Endless Cups Of Late Night Coffee

You are a victim of desire and determination, so you lie awake revising and accommodating. Drinking endless cups of late night coffee.
You watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. You read the right books, and pretend to read some more.
You are shocked at how easily you will allow the contours of your being to be moulded by an outsider. Perpetuating an idea is key. An idea that incestuous, niche groups accept. An idea that air kissing social madames thrill about, and want to bed. There is simply a single rule - never a moment of doubt, never a moment of acceptance of the truth.
Women are dispensable, and men by the dozen. You swirl bitter in your glass and smirk in condescension. You share carnal pleasures with a communist-fire breathing bearded man or a woman with thickly lined eyes and heavy silver jewellery. Promiscuity is the unaffected and undisputed norm. And in the afterglow of air doused in the last dregs of cigarette smoke and sultry panting, you read Beat Literature and discuss politics.
You have fused with the story you created, like a parasitic zygote that attaches itself to the crimson womb.
You write using words like effacing and phrases like sycophantic distortion. You repeat the last word of a well-crafted sentence for a supposedly pointed effect. You cash on being Indian, and hence make more than seldom references to the Casuarina and Jacaranda.
You watch the right films, and are pretty sure you enjoy them now. You read the right books and are almost certain you concur. You have become the regular with a table by the window. You sit with a dog-eared Sartre, handwritten notes in the margin, by your side, and make Kafka-esque observations about sugar sachets.
You are now one of them. You drink expensive whiskey and share partners. Smoke outside theatres and find infinite entertainment in Post-Modernist discussions. And yet sometimes when you are drinking that last cup of late night coffee, you cannot help but admit it to yourself. And although you tell yourself in secret, and you have listened in secret, the world knows. But you stupid, stupid intellectual, the world always knew.
They watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. They read the right books, and pretend to read some more. And in secret, over that last cup of late night coffee, they admit it to you.

My Orchard Of Orange

Today I peeled a baby orange. Strange in the middle of June.
I rested the fruit in the palm of my hand and let the citrus goodness permeate through me. I felt it sting the root of my canine and I winced in sour delight.
I sat back and rocked it between my fingers till I found the dent on it's leathery back. Premature. We were in the middle of June.
I dug my nail into the bottle green peel. I carved the letters of my name into the bottle green sheath. The spray stung my eye. It was too early. It was the middle of June.
I hooked my finger beneath the bottle green layer, and slit it open. More spray stung my eye. It was war.
I tore. I tugged. I warred. I won. Time had not moved. Still the middle of June.
The fruit lay inside. Defeated and raw. I glared at the white, pathetic excuse, willing it to be ripe. Change colour I begged, my recent victory forgotten. I had forgotten. I told you - it was the middle of June.

Lemony Snippets: A Series of Fictitious Events - An Introduction

This will be a whole series of short stories, meant to get me started on a dream project. In this series i will pick up a random line from anywhere and try and spin a story around it.This is only because i am too lazy to come up with themes on my own and too shallow to write anything thought provoking and too stupid to write anything intelligent. So, now i shall go scout for a lead, until then...

Of Pin Cushions and Hearts

My breathing is constricted and my heart is cold. I have known all along, so why is my breathing constricted and my heart cold? It is late afternoon and the hunger that had been building inside me since 10 in the morning has now demised tragically. I rejected a momo lunch, a rash decision influenced by emotional unstability which i will regret later, but the point is, that's how upset I am.
Oh crap! I'm tearing up now.

The chill has spread to the pit of my stomach and filled the void in there, and my fingers have turned a strange hue of blue. The same blue that tints the face of the dead. The screen is blurring before me, and lines are merging into the other. I have been disturbed by the obvious, a silent truth we knew. But the truth is made of stuff so potent, the effect of which is catalysed when voiced and then life is white. A red stain seeps onto the pristine canvas, as a thousand pins puncture my heart.


Three days later.


My fingers have regained their colour and the pit of my stomach is warm and replete. My heart now feels like a frozen hunk of lamb with puncture marks that ache every time I sigh and a slight yellowing that comes with every aging bruise. I have now touched a comfortable numbness and it's good. Well, it is not a place i would voluntarily want to be in, but it's good.

The feeling is almost baptismal, not in the religious admission of Jesus Christ as God kind of way, but in a metaphorical sense. Relinquishment of the old life I knew and acceptance of a new life I have to know. So after a few too many angsty songs and regaining conrol over my lachrymal tendencies I can say with confidence, "I'm all over it now, I can't say how glad I am about that."

Blackjack

21 years old, educated, gainfully employed, fully recovered from one failed relationship and dabbling in several others. I am not gloating, but I have to say, I love my life!

Musings of my Manic Mind - Part I

I laughed as I stabbed you in the back
I watched as you lay bleeding black
My hands now coloured, my lips blue
I fall on my knees and say a prayer for you
Eternal rest grant unto him o Lord
And let perpetual light shine upon him
I look to the heavens searching for an answer
Dejected I turn and in silence embrace her.

A bitch, a liar, a tramp, a whore,
An angel, his sweetheart, his lover and more,
I stabbed I watched him die, my hands are stained,
All the waters of Neptune cannot wash it away.

I laughed as I stabbed you in the back,
I watched as you lay bleeding black
I turned to go I close the door
My step it faltered as I shed a tear
Turning to my Lady I called out to her
Crying, sobbing and wailing I swore
Smiling I slipped my hand in my pocket
Gleaming blood and glistening steel my knife was secure.

Haagen Dazs can buy Happiness

The cookies and cream softness merged with my tongue and did the tango with my buds, my palette smeared with the creamy colours of off-white speckled with deep brown bits of cookie. Was it an Oreo? Or Nestle? Or maybe it was the chocolatey goodness of some very exotic Belgian cocoa. Eyes closed, my lips were pursed to lock in the warmth of the frozen milk that flooded my mouth. The steel glinted viciously as it dug into the tub a second time creating a second crater and the spoon found its way back into my mouth carrying a majestic little blob of heaven.
My weapon of cream destruction found another victim, this time a virgin tub filled with the goodness of strawberries and cream. 'ATTACK' signaled my brain, and my hand moved forth in a swift, streamlined motion that cleaved the thick air that seemed to protect the untouched tub.
Scoop. Savour. Swallow.
My tongue sang praises in my honour, and my brain froze in sweet, sweet orgasmic delight. The ever so slightly sour tang of the fruit blended with whole milk assailed my senses and showed me ecstasy in close quarters.
"Hagen Dazs....." whispered my senses with a little sigh; my shoulders slouched easing my edgy nerves who until now were under the strain of deadlines and unwritten copies.
"Six hundred and fifty rupees!" the shriek sounded groggy to my intoxicated ears. "Six hundred and fifty rupees!" another shriek reiterated, this time I heard it, loud and shrieky. My eyes awake, my brain followed suit. "Six hundred and fifty rupees!" I heard myself shriek. For less than half litre of heaven frozen and sold in little tubs, a tub that carried a sin more delicious and potent than the forbidden apple there was a price, an obscene one.
The package was delivered to the office by two PR agents, who were shamelessly whoring this Mata Hari in an effort to get rave reviews in the weeks' Saturday supplement. My senses which were still reeling in the bliss I fed myself quickly found their bearings and the edginess that was temporarily lifted found its rightful place again, in my neck and nerves.
The happiness I knew fifteen seconds back still lingered like a forgotten lover, and I smiled. The reality of the price tag soured the smile. The old fool who said money can't buy happiness was definitely poor. Today in decadence I found happiness, in the expensive taste of indulgence I was content. Money brought for me happiness, a happiness I cannot afford.