ruminating...any regrets??? i reckon, no.

The last time someone asked me if it was ok to be messed up, I said, ‘I reckon, yes.’ And yet when I turned around and said “you’re being ambiguous and obscure”; I get a swift revert, “if you see it all as obscure, its just testimony to you being unable to grasp what another person could be feeling or going through, which is something i now understand about you.” Mabbe rightly said or mabbe just as misunderstood as always.

And where did this all begin …? From a signature on an email that said “…narcissism is terminal”

‘The movies will be at my desk tomorrow.’…typical, very typical.

Post clockwork orange, we decided to do our own bicycle diaries (which amounted to a measly 5 kms away from campus over a span of 5 hours.) Were we slow? No we just explored places around campus. Took some pretty photographs, parked ourselves by a dry canal, got chased by dogs, and followed the cows at a snail’s place and topped it with a bird eye view of the village from a watertank-top. Nothing remarkably adventurous, just something we happened to cherish ….later.

Lots of backlash, lot of accusations, just a lot of expectations. “I switch off”, I scribbled on the portable wipe-board that hung next to the floyd poster on his wall. It seemed like an ugly anomaly to the poster.

Heh. I can’t help smile thinking about this. The brownie night. Walked up the same stairs, paced my steps as always, the door ajar as usual. Parked my self on the bed. Lay the brownie, next to the table. It was typical. You could be sleeping, singing, reading aloud, or just sitting silent by the bed and it would be the same – you’re there, yet not there. The fingers stretched to reach the brownie, a glance back and a sheepish smile. I get up, plant a kiss on the forehead, take my share of the brownie and head back. Sometimes it was just the serenity that was more expressive.

It was striking, how the same surroundings could sometimes make you feel so inconspicuous. The silence almost became an iron curtain.

One of us – a narcissist, the other – a nihilist. One time, we walked all the way in silence to the canal, just to watch the reflection of moon in the canal. We walked back in silence. And yet there were times, when we closed doors on each other and on others.

It was at the orphanage, where we finally broke our iron curtain again, after a lapse in time. It was notorious, playful, peaceful…it was liberating to be in my own skin again. The orphanage, became my refuge, it felt secure to be there. The streets of Lokhandwala seemed bright n festive..it drizzled a little. The bookstore felt like our wonderland. Yeah he even picked up comics …sheesh! And yes, there was an overdose of the absolutely sumptuous brownies to wrap up a perfectly well spent evening, from brownie point, bandra.

Sometimes, you rush it. Sometimes you just let it fade. Sometimes, you never let go.

In a minute there is time for revisions …and then in a minute you annihilate, coz u’re a nihilist or u're just really stooopid.

any regrets??? i reckon, no.

spool it...spark it...smoke it... ;)

It was a revelation, it was a separation
It’s apprehension, I guess I’ll make my way somehow
It’s messed up, I guess you always liked it that way…

Spool it, spark it, smoke it

An anonymous stray joint
A comforting column of smoke
Abandoned by passion, embraced by chaos
We kissed and rolled our cannonballs
I remember when I first walked through the door…
You were apologetic, you turned up the volume… it was oasis
I smiled, you dwelled in your cocoon
You were more human then, than now…

Spool it, spark it, smoke it

Another drag, a cloud of smoke
Yet another, and a cornucopia of stars
Bitten by bliss, nursed by anguish
We both sought, we both let it slip.
The Jews, they wore their scars on their arms
You wore your scar on me.
Sometimes Welsh, sometimes Kubrick, sometimes Jude
There was always more to explore.
You were more familiar then, then now…

Spool it, spark it, smoke it

At the edge, me and the spool
We’re both spent, we’re both wasted
The final cascade of smoke, a final plunge
You and I, we both flew over the cuckoo’s nest.
We had our moments, we discovered our madness
Deception of obscurity,
Was it about the smoke and mirrors
Was it just another beautiful detour?
Another amorous form of smoke arose,
You and I, we created a space
A space for recluses, a moment to reflect
The smoke shields my shadow
I walked into your shadow
You eclipsed my pride.
Optimally spent, from ivory to ebony
The joint lay somber between the nervous fingers.
Who’s more wasted, you or i?
The last time we said that
We laughed until we cried like raccoons
You were more real then…

Spool another, spark another, smoke another…

I seal my eyes, I touch the ground, I feel the sun, I cry and smile
Spooling, sparking, Bobbing, Spinning…
You were so real then to me
You’re just a distant perception to me now…

Us WAS Gloom
Us IS Gone

Spool it, spark it, smoke it

I don’t want to leave my fingerprints
I don’t want your impressions.

Pulp of frigid reflexes

It’s a …
How do you put in words…
A crafted vision…spread like an omnipresent painting on the canvas of your mind. A few impulsive strokes, a few aesthetic illustrations, lazy outlines…you sketch your pipe-dreams. You trace out all the elements-there’s hope, there’s apprehension, there’s confidence, there’s hesitation; yet it’s a happy vision. It makes you smile…a happy smile. There’s a perverse narcissist attachment to your painting. It starts to possess you. Your perceptions get distorted. You seek the happiness in your painting, in your mind. You’re unaware that you escaped it in reality.

You escape hope in the real world
But you seek it in the painting.
You are unhappy with pessimism in the real world
But the doleful painting makes you happy
You chase away your ecstasy in the real world
But you chase euphoria with a delirious passion in your painted strokes.

You can’t explain it.

The only thing I understand is that there are moments of absolute painful unrest; there are moments of intoxicating, frenzied happiness that makes it worth it. And then sometimes you wonder – is it?

Sometimes you attempt to, but find it excruciating difficult to alienate the painting, because of the baggage attached. Each stroke that was etched on the campus has a twisted tale to narrate. They are rooted in your experience, your beliefs. They are rooted in the nascent memories, that built a hope; some are sourced in the bitter moments that you never grew to accept and thus the painting molded itself on your mind’s canvas to give you an alternate space where you would recline once in a while and smile at will.

I still can’t put it in words…

It’s not just a vision i sketched.. It’s an alternate space of being…but inherently shared by those who YOU allow to be present. The canvas becomes your sacred space and the strokes are the people and moments you treasure. Often (subjectively speaking) it’s not people; it’s just one other being along with you.

The painting lends itself to manifest itself into an Elysium for the two of you. It’s an enamoring experience. It’s a storehouse of reclusive and shared moments. Even when you cease to exist with the person in real, you take repose in the Elysium and seal your eyes and feel happy.

The sky never felt this close.

But then, all I said above is futile. You and I live in the real world. Your painting never really existed. Never will. The painting is just a manifestation of all the trash that resides in your head . It a heady, intoxicating concoction of liberating moments, blissful smiles, ascending hopes, piercing bitterness and a faint stoke of hollowness. It's just a rotting pulp of wasted antithetical emotions. the painted pulp is an unnecessary refuge.

What we say is meaningless
What we see is contrived
What we do is monitored
What we think is conditioned
What we expect is despair
No hope, only boundaries
No dreams, only termination

We are parasites who grow and manifest into forms we are expected to. We stay dry, numb, unaffected in a cactus land . We’ve grown so indifferent to our surroundings that it ceases to amaze us when we hurt someone and don’t regret it. Where’s the fucking time to admire a painting in real life, to create an alternate aesthetic space of being on the canvas of the mind. These are just cotton candy words weaved on the hollow string of hope. Do not be deceived! Ironically it's probably more liberating to remain conditioned to the rat-infested density which our minds have fundamentally been conditioned to.

Create a plague, Spread the plague, Respect the plague.

It’s a …
Nevermind trying to define what it is; but something relevant what T.S Eliot penned, comes to mind:

“Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow
… This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.”

R.I.P. Elysium