Warm,fuzzy nothings.

All over again,I'll scrawl the wrong dates into notebook margins and remember the wrong month of the year.
I can't decide if that's special,if it needs celebrating.
Because I'm sitting here,under the yellow terrace light,waving goodbye to my friend on her terrace,and bidding adieu to the year,ending with the last sparks of life in the sky-silver,green,golden.
And I'm all alone,romancing the sky,wanting to slow dance to this one song,or even any of the loud ones blaring from New Year parties,the shouts and the screams,the countdowns,All the same song of happiness,a song I don't know the lyrics to yet.

It's more like I'm holding onto these moments like photographs and they're merging and fading and looking beautiful and dissolving,melting into my mind, all at once.So,so sublime.

And I am holding on so tight and still letting go

The words,the words.No words. Moments.Silence.smiles.sunshine.The cold inside my chest,the slight emptiness before the blinding brightness.

The music dies out..

And it's just the quiet of the newest night,

The stillness of hope,

The silence of opportunity,

 The darkness of these moments & me.

"We accept the love we think we deserve."

Of late,I have grown quite obsessed with the Perks Of  being a wallflower.
Yes,one might say it's overrated but it appeals to me,still.
For me,the whole point of reading it was leading up to the rather universal epiphany that it was a poignant portrayal of how hurt and pain resonate in every human relationship.All the  people Charlie loves and is close to, pick lovers who will hurt them in return.Maybe they want the hurt,maybe these are mere subconscious choices.Sam,Patrick,Charlie's siblings,Mary Elizabeth.All.
A very,very sombre,subtle, pretty portrayal,at that.
A slow,mellow transition of a situation more than a story,it is a moving portrayal of the fragility and intricacy  of hope and love and pain.
Even those events which would be considered otherwise major,massive or life changing are depicted in a subtle  undertone in this book,as if a swift  brook of  life met some boulders on it's way,and overcame."Things change,friends leave and life doesn't stop for anybody."
Maybe it's because the author wants us to know ,let me put it  this way,like the movie Seventeen Again said : "When you're young,everything feels like it's the end of the world,but it's only the beginning."
What struck a chord with me most in  the book,though,was the fact that the  transition of Charlie's life is at a very realistic pace.
And his pain  is palpable.The revelation of the fact that his aunt Helen molested him was moving,and how he never remembers her in a bad light,and blames himself instead,for he thinks she died because of getting him two presents instead of just one on his birthday,which happened to fall on the same day as Christmas.
In Charlie's own words-"These things,they do happen."
More often than never,people do blame themselves for being unlovable and this causes inevitable hurting to oneself and others.Like a daisy chain of hurt being passed on because of mutual pain that refuses to stop haunting us.
Having been a wallflower for very long,myself and finding solace in the world of books,I treasure the books immensely.Finally  finding your own kind is just another feeling-"Infinite".
.

When "someday" turned into this day.

In an ordinary looking yellow house,lived a little girl.

She was around five,I believe,and bright as a cherub.

She lives beside the school that taught me everything,

next to an equally ordinary postoffice.

But what changed,what took away her identity that could have been-

Beautifully complete before it became so,

was an event no one knew of,no one spoke of.

A terrible,extraordinary act that ruined her childhood,at the least.

No one chose to believe her,what did she know,silly child.

Silly little girl,indeed,for letting her innocence trust people,look to them for help.The same adults to whom the monster belonged,the one who took it all away,left her all the pain-a legacy to last forever.

So that one major event got pushed to a corner as insignificant,but it stayed,

Forever,scarring her,every bit and every day.

Until one day,she found the love,the only power which can heal wounds deep.

And she let go,she let go slowly,finally.

Still she lives in that yellow house,a life ordinary,as tonight she turns fifteen.And know what? She wins,in every moment she wins against the darkness,the monsters inside her head.She smiles way too bright now to let out the light from her life again.

PERKS.OMFG.<3

Just the end of the year sell-out of some leftover thoughts.

#FullHouseSwag

A need is essentially defined as a lack or deficit of a necessity,in psychological balderdash.
It's almost funny how we need to make use of a lack to decide completeness,a whole to define a half.
And what I need,what I'm missing right now,I realise..is holding hands on a cold winter night to keep them warm,innocent flirting,poolside conversation that stay with you just beyond a lifetime-
And these fallacies of teenage romance,of hormones,chemicals playing to the song of nature,the nature of attraction.
No,I'm not saying it's all one needs,really.I love how my life's filled with kind,funny,insightful feelings,people and experiences,anyway.And none of the drama,or the groupism,or the self doubt that earlier conflicted with my mundane thoughts.
But you know that feeling when you know you're missing something and it's leaving you behind in a time loop,out of time,out of tune?

Carnival.

And there he stood,
With the prettiest grey-green eyes you can think of.
And I laughed titling my head skyward,
to see fairy lights in-silver and green,merging,
 The strong affirmative motion of his eyes upon me.
Candyfloss like magic from oridinary pink crystals,
Fluffy thoughts spinning and flying,centrifugally.
That feeling again,the one I knew at four,
when I carried around a stuffed monkey on my back,
which could be velcro-ed together to be swung,
and I felt whole again,a part of the picture.
 

Stark metaphor.

Picture bright red lipstick against butter paper hued skin,

and the the shower of pastel  confetti when your home team wins,

The smell of sunshine on a day at the beach,a honey golden smile.

A rainbow themed childhood song popping in you  mouth Magic pop candy.

The flowery scrawl of writing in midnight purple ink,

And a million constellations of stars swirling to the  sound of her laughter,a song.

That's when you can begin to see her.

Where the Roses grow.

In a silence of a solemn sort,I stood facing my old apartment building,

My empty flat now had new occupants,

They'll paint the walls in different colours,and breathe new life into the dust.

Standing there,on an unusually cold morning,thoughts unassociated with the house raced through in a reverie,

Bittersweet,lemon squeezed in every fleck of past-

The time I was two or three,and a cousin had showered a flurry of sand  into my eyes,and for a day,I couldn't see.

And then,my seventh birthday,away from home,being  carsick on a hill top,and the faint memory of my mother telling me the very draw-able,white flowers with bright yellow centers are called "Esthers",the new feeling of the word on my tongue and the old feeling of vomit stinging my throat.

Today,these new strangers would come and clean up the nostalgic chaos the house was laquered in,

The words and thoughts hidden like safekept secrets inside it's depths.

And I don't feel half bad anymore,back at  my new home,standing on the prickly green grass-

My planted feet,firm,feel like they've always been there,known no better-

Always dwelt  among this silent slope,with dwindling butterflies in hues you din't know even existed.

It no longer feels different,distant.

Breaking into this newness.

Sundried Solutions.

If the sky grew bluer in it's lovely illusion,
The white picket fence grew anymore in perfection,
And the roses grew any rosier in their hue of passion,
and your molten brown irises caught any more sparks of shadow light.
The world would explode beyond it's basted seams,
Too  much to hold in the reflection of a slice an hour of daylight.
So much,that the Earth would crave to inhale the fragrance of our presence
Inculcate us into her invisible crevices.
It would perhaps be not for us to seize then-
The day laid out like our souls under the sun,
Soaking up warm musings of the dripping sojurn.
....

Flake.

We could be snowflakes,floating in the blizzard bliss of life,
caught up in the a storm,and glad to kiss the ground,
and melt into the warmth of possession and belonging.
Each unique,and pure and pristine,we'd fall to grace-
Prospects to shiny,happy people behind stained glass  windows.
The golden glow of warmth would be worth missing for us-
For the happiness encased in wrapping paper layers would be what our arrival announced.
And life would be too short,too beautiful,too raw-the essence of all  existence,
Good cheer and love the very purpose.

Loose change.

The little boy sold roses every night at the traffic signal,
He's wait for the red light to signal the  emergence of hope.
His hands,too well acquainted with the callouses of persistence.
No love but for an unknown force to keep him warm on these cold nights,
For no  love had he ever known that got him through the ten winters of his life.
His eyes plead,his words insist-Just one rose,but one.
And nothing can deter the fierce want of need-
Of hunger,a universal cause.
He walked from car to car,bidding the cost of his survival.
And when the quick lights flowed again-turned green,
He settled on the pavement,with the mongrels he dwelled.
Not a single rose sold,tonight.Sometime's the waiting was just not right.
Cradled under the yellow streetlight for warmth,he slept on ragged sheets-
Knowing there was love,love someday,at the other end of the street.
And he wondered much and much too deep,
Of the bleak hope of change that glimmered under the streetlight that night.
And there beside him,the unsold roses lay dying,giving away to a dejected day-
A single rose can alter only so much,indeed.

Countdown.

Let the light humble you to the truest form of existence,
let the warmth kindle the soft edged fire that burns behind your lids.
It's about time you took charge and set those recurring sparks finally aflame.
The filtering shadows of heat can curdle into one golden moment of  purpose-
The trail of shimmer is leading you on,asking you to follow.
To discover rooms filled with the bittersweet iridescence of fragmented dreams,
To walk into ventures of the stark bright lightness of loving and living.
All the way to yet another new end of a line-
The tightrope's safer end now in firm,reassuring grip.

The shadow of a Dragonfly.

There's this one particular quote in The Perks Of Being a Wallflower,that talks of how Zen is sorta like feeling a part of the elements of nature on pretty days.
And I don't know why but that makes me wonder why most of us center our universe around the deficiencies of it.
I know,I know-It's human nature,but on days like this-A patch of grass tickled by the warmth a of sunny patch is so much more than enough.
The hour of day is a shifting illusion,just as the margins of incandescent skin,translucent golden like butter over a pan.
Butterflies and dried leaves blown to their fate by the wind-gentleness in its strength.A cup of tea,nestled like a welcoming hug to lips tired of words.
The sky too brightened by the love of the Sun,to be even glanced at with squinted eyes.
All I know is I feel Beautiful,at it's best and someday I'll find someone to feel it with me.

Raw Reticent.

A thousand moons shone upon the moment,
and I could still taste the salt on your fingertips.
Contagious stillness like an old photograph,
Flooding back in streams of pain you craved.

And do your dreams still ache the same,
when you live to serenade time painted grey?
Lackluster  never lost it's persistant charm,
And a touch,a bristling brush reunites the hurting.

Raw and unreal,the love that demands,
Ebullience floating out low,dull thuds of luck.
Because even in the hour too cold,
The red reassurance of warmth unfolds.

Passion,they say,is painted red,
Sun steals kisses from the sky,Sunset.
Fragile faith rocks on it's edge,
Molten,melting between our fingers laced.

December Daze.

Whoever said that a house was not a heart,
that it wasn't growing up and going  back to the start?
A living things,it grew on you,with it's walls that bore the same warmth  of pista green,
and the tall Neem outside the window,that stood through many heartaches and monsoons.
The indigo sky that merged the same with the tar roads,and you counted them,flights-
In their rush hour,leaning against the grilled railing of your balcony tower.
Was it not also home to your first real book read,
the first poem you thought up,and your first heartbreak.
And it still feels like the good warmth of chocolate cake melting away in your mouth,
on a Sunday morning,in essence and memory?
And the odd sounds escaping walls paper thin,from houses that grew up with you.
Standing small facing the facade of the building,shouting out for your friends for a game of hide and seek.
And warm and small,it's spirit lighted the  one inside you.
Only two Decembers ago,you realised how it had become a part of you,so indefinite.A part you left behind with the old life,one that dwells in dusty corners of your mind everyday,still.
You want to think of it with what you call warm remembrance,but all you can wonder is if you would be someone different still living in that house?
Would it have moulded things in you to something better? Do you believe that  houses hold the ability to  shape and change one?

Swim.

Some friendships die too young,
And some loves last the smallest quarter of a lifetime.
Some songs end too abrupt,some don't end at all-
Some just become symbolic of people from the past.
Some fires are blown out before they burn their brightest,
Some are unborn cold vacuums,don't even ignite.
Some birds are tamed out of love,
Some are just caged like overripe stories.
Some smiles turn into invisible scars,
Some are just half  born dreams,don't last.
Some light is only a deceiving spark,
Some of it veiled shadows of well known misery.
Some hopes are but consolations of despair,
And some abundances are not in our share.

All the good things.

Church bells at a distance,
Add somehow to the vastness of the sky-at its bluest and widest.
An electric blue butterfly lands on
the rip above the knee of my jeans.
The bougainvilleas and a sole yellow hibiscus
is all that the warmer times have left behind.
A spring cleaned Sunday soul,
I sit soaking up the wintry morning sun.
This must be it,This must be Heaven.

The language of the butterflies.

The very purpose of my rememberance,
is to remind my olfactory nerves the pleasant smell of detergent on your gray T-shirt.
And our hands don't fit together so perfectly,
My palms a tad too sweaty,and your fingers on my spine sting like a cold water shower.
But your smile plunges me in to a prolonged comfort-
Like that of my old school Reebok shoes.
Always there,cozy and even when worn out felt almost new,
Abide by you years and years through..
And I'm a little more in love with you.

The consistency of change-The ballad of growth.

We watch a little girl walk away,
Disappear into the dark.
The last hint of her chubby calves,
grows into but a veil of winter's scarf.

The newness of hope tries to outdo
the oldness of nostalgia surrounding you.
You,who took my hand and lead me here,
A simple affair,but a great big deal.

My world has changed,shifted it's bounds,
Broken by people,and by very people rejoined.
The girl we watch,it's you,it's I-
Walking into a difficult goodbye.

Walking into newer joys and pains,
Souls reverberating with sadness and hope,
From  love to hate,and hate to love-
We watch each other grow,oh oh.

Into our hearts,we're disappearing,
Halfway there and yet,halfway not.
Somewhere in between-
It's the best place to be.

Beaded melody.

Happy Childrens' Day,Peksshi Jojo.:*

The sun hilts its rays upon your face,
Lightens up all hidden grace.
I found it,yes,the perfect place-
It is for you and I to embrace.
We'll run away and leave no trace.

And bring along your string of beads,
Pink and black,their mystery leads,
we'll hold them close in times of need,
string them along with wild,wild seeds.
Enchanting songs they'll make us heed.

On black and pink,the sunlight will fall,
(Screw it,I can't rhyme this anymore.)
them beads will catch it,make it scatter across.
Like hippie souls,we'll dance like homegrown songs.
Our gypsy beads,our sole companions,
And all their worth will shine upon you like wisdom.

"The Ecstacies Of Love."

(Special thanks to my extremely artistic thinker of a friend,who came up with the line "The ecstacies of love."

The only time I feel fragile,
Is in your arms,the safest haven there is.
So hold me tight,don't let go-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

Your warmth nuzzles against my being
 Like the inside of a childhood memory,
I will shatter if you leave now,so stay right here-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

Held in this embrace divine,
Every breath I take is redefined.
Pull me closer,hold on tight-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

Happiness,itself,is holding us,
Intoxicating us in its indulgence.
Never let this moment fleet-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

The two of us,we feel like one,
blending every hue to a beautiful melange.
Form a realm only known to us-
Show me all the ecstacies of love.

The courage it took me to say "I'm fat,so what?"

This is an age old topic and no matter how much is said and discussed,it will never be enough.
It's always been a recurring debate on my blog and in my mind-and in those of almost every girl I know.
And I  say girl,because I wouldn't do exact justice to male insecurities?

Because having a gap between your thighs is just so much more important that having enough  insulation to keep you warm in winters.
And having that much less or more on any part of your body would honestly make soo much of a difference,like they put it.
I spent the longest time wanting skinny plastic legs,but only when someone pointed out to me that they liked mine did I realise mine were just fine the way they were.I'm must confess a small part of me still covets those legs and it's not something I'm proud of.I'm sure there are so many out there who've wanted one kind of hair,skin,height,weight-with one common determinant shared universally-the lack of it,therof.
But let me tell you something I discovered growing up in a dysfunctional scape-
and heck,on most days,it makes me feel pretty good just looking like plain ol' me.And talking about body image always makes we want to embrace myself a little more-
Perfect is not beautiful,not even close.Perfect is nothing,at all.And if you still argue that it exists,I'll tell you it's subjective.Why do we need to all have an identical idea of perfect?
The creator left you flaws because every work of art needs to be flawed to be beauty in itself.
Identical ideas are sickening,and they make the monotony of it all so tiresome.Diversity is beauty.So is intelligence,wit,skill,talent..Qualities are beautiful,not ideas of how one appears or how one should.
Most of us don't realise it,but we are a sum of all our perceptions-you live your entire life inside the confines your mind and the only notion of beauty you should accept is yours.
Beautiful is not a mere description-it's a feeling.If you feel it,you potray it.Draupadi wasn't  the prettiest of them all,but she felt beautiful,because she knew what she was destined required her to believe in her beauty.
You can,too.
.

Lets call it a memory.

A friend of mine wrote this post   recently,about his hypotheses of  the design a perfect world.It got me thinking,and this isn't a defiance or anti-thesis,just a co-existing hypothesis.

Somebody once told me that the purpose of life was not to attain a constant state of contentment,but to live-to experience it with all  it’s fullness,all it’s pitfalls  and loopholes,shortcomings and coming of ages.Life,for what it is in it’s wholeness.Maybe that’s the secret to self-actualization.Like the Buddhist tick goes,experience the pleasure and the pain,absorb it and then set it free for the sake of your soul.

And I couldn’t agree less,although it took me a while to phatom the concept.

Memories-they make you nostalgic,Nostalgic for a place in time and space that ceases to be.And it’s heartbreaking,but I would never trade mine in for oblivion.

A happy memory-Being carried to bed when I fell asleep  in the car,when I was little or  rushing across the railway tracks to reach school on time,sometimes we’d go through train compartments.

The rememberance of the time when My lovely cousin and I told each other that we looked much like Princesses,at a wedding.

A minute of pleasure makes the entire day,runs through me,joy reverberates.It spreads  it’s roots deep into the soil,nourishing it daylong.

And for the bitter ones,some are soon to fade-quarrels,miscommunications,heartbreak,and the ones that linger longer,still-have something to offer,to learn.A hidden lesson,a life-altering situation.

All of this might sound like my silly teenage notions of positivity,but like the Japanese believe in Kingutsi-The art of repairing cracks in earthenwear with gold or silver laquer,for something broken is something beautiful,I think it’s time we fill the crevices in our souls with love and light.

On a lighter vein,I don’t know how many times Marylin Monroe e has to be reposted before the line “Imperfection is beauty.” Finally gets to people.

Dreading the D word.

Brace yourselves,a rant is making it's way towards youu.
Wake up groggy eyed,sit there covered in crinkly sheets,
Soaked up in the guilty pleasure of doing nothing.
It's Di..Uh,no,you're not mentally ready enough to brace the day yet.
Feel so much like a fizzled out chilli bomb,that dies before it lights up.
And my fridge is stacked up with boxes of sweets,
but the sweetness of festivity is but a long lost memory.
The only source of happiness remains to be a smooth,sterling silver pen,
with it's gold tinted clip modelled like an arrow.
How materialistic wonderful.*Cough cough.*
It feels so fluid in your palms,the shiny new thing,
Such a shame to be spending the festival of lights,
lighting up your world with the consolation that it's only a day long to go.
That it's only so long before people will live the fast life.
A memory of your mother's voice saying "Isn't it as good a burning money?"
It's a sad-ish time of year for socially anxious teenagers,
Can't even youtube in peace.Bah.
Okeebyee.

The Cinematic Interludes Of My Life.

If Bollywood could fit into a classroom with all it's boisterous bustling,
and squeeze through it's crevices to be embodied by a girl,I'd claim to know her well.
She's sheathing herself in colours new-scaled like butterfly wings,layered in dramaticism and sentiment.
And when you brush off against her good charms,she leaves a trail of glitter dust on your skin,just like butterfly wings.
Is she not pretty paranoia in every shade of pink?
Her liquid brown eyes,fluid like the action of the 70mm reel,
Her smile like the groovy numbers so lovable.
And her voice so sweet-that holds in it the warmth  of happy endings and heartfelt reunions.
If Bollywood could fit into a classroom,she would begin to grow on you,too.

Au Contraire.

Our elaborate shadows are but shifting silhouettes,
And you lean forward,uncusping body,mind and soul into mine-
The pace of  air shifts into a timeless trance,
The breathlessness of our violin voices out of tune.
Undiscovered feeling develops into negative film reels,
Flimsy just as our vulnerability-veiled yet,unmasked.

Swing,swing.

 

It had been terribly long since I'd sat on a wing,let alone swung full force.

Awhile since I let go of my worries,drove them away into the wind.

And that's when I came upon..Upon a creaky old wooden swingset.

At the back of an apartment building,the seldom used set sat turningyellow.

One of them with an ageing slit down its centre.

And it had one screaming message carved all over it's being.

"People leave,they always do."

But then in a wise,old voice it said "People change.Memories don't."

A postive connotation or the wisdom for life in encrytption?

And today,this ol' swing set had found occupants,yet again.

A vial of joy for its withering soul.

They talked about fickle things-of how every singe year of a human life is drastically different,demarcating it significance in years.

And how psychologists in the country really needed to get to know some young people a little better.

And about friendlessness and birthdays and lack of creative space.

A sheltered domain of secrecy-conversations that will fray and rust like the reins that hold it up.

And yet of prime importance for the noursihment of two.

Going Steady.

Last night,I heard my heart beat in time with another pounding heart.

Like a trapped bird against a steely cage.Waiting to fly away.

Breathing in the milk baby smell,so close to my sandpaper lips.

My thoughts couldn’t contain the words unspoken,

And  mind couldn’t hold back the gush of overbearing emotion.

I sat up,blanket draped over my shoulders.

I’d been dreaming,again.

Dreaming of the promise of a future.

Wishful thinking or blissful ignorance.

Last night,I met love and happiness on their shores again.

 

Playdough ambitions.

Blinding colour,psychedelic pain.

Running again in scruffy shorts,reaching out our grubby hands.

The crocheted delicacy of childishness.

Sprawled all over the sunbaked terraces,

washed up in our own ignorace

,or was it mere innocence.

The playground politics,or the very lack of it,thereof.

Curled up in the  cracks of our craniums,

just fading freckles.
Grew up playing house together,

now grow worthy building houses of our own.