I come back, dusty

Weary, with a heavy heart, unhappy, cold

Since the belief of your existence

Seems like a burdensome truth more

Often than not. 

Woman : 

What compels you to return? Hah,

Poor man, escape to gutters of

Joy, deserts of pleasure, don't let me

Add to your misery. Oh, poor man, go

Away and comfort yourself, who's telling

You to stay, to play this terrible game? 

Go away, poor man, before darkness creeps

Over day. 

Man : 

You incorrigible hag. Sorry, I did not

Mean to abuse, but if you may excuse me,

I intend to read the newspaper now, pass

A couple of toasts when it's ready. 

Okay? 

Woman : 

Back to your old ways, eh? 

[ Phone rings. Man gets up and receives the call. ] 

Man : 

Hello. 

Phone :

Zzz..redemption call..zzz..purgatory..zzz.  

Man : 

Purgatory? Sorry, but there

Is no escape from this hell. 

[ Man puts receiver down. ] 

Woman : 

If I am not mistaken, your

Sense of humour has taken 

A dive for the worse? How oddly 

I resist. Or tell me, have you indulged

Your humble soul in some ungracious 

Practical joke? Poor man, I really think

There are better ways to amuse yourself. 

Man : 

I see. I see brown. Toast, please. 

A couple, thank you. 

Woman : 

Wait, maybe this has to end. 

Do you think humiliation slowly corrodes

My ability to express my contempt in ways,

..Ways more physical than you would

Like to imagine? Do you think I shall 

Take it all gracefully, humbly, like a timid

Mouse in a cage, and not give it back

To you. 

Man : 

I do not wish to sound insouciant.

Nor do I think your rage deserves

My reaction or admonition, but seriously

Your tea is getting cold.   

[ Woman takes a step forward, her eyes a pale shade of crimson. ] 

Woman : 

You lousy fool. What do you

Take me for? Am I any different from

The morself of food you devour, or the piece

Of news you peruse? You implacable cynic, 

I have let you speak your un-mind, all too 

Easily, now is the time, now is the time

For redemption. Sadly, you don't exactly

Play a part in it. You clumsy fiend! 

Man : 

How do you spell ' Yawn' ? With

an E? ' Exuberance' starts with E. 

So does 'Emancipation' and 'Effort' and 'Eee'. 

Jokes apart, I think you are sad. You 

know, as I have been telling you, my sentiments

Are far gracious than yours. You refuse to understand

That your burrow is narrow . That you disappoint

Me. So much, that sometimes this man

Wishes to put his face down the sinkhole, 

To let nobody know that he's weeping. 

Weeping tears of bitterness, for having put up

With your stuck-upidity. 

Woman : 

You think you are clever, do you? 

You know you are clever, do you? 

Now let me show you what Stupidity can 

Really be. 

Man : 

Woman, can't you lie down and 

Sleep for a while? Or better, die. 

[ Woman smiles. Pretty crazily too. ] 

Man : 

Did I just..? 

[ Man smiles and looks down into the newspaper while biting his toast. Meanwhile, Woman picks up a sinister looking knife lying on the table and walks forward. Man keeps on reading the newspaper. ] 

Man : 

Ah, look now. Someone dropped 

A bomb again. The dustbin, ha! Suave, 

If I may use the word. 

[ whistles, while looking into the newspaper, but not really reading it ]

 ..I actually made you smile, now isn't this

The best thing that has happened in a while. 

Maybe, if I had to die, maybe this is the 

Opportune time. I actually made you smile. 

[ sighs ] 

[ Woman drops knife. ] 

Man [ looks up, startled ]  : 

Now, when did you come here, pussy

Feet? [ looks embarassed ] 

Maybe I didn't mean to say all that, maybe..

Listen, you may think I'm too full of negative

Energy, or whatever you may call it, but still..

..I care about you. 

[ Background chorus : Aww. ] 

Woman : 

Bad game, mister. 

Man : 

But, well, yes. 

Don't mind me saying this, but

Your tea's really freezing. 

Woman : 

Why, you miserable being, you

Spoiled the moment. Why don't

You realize that sometimes you

Have to put your foot forward, sometimes

You have to embrace the moment..Are

You so lacking in wit that..

[ Phone rings. ] 

Man [coldly] :

 Not me. 

[ Woman stares at Man for a second; then picks up the receiver.] 

Woman :

 Yes? 

Phone :

 Inferno! Inferno! INFERNO! 

Woman :

 Well, yes. 

[ frowns ]

But..

Oh, The Blabber

Here I am, sleeping, brooding, listlessly carving ellipses above my head. Or imagining it. Deadly proposition. If I call this moment the present, without further ado, shall I announce that I have already lost it? Someone told me I've grown thin and pale, like a crystal in hell. And that my stubble is not so young and pretty anymore, and deserve to be ungratefully eradicated. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the ghastliest of them all? If I, someday, in the un-ideally cluttered universe, cultivate amorous feelings for a scabrous viper, shall I be branded amoral? Then, I must delicately brandish my hammer of defense, and whisper, gently but surely, You suck. I have never quite understood the concept of futility, of frivolous and fatalistic futility, for I'm quite the sunshine in the darkness. Or the darkness in the arse-crack. Either way, I believe in overwhelming the opposition, beautifully and subconsciously, by pretending to be flexible. Ah, insincerity. Bring it on. Potloads and jarfuls. Ah, quite the word. Insincerity. Tell me, invisible reader, and I beseech you to be sincere while you contemplate : Can there be anything more insincere as sincerity itself? How can you be sure self-deception is not a natural phenomenon, or opposite-polarity shards of consciousness, aiding or mis-aiding perception? To talk in absolute terms would be downright silly, in my humble opinion. The word is Humble, dear reader. Grimace sesame.

Now that the universe is seething with silence, and the airconditioner in my cousin's room has subsided to a soft, almost indecipherable swoosh, I'm reminded of the oppressive trick-question every thinker formulates to relieve himself of his role : Are not words empty? For words are not enough. Not enough. And I feel sleepy.

Ah, the deception. Goodnight, anyway.

And I Say

Prick me with a needle or blow me with your air, enchant me with your eyes or still me with your smile, bore me with your cynicism or shoot me with a gun; do something worthwhile, lest I waste my time. Make me write a song, not too short or long, lest I give you silence, terrible and strong. I don’t know how it begins, O lady of my dreams, but don’t deceive me with your form, oh don’t take too long to form. This is strange, I know, but still I softly write, half-crouched in darkness, deconstructing pain. Hope is not the word, so I dare not blindly spell; maybe dreams are all I have, for stories to sustain. Tell me this, and tell me now, reader across the seas : Is solace all I seek, trapped in a glassful of need? Hah, my soul’s not too bright, fuzzy is my sight, but let me tell you this : Darkness is my light. Pretense I may spew, like an artist’s alien hues, but sincere is my game, of memory and pain. Deception? Ah, quite the frivolous dame! Bite and shake, make and break, deception in your name. I have digressed too far aloof, and now I pound my blame. On cul-de-sacs and silent graves, on morbid fantasies, lame. Back to the point mister! I grimace and say, Back to the valley of sense! So here I am, silent and stale, hungry for new game. 

To The Unclothed Mattress At Three In The Morning

The night's still awake, do not pine. 
Trickle a lullaby down my spine.  

Turning Down The Offer

1

Can I borrow your cheese?
Look, I am not made of moonlight
Blended in milk, but finely woven silk,
So you better act like a man
Walk past, and stand, next line.

2

Can I borrow your hairclip?
Are you acting sissy, or pseudo-
Obsessive, or whatever it is, my clip
Remains still a selfish worn-out clutch-of-knots,
And you better not, disentangle it,
Mister.

3

Can I kiss your thumb?
Too direct, the ray of longing sprouting
From the caverns of your darkness, but
Let me tell you, or technically, re-iterate,
I, unlike, most of my generation
Believe in true love.

4

Can I just smile at you?
Why would you?

5

Can I stare at you for five more minutes?
It would be more productive, to just
Drink soda and ice, and dream about
Tight-lipped women draped in starlight
Hiding more than they reveal, telling you
To stay.


5.5.1 And Sexist Spake, Reverse.

10

Can I borrow your camera?
You, with your dangling dragon-rings,
Curvy grace, open lace, viper face,
You make me drool, young woman,
What if I refuse to comply with your desire
But, tell you to quiver in front of the
Flash-light eye, blink ?

9

Can I borrow your cigarette?
To watch you burn in the golden light
Of latesummer, is but a fantasy, trapped
In the unconscious. To be more precise,
Since the cigarette dwells in solemn half-life,
You should actually pick up a mirror
And perceive the real fading fire, and
Let me peek, if you don't mind?

8

Can I embrace you?
O lady in blue, the stars crave for you,
In longing high, in content : sigh.
Don't let your image dissolve, by this
Sudden moderation of ego, this hapless
Sign of kindness, O lady of the seas,
Of the abounding light carried by the flies,
Hold on to your portrait of finesse, and let
The gods weep for you.

7

Can I love you?
But I may betray you.

6

Can I say Hello after five minutes?
My heart yearns for affection, a bit more,
A bit more, but the ideal is always broken
By the grain of sand in the spotless. I would
have loved you, if I were not so inadequate
In vision, or if not for the bearer of frying-pans
Reposing in the hallways of my station.


5.5.0. Amen.

Departure

Only when you sleep
shall I kiss those deep-blue eyelids
holding more secrets
than I can keep.

Tagged-O-Weird-O-By-Queen-Arse-Ship-O

This..

Life Ten Years Ago :

was cheerful,polite and oh-so-chocolaty-nice. I used to be a shy kid,never got into much trouble(apart from the time I wandered off to play football in some distant park,and lost all track of time;oh yes,I got whipped), and I used to be mortally petrified of my mother's glares,hajmola candy commercials,flying insects and late night trips to the bathroom. I used to tug my dad's chest hair while he slept,and laugh my head off;and urge my grandmother to be imaginative and tell me onemorestory(alas,the fairy queen turned into an irresistibly intransigent yawn,and I had to be content with dreary 60 year old snores) . School was (still) a nice place-with pen fight competitions,curious stares at things around me,having to live up to the 'goodboy' image,umbras and penumbras and Napoleon and morally uplifting children's literature and innovative craft lessons-ah, the pointlessness of it all. But the best part was what happened after school,in the bus : Cricket! Pencil boxes and paper balls,the cramped pitch(we couldn't even swing our arms properly in the narrow space),the cheers and the screams,and the frantic jump into our seats when the bus helper(not a pedophile or a garden spade fortunately) found the childishness too overbearingly carcinogenic,and attacked us with conscientious words and armpit fumes. Adventurous,yes.
And music made me happy,and I started singing in school functions,and getting free food packets. And damn,I used to watch cartoons(a generic non-adult trait,so I'm not going to elaborate) . Cheers.

Life Five Years Ago:

used to be a veiled pain-in-the-arse,a swollen farce,a deluded tryst with growing up and letting the innocence turn into conceit and angst,all for the sake of attaining half-hearted commercial pleasure. The headaches contributed to the ignominy (I have a tapeworm in my head;just a speck now,though-for biology enthusiasts,the medical condition's called neurocystisircosis.And for the conscientious lovers and sympathetic aunts,it's much better now,although I guess it did leave me permanently deranged. ) Used to fight with my mum a lot(and I suppose the greatest thing that changes as we grow up is our conception of freedom,from wide-mouthed wonder to spontaneous rebelliousness to drooped-down disillusionment=bleh.),hated cornflakes and crows and cigarettes,felt mentally-out-of-place in school(maybe I should have talked with a few more people,then again,I don't regret),remained silent most of the time,grew fat (the steroids that I had to take didn't help much) and used to be perpetually distracted. (and down went the marks,and down came the motherly scorn)
I guess the only thing that I was sincere about at this point of time was music,and spent hours at end listening to Neil Diamond and Amir Khan records . And at the end of this phase,I started playing football again,wrote my first serious poem (naive and obscure and depressive;the essence doesn't change,does it?) and finally,finally embraced the wonder that is S&G. And days spent with Dikai used to be the happiest days in the year (are you listening,brother?) And had my first crush,confessed it and got sucked into a friendship,which didn't last but which,essentially nurtured my sense of judgment,and in the end,made me so clear-headed and mature,that I just let her go.

Life Tomorrow:

Has to be seized,distilled and realized. (And I'm here to learn,the sadness and the laughter follows.)

Five Locations I would like to Run Away To:

Five,my blogreaders,is not the level where I'd restrict my wander-libido. And I don't need to 'run away',I could just walk.

1) Iceland. (for the snow,for Sigur Ros,for..)
2) Wacken.
3) Um,the British Council?
4) And I can't help but spell out a cliche : A desert island. (with Scarlett Johansson?) Eeks.Mmm. :D :|
5) ...

Five Bad Habits I Have:

My mother claims to sing out a million under a minute,but clearly she's not doing the tag on my behalf. So,here,I hurl at you filthy sharks me naturally obtrusive wrongdoings :

1) I procrastinate. (and in the process,successfully exasperate a fair number of people)
2) So I'm incapable of waking up early,my mother continues to condemn it,and I continue to bask in my insomniac-ness.
3) I spend too much time with myself. (loner?social retard?whatever?)
4) I tend to get highly overbearing and oppressively arrogant to the point of making-the-other-person-eat-his-socks-and-hate-me when my argument's contradicted without enough rational logic.
5) I thoroughly hate number five,and I fail to justify my prejudice.

Five Things I Will Never Wear:

I'll never wear your skin,so don't bother.

Five Biggest Joys at This Moment :

The Air Conditioner.
The pack of Wills Navy Cut in my right trouser pocket.
Mogwai.
The mosquito lying dead(read : splatted) beneath my chair.
A chipped toenail.

Something to Achieve By Next Year:

I'll be direct :
Drop out of Techno India,get into JUDE,be happy.

Something that Impacted Me Last Year:

Shruti.

I just say your name,and not mention the many books and songs and people who/which contributed far more than you did for my intellectual and emotional development for you initiated an irrevocable phenomenon inside me that made me realize how much I was going wrong,and opened up such diverse realms for me to dive in and learn from. You stripped me and made me look at myself,baby. Thank You.

What I Will Miss About 2007 :

Nothing.
(And well,I don't think I'll miss her,but I'll keep on feeling a tad remorseful about the way it ended.)

Five Things I Want To Do Before I Die:

*yawns*
So yes,here we go :

Endthistag!
Endthistag!
Endthistag!
Endthistag!
Endthistag!

YAY!
I'll die a happy death,hence. Ta-dah.
(And Ship,jkjklkhsd? )

I do not wish to tag anybody. I sound bored. This is not fair. Whee.

I Say.

As silence is all you gave me,
For the poetry I whispered;
I must tell you now :

That love trembles,asprawl
In my garden of mist;
Awaiting a final silence,
To pass away.

Vaka - Sigur Ros