Long Street's Orange Window

The night closed the bright orange window which had been passed by the cycle boy every single day since June, way back in '84. The window had been a loyal admirer of the umpteen tunes that the boy whistled to. He was a merry boy, and the window- a merry aged, unaltered element of the street. A landmark. A bellwether of its own kind, as the paints of yellow peeled open the red bricks, bit by bit, day by day, year by year.

Not a soul peeked from inside you know, yet it was the most lively detail in the whole of good ole Long Street, they said. Romeos would park their bikes next to it, and wait for them pretty pretty girls swinging their way in long evening dresses and high buns. Peddlers would string on their ukuleles and sing to Gene Autry and wink at the kind pedestals with pennies. Police men would eventually shoo them off and patrol around lazily, or join them and hum along when drunk.

The humor was in the gospel according to the neighbors around, that more the wall peeled, more the cracks peered, and more the pipes rusted...a strange sense of comfort manifested in the daily participants of Long Street. That old orange guy was a perpetual furniture on the abandoned wall that was a favorite, to all of them. It reassured them, it made aging easier, it calmed them, it was a part of their Christmas, Fête des lumières, Easter, and Hanukkah. It was a part of their wails when all the kitchens in the street would hear the fat maiden cry at her misfortune or yell at her goat who was bulled by her cat, again.


Either way, against all odds, the orange window was family to their secrets and hopes, to marital alliances or broken homes.. 
Either way, against all odds, the orange window would be there, tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that. 

- Nil. :)

A hungry mind.

You have one,too. Don't raise an eyebrow at me.

A hungry mind's what I own right now. The kind that hears things and chews on the intricate details of conversations, the kind that reads in between the lines and has started treating that little art as a particular delicacy of its own kind, the kind that entertains the voices in it; imputed or from a source that's alien, but somehow within. 

A hungry mind is a dangerous thing. It leaves you gathering layers of presumptions, conclusions, wishful thinking like layers of fat. And it's harder than you think to get rid of it. No matter how much you exercise over the routines of shutting the brain down, a hungry mind will find fodder from ignored sources that were considered harmless. You'll be baffled at its persistence. 

A hungry mind talks to you. It tries to reason out with you and tries to put a halo around it's intentions of advocating sleepless nights. It speaks of Insomnia in a tone that nods at it being productive. 

Image courtesy: Pinterest.

Don't fall for it, the words it spells out are 'Sadistic pleasure'. 

A hungry mind breeds in your pursed lips which refuse to acquaint itself with the world. The world talks a lot, you see. And I'm sorry darling, you're a part of it. The world feels insecure about your silence, which is why you've been autographed an arrogant lad. 

Your mind's tired of being the only one talking, it craves impressions, judgement, speculation, hypothesis...but this time, not from you.

-Nil.

I see bad moon rising.

So I sat online about an hour back with the sole motive of updating with some hardcore fiction and produce something intellectually stimulating. But you see my head's run out of brain farts, I like collecting drafts on Blogger, Pinterest has taken over my sanity, and I'm highly drugged. All I've done all morning is indulged in food, Economics and sadistic pleasure at the phone beeping on low battery. (You should try it, if you haven't.)

Anyhoo, so I thought that after my academic rendezvous I'll have a lot to write about; secrets and lessons of life and the universe, a whole lot of romance, happiness, sadness even? Yeah well that just ended up as  a whole lot of bullocks because all I did end up doing was snicker at snide sarcasm online,  listen to Nappy Roots (and twist along,btw) and enjoyed feeling absolutely shallow and bored, devoid indulging in too much of cerebral thought process. 

:D

And that, dear World is just what I plan on doing for the next hour before mighty Education calls again =)

Some Pinterest lowe for you, Thursday People!

*HIC.

-Nil. 

At the tip of the tongue

And those words fight within you, reaching out to the tip of the tongue which is only the tip of the iceberg of the emotions that dwell within your existence, right now.
The deep sonorous voices of the talking cacophony inside, starting from your toe nails become lost tales by the time they reach the head. Fragments of conversations, wishful thinking, dreams and nightmares with lipsticks float in and around the body which almost feels like a hollow golden bell which feels beautiful for some odd romance despite the aging time around.

You have so much to say, don't you?
That lopsided smile is a giveaway to the laughter that dances within you. The pursed lips do a sorry job at defending your unjustified anger.
They said words were overrated, but wouldn't you just do anything to speak now?
To leave aside the gibberish your tongue encourages, and look him in the eye and speak the truth and nothing but the truth? The beautiful, beautiful truth. 


Are you waiting for the right time, too? The time when those words feel right and there isn't a crease of worry on your forehead for the future?
This wait seems perennial where as it only commenced.

You have so much to say, don't you? 
Speak. The cacophony will subside and shy away.


At the tip of your tongue, lies your heart, after all. 

Courtesy: Photobucket

-Nil.