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?