Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Musings of the last 31st.

Greetings, to the participants of the last day of 2013.

There you go, another year about to disappear into the winter sky and here I am, with my annual musings on the 365th day of the year.
And as usual, I'm frozen because I have nothing to write. That doesn't suspend the countless ups and downs that '13 went down with; it's my annual incapability to recall the year. All I can recall is a feeling. And it was perhaps.. not the most shiny year. But then again, my years have the principle of bipolarity that has to always be maintained. Thus, some the worst things along with the absolute best happened.

Although I'm usually swamped by a feeling of sadness when I end the year, this year however, I cannot wait for 2014 to get here already. And for the first time, I've decided on resolutions and I'm counting on my over competitive drive to maintain them.  (and kill me, eventually.)
The first one being, I've decided to write every day. Yes. Every single day. Even if it means 5 lines, so be it. But my black diary must be filled up by this date next year. I have realized that my horrible accounts of procrastination have made me regret the unproductive result of this year, and not having purpose is physically painful for me.
The second one being, to quit being the strangely reserved person that I've somehow managed to become over the past year. The reason for which being inexplicable. I have realized that I've surrendered to a nutshell as far as being thoroughly vocal about perhaps my feelings about the closest people in my life (which is ridiculous because that wasn't a practice I would ever consider in general.) And so, begins my resolution to start being a careless person again. I thoroughly miss it. I miss being absolutely maddening a person.

So there. I don't have much to say this year. I don't want to play around with emotional metaphors and similes, this new year post. I'd just like to take your leave now by wishing you a very happy new year. Tomorrow is a blank box with a teeny number on it, in the calender- do it right. :)

Much love and may y'all stay blessed.
-Nil. (:

P.S- and yes I want a cat. I REALLY WANT A CAT. 2014 ARE YOU LISTENING? or mom ?

Sunday, November 17, 2013

I have a lot to say.

Greetings, World.
This is one of the I Have A Lot To Say  Series. I wouldn't call this post completely fictitious,  this is basically a slightly off beat style of writing that I tried my hands on; to free my head of certain epiphanies and visions that were rather vociferous. This post was inspired by the photo you see. Just like the other post of this series, the following is somewhat a cornucopia of strings of thoughts, that came in one after the other while I was in the strangest mood, and I never stopped. It does not follow any order, nor do the tenses. It may not make sense, due to the drastic transitions of odd imagery. But it's raw and unedited.
That should be intriguing enough.


There are too many people in this world, there are too many people talking and there are too many people doing. There are a scandalous number of pairs of eyes moving their eyeballs symmetrically as the world slowly revolves and some thing or someone in space watches the pitch dark expansion of nothingness beyond the Earth's atmosphere travel round and round and round on those irises.
What's absolutely shameful is that perhaps save the delicate, almost unbelievable surface of the World, I highly doubt anything or any one out there in space would ever want to indulge in us, too much. Every eighth second, there must be a man thinking of molestation, and every ninth, there might be a woman beating her son.

In Geneva, a boy of 11 just found a cat's whisker floating on his tall glass of milk. He's too sure of it being a cat's whisker because that was maybe the only part of dead Lou he could keep to himself. Dead Lou was buried last evening, and was perhaps purring dug deep in his backyard. He carefully spoons the whisker and puts it in a jar with that spoonful of milk; "There, Lou. You can have it. You know I hate milk."

Somewhere in India, a eunuch embraced a new born boy and danced around the hall, with him next to her chest. All the others clapped around her in circles and blessed the boy to grow up and be a man. They meant that blessing in very different ways, than we might understand. While the mother sat in the corner of the room, sweaty and worried, anxious to hold her baby boy again. "These people are too.. different, for my comfort" she told her midwife.

Irritating habits of the master were whispered back to the dog whisperer by Jimmy the bull dog, while lying lazy under the Tuscan sun. One would be tempted to imagine such a scene playing in the theater, somewhere in some city. Sappy stories of animals and their distressed masters seem to always enthuse people and give them a 'reason' to try and understand living things better, a reason to love better.

While cellphones rang over brunch, people carried on three separate conversations with three other people while at the table with one person. That one person didn't quite struggle for attention either, her cellphone maintained the needy behavior of most of technology today, so that was fine, really. The brunch went fine.

And in some corner of that very country, a girl wished to turn deaf, dumb, and blind, because there are too many people in this world, there are too many people talking and there are too many people doing. There are just too many of... too many. And maybe the last time the world was silent was when the Earth's atmosphere wasn't so friendly.
"Those were the good times.." , she said.

I wouldn't say the long impasse has passed, but it's on the verge to leave. Here's a start, and hopefully from now on, the silence won't be too long from my end. Thank you, for sticking around. :)


Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Flame fleeced.

The one word that brings back ruthless, bold, unabashed flashbacks of you. And him. Or her. Or whoever. You must have loved, or you must have thought you loved. All of us do, all of us love the idea of falling in love. So getting back to the point; History.
We're often so sure about the concept of it being the past, that we often forget; once we see it staring at us in the present. You see that one face, and there, you find yourself thinking of what was. How you were, how this person staring back at you used to be, with you. You give yourself the liberty to feel appalled at how that face is the same, and yet nothing about it reminds you of the person it belongs to. Perhaps a crease or two more, on the forehead. Maybe some more impatience in them pair of eyes, than you remember. The lips could possibly be more dry, and the ears could seem naked because there isn't any hair sitting on them, hiding away their shapelessness.
And yet, you push your grounds by still considering that your faith on that face may be stronger than its appearance.

But as you blink a few more times and don't let the light leaks of your ridiculous faith blind you, you slowly realize that the face that once moved you so much is gone. The flame that burnt high and low, quivered on top but kept still to the wax...is gone. There's nothing that overwhelms you about that face anymore, there is nothing that makes you want to cry. The expression in your heart is smug. It wants to walk away, and carry on with the life you finally moved on with, in the absence of that face.
You feel like you're sitting on the other side of the window, and the only way you look at the other side is through an old, lace curtain. It flies around with the wind, letting you peek at the real thing once in a while, but it's hidden again, and it stays that way. And you realize, it's not hidden anymore, it's gone.

Flame fleeced. The remains of that blaze are nowhere to be seen around you, for they withered away with that side of you which became history, along with that person's departure in your life, once.

You realize, you slowly fell out of love. Because beyond a point, that face didn't love you back, and you couldn't love thin air, could you now? 


Thursday, August 1, 2013

Because you were sure.

Writing, sometimes, can be the most stifling feeling in the world. It robs you of all your privacy, and ruthlessly strips naked every bleak corner of your mind; your imagination, your hopes, your desires, your everything; printed in ink on an otherwise flimsy blank paper.
The stain of ink in coherent intelligible figures can humiliate you, and make reality ten times withal real. It can be the tightest slap you remember all your life, while the slaps in your childhood seem like sweet gestures of warnings by Mother to mend your twisted ways that ultimately lead to your fall; on such a blank paper.

I don't understand why we're so stubborn. Why we're constantly rushing to plunge into every possible scope of entanglement and openly wish, hope and pray we never find our way out and breathe again. We like gasping. I think we like this mess. I think we're so used to it, that fresh air feels wrong, now.
The mind enjoys being in a perpetual state of frustration, and our language seems to be that of constant sarcasm and cocky-ness that only earns some more of the two from the other end of every communication we indulge in.

And what's terrible, is that this is mistake we're ready to make one more time, and then another time, and the time after that. Because we're just so god damn scared of being free. Of having our own space. Because we think that would be the world's way of abandoning us.
It's ridiculous, loathsome, and repulsive; this constant urge to keep doing something. And when we try to clean some wax off our minds, and sit down to write about the happier things in life, all we pour out are our dark little revelations and regrets. Because you just goddamn can't lie to a goddamn paper. It's powerless; your mind thinks. Who will he tell? It'll just stay. It'll yellow around it's corners and age away, perhaps with ink blots and cigarette burns.

But that's the point; it stays.

And you can't do anything about it, because? You never used a pencil. 
You were just so sure about everything, remember?


Thursday, July 11, 2013

Eve of 19.

My 18th year was going to end with the end of this blog, because I firmly believed that all good things came to an end. And it was best that way, for it left you with the prime of every feeling, and not the remnants of those feelings fading away.
But a rather wise friend convinced me otherwise. And perhaps, she's right. Because I was holding on to this blog for the same reason, all this while; it's the one constant proof of my life to have never waited for all the happiness and chaos. It just went on, and you all saw, along with me. And perhaps, that's what gives us all hope to realize everything passes; every day, no matter how downtrodden or euphoric it may be... passes. And you live through it, don't you? In fact, you cherish most of it. You not only cherish, but you goddamn love most of it. And the bits that you'd rather not say... pass. And you grow, because each and every emotion, each and every thought, each and every blink, and each and every broken smile pealed another layer off you. It revealed some more of you, to the world, but most importantly; you saw yourself even clearer, you were just that much stronger, standing tall.

You ought to unfurl. You ought to wither away. Because only then, would you have gasped for some air, and only then.. would you have breathed.

Here end the first 18 years of my life, and I'm breathing because I'm on my own, and I'm good.
Year 18, you were the longest and the most entwined road I could ever choose. But I'm glad you happened, because you spelled one thing out for me, for sure; that one phase of my life is over, and the one that's about to come will be that much crooked. And I better twist and turn along, to make myself exactly what I want to be made of. I'm glad you happened, because you spelled out disappointments in a way that no other year has ever, for which I'm ready to appreciate every bit of happiness that decides to show up.

It's important to be happy, it's important to be happier, and it's important to be happiest; but what is absolutely crucial, is to be happy. :)

Happy birthday, to me.
I hope I get a New York cheesecake.


Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Beauty bereft.

(Photo by Vanta.)

They had been abandoned by the ankles of the woman who became the prayers of every beat resonating around the universe. The woman said they scraped her ankles and made them bleed of bruises. They were accused to have lost a bell here, or two there. Apparently, they didn’t sound as sweet as her dance looked. Just how was she to dance with them on?

And thus, abandoned, they were. Carelessly put away into the unabashedly ignored attic of the gigantic house; the one that they had won her, from His Majesty.
 Every evening, they’d be bitter kissed by another layer of dust... Flies and sly ants would walk past the intricate blue thread work and the gold of each bell which weren't as golden anymore. The edges of the table on which they sat withered with time, and the room would birth nascent cobwebs and the dirge of grey into which every element of the room camouflaged
Every element, but them. They sat on that very table like a bold mother, pregnant with a secret. The sheet of dust would only gather in the broken ends of each bell and accentuate the rest of the body which spoke of age and art. Of flawlessness, of music, of dance… of a kind of beauty that ceased to exist once they were taken off her ankle.
They sat on that very table, listening to the woman dance somewhere far away in the court of his majesty. They’d see her taking her first bow and her last; they knew every breath she’d inhale after every fourth beat. They knew every flaw in the continuation of her hurried steps, and yet those steps were birthed in the womb of those; the ones that sat cold in that old, trivial attic.

What a pity; thought an anonymous wise man. A wise man who existed in the motes of dust around the old room, who existed in the aroma of rose water at the majestic palace.

Her feet tremble now with the new pair of golden bells on her mended ankle. They tinkle after her feet hit the ground, not with them. They’re a proud pair of 500 bells, and yet they sound faint, shy, or rather… coward like. And the irony is, the woman knew.
Bereft from what completed her next step from the first, she tussled with her tenacity to dance like that celebrated figurant she’d become in that kingdom of his Majesty; the kingdom where people kissed their fingertips to her rhythm, to her graceful glide that progressed unobstructed on the marble floors of the court, like the breeze of the season of art.

And yet, the beauty of that figurant faded as she tried harder and harder… for the essence of her dance lay sitting on an old table; bold, aged, and yet gorgeous; in those blue and golden pair of ghungroos. Quiet, incomplete, and bitterly proud; bereft of those bruised ankles. 

First proper piece of the summer, written in a strange strange mood. There y'go. Awaiting your feedback :)
Much loving,

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Paperplanes of May.

Every year has a particular month that changes how your life has been for a period of time; let's just say that has been the reason for my absence. I don't know how often will I be around now, this summer is going to be a little more of my-space-bubble oriented, but I'll try to keep you guys posted on the happenings of ole Nil's life.

My love for pictures and summer tones be back. The camera is travelling all around in my big white bag, despite the rude heat making life difficult. My fancy phone is away at the repair shop. Thanks to my perfectly normal clumsy self, the screen of that perfectly maintained phone is now shattered. I'm using a phone as good as rock, and as last season as calling glares; "goggles".
But that's fine. There are no facilities except calling and texting, so I'm good. It's done a brilliant job at keeping me away from the human population as such, and helped secrete some serious thought process and ideas from my lazy brain that was sleeping thinking it was still winter. So it's going to be a summer of 8tracks.com, pulling every mote of thought out of my head and working on a fiction project I've decided on, and a whole lot of ice tea and mojitos. Sounds like a plan my alter ego had been craving for. Little boxes of a lot of space is going to be the mood, for this summer. And a whole lot of summer-y pictures. So until the fiction project takes a stand on paper, I'll post them pictures here and keep you entertained.
No promises, though.

Thank you SO much for all the support in the last post. This safe haven of mine breathes because of you guys, who save it from soiling away. So stay tuned. Nil can never really shut up, can she?
And a humongous Thank You to the lovely bloggers who thought of my blog being worthy of awards. I've added them to my hall of cyber fame- y'all are so kind. (:

Until I catch them paper planes of May, open them up, write on the papers and send them back to you, enjoy the obnoxiously immodest heat. Summer is bringing it on.

Muchos of love and all that jazz,

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Nothing less, if not more.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 38; the thirty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "The Woman on Platform Number 10"
Nothing less, if not more.

On such yellow afternoons at the café, she mostly sat on the corner most table with the three legged chair opposite to her, hunching, as always; humming to the poly disks  she made Ted; the waiter play for the entertainment of all; and for pampering her own nostalgia. This particular Sunday she was carrying an old poly disk which surprised her on being found that morning. Mostly her afternoon routine would have her walk into the café, pin point and call Ted to come along her table and take the poly disk of the day to the gramophone, however this particular Sunday… walk into the café, she did. Sat on the corner most table, she did. However the poly disk was not parted with, it sat perfectly round and old in its case, in front of her, while she read  what was written on the centre of the disk with an old marker;

“And I, all I really want is you
You to stick around
I’ll see you everyday
But you’ll have to follow through...” 

It wasn't the first time in the day that she read those few lines. Though every time she did, it felt like the first time and it felt like thirty years back, all over again. His handwriting was as fresh as the 20 year old boy staring at her from her memory, his ‘Y’s were always longish, she smiled. Another similar yellow afternoon stared at her in her mind; an endless road on which they walked while he hid a square case behind his back and walked with her;

“…and why are you hiding that big poly disk which every tree on the road can see?”

“…I was hoping you weren't a tree, but happy birthday, Jolene.”

“What did you record?”

“A song that might remind you of today, of now… of maybe me. And what we are at this moment. And what we could be in the next. Nothing less, if not more.”

“…what’s more?”

“No music for the café today, Miss Jolene?”, Ted stood next to her looking down at the poly disk. She looked up at Ted, an embarrassed slow red blush creeping into her dusky skin. But she recovered quickly.  Abandoning emotions at the time of need was an old habit of her head strong existence.

“why of course, Teddy. This one just has one song though.”

“Oh, looks like an old gift, is it?”

“Yes. A very… old gift, indeed.”, she smiled in an absent minded way.

“From a friend, was it?”

“He was…more”

“What’s more?”

As the needle of the grand instrument touched the top of the revolving disk, a much too familiar tune took her back to that old sunny afternoon. The long road ended at the threshold of the old station. Clasping the poly disk case to under her arm, she briskly walked with him to platform number 10.

“So… what’s more?”, she asked impatiently, catching a glimpse of the mouth of the train pulling into the platform.

“What’s more… is perhaps the day you remember today, of now, and of me; of what we are at this moment, and what we could be in the next… and you sing along to the song waiting for you in this disk, on another day, in another moment, for me.”

“What makes you think I’ll sing for you?”

“Oh Jolene, my beautiful. One day a stranger will ask you about us, and you wouldn't know what to say--”

“Because there is nothing to say, there never was, and there will be.”

“ You've always had something to sing, when you've had nothing to say.”, he smiled that crooked smile that peered through her eyes, and leaving just that of him, he went away.

Jolene stood quietly, waiting for the smoke of the train to burn her eyes, just so she could be angry at the engine for making her eyes moist. Strong girl, Jolene. Strong girl. He must go away, you must be free.

“I asked what’s more, Miss Jolene?”, Ted playfully yelled from the other corner of the café while he turned the music a notch or two higher. The song rang in her ears;

“And I, all I really want is you
You to stick around
I’ll see you everyday
But you’ll have to follow through...”

…and Jolene tried saying something but she was chocked, and so she sang along the chorus;

“You will have to follow through
These reeling emotions they keep me alive
They keep me in tune
Oh look what I’m holding here in my fire,
This is for you….”

Jolene had nothing to say. And so, she sang. She sang for that day, for that moment, for him. She sang for what they were at that moment, and what they could have been in the next.
 She sang while she stared at the empty case of the poly disk that said;

“For the Woman on Platform Number 10,
 It was never less, it was always more, wasn't it?

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: Random blog surfing, Participation Count: 02

 Awaiting your feed backs!

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Philippic rhapsody.

I'm almost awkward to initiate conversation here, yes I know it's been so long. But oh well,

Greetings, World.
Yes, I most definitely missed y'all, and hell I missed you- Blog. I don't remember the last rant, only because I've been doing something so terrible lately; keeping it all in my head. Moving on to shallow conversation; a very happy Holi to all of you. Bet you guys played with colors and jazz and for those of you rotten rears who threw eggs at me from racing cars; GOOD JOB DOUCHE, THAT'S PRETTY MUCH ALL YOUR SKILLS FOR LIFE.

Yeah, not much of a Holi person. Gone are the days when it used to be dry, pretty and colorful. Nothing about ink and grease please me, so yeah no thanks bye. In other news, a year of college is almost over. Just about now, I have a My Life Is A Lie moment, because I don't even know where that year went. I kept doing things, running around, thinking I'd eventually settle down; except, I haven't. I'm still finding my place, at some level. And because of this terrible running around, I've pretty much forgotten weekends and the concept of 8 hours of sleep. College is overrated. I love it, but it's overrated.
Tiny juniors from school just finished with their Boards, and I fail to see how. THEY WERE TINY. And they're now figuring out their college options. O.o
In another two months, my freshmen year will be over. In two years, my under grad will be over. No seriously, what is wrong with the world?

As you might have noticed, I'm in the mood to rant the brains out of your mind. I want to keep talking to I feel like the scum in my head gets out, you're welcome to stop reading, I won't mind. Of course I will, so leave quietly if you must. If you read on, you'll be a part of that 0.9% of the world I tolerate like right now.
Did I mention, at this point in life, my favorite career option would be to be a waitress at a shack in Goa? Good life. That will be the good life.

The rest of the college week is off, and I plan to write. It's been unhealthily long that I've come up with some piece that I'd be content with. I've just spent too much time entertaining absolute and pointless bullshit and that's enough now. I'm going to write some.
My end sem are around the corner, and I really need to get started with getting back to being a nerd. I miss it. I miss spending endless hours studying when nothing can bother me, and I feel purposeful. And once exams are over, I plan on going away from Delhi for a while. FOR A GOOD WHILE. To get a breather before second year starts and life becomes crazy again. A few of us from DramSoc and MusicSoc have plans of lifting up the productivity of the societies so we can look at ourselves in the mirror and not feel guilty about wasting our lives. I feel like we worked like idiots this year, which is why the end results were never there and we just felt wasted with migraine.

Wow, I fail at emitting happiness. Said the over competitive bastard.
Since I suddenly feel very awkward again and I don't want to talk anymore, here you go; a few pictures from different places my happy feet (lol sure thing) traveled to.

 There y'go. And now, I shall go listen to The Swell Season and hopefully that will inspire me enough to write something and show some bloody passion. Goodbye, lovelies. Thank you for reading. Grumpy Nil happens once in 86 years, I'm sure none of us will be alive for the next one. Is it me or am I really inappropriate?

Much loving,

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

The embers of a racing mind.

I can almost feel the curvature of my first thought burning away as quickly as the wing of a happy butterfly would ash away to; when inched  to an ignited matchstick. The head of the second thought was the origin of such friction and so has been the cycle of my thoughts, lately. Burnt out; even before one could live. 
A pandemonium of events uncannily containing similar emotions, all of which turn into a chaos inside a breathing room divided into two; my mind needs space. 
Examples of how fragile the think tank of our anatomy is have been in abundance, recently. And some times, I wonder; aren't we all a little tilted in the dark side, at some point?

"A calm man always has a war within him.. which is why, he is calm." ; I heard an acquaintance say, with a smirk today. And the glint in his eyes at the moment convinced me of the autobiographical statement, casually passed to push the puberty of understanding him. 
Since then, a very different spotlight surrounds his figure even in day light, when I look at him. And then I wonder, don't we just look at people? Isn't that all the shallow effort we put in to understanding the immediate wall of concrete we live in, after all? And then we wonder why pity surrounds our existence?

"Atleast this patch of Earth I'm standing on, is my ashtray." ; That was the parent of arrogance, her tongue talking. To our questioning looks, she didn't defend; she stated; that the patch of land she stood on was loyal to her weight, it was loyal to the foreskin of her body and mind. The patch of land was hers to spoil with all her ridiculous and whimsical ideas, to all the forms of salt that secrete out of her brown skin, to the lose strands of hair that fall out of her scalp to rid themselves of the overwhelming amount of turbulence beyond their roots. The patch of Earth was her. It was made out of her, and thus will wait for her slowly ashing body to come back home. The breed of such women was lost, we thought?

" The relevance of the human will and word is tragic, to say the least." ; I thought, after that one friend closed the door behind him. That one friend who was an undertone to the first quarter of my life, who was the proof of my childhood and who was the ear to every voice that made it out of my throat; and the ones that didn't. Years and years of mindless banters and baseless words exchanged in between found their way to my ear drums and I realized how relative human words are; for once the intention changes and the will demolishes, those words don't even exist enough to be called empty, anymore. There is no vessel to them, only tainted air of something that used to be. 
And one day, all those inconsequential conversations will skin the time you lost out on, alive. 


Thursday, February 7, 2013

Sunday enthusiasts.

Sitting in straight lines of disorderly sequence,
they fit next to one another,
a feather long gamut between each.
A different flock, each day
and Sunday seemed their favorite of the lot.

One would fly away,
only to circle around and settle next to another.
Another would clumsily flap in protest,
though the order of the makeshift lines were taken much solemnly.

One or three would ash away,
the criminal phenomena of electricity was common a knowledge,
they'd complain of its ruthless deeds,
and yet settle on those black wires, indubitably.

Perhaps it was how the rest of us looked from above,
tiny, black and feeble stick figures;
running around doing things that were humorous to them,
they all fancy a good laugh,
our kind was a curious one to theirs.

They weren't wanton sadists,
neither were they reckless optimists.
They were fond of the sky that was intimate,
and Sundays, that favored clear skies.

So sit, they did,
and watched over us.
Flew away once in a while,
however absconded, rarely.

And so finally, the poetry block is over :) Hoorah.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A tall glass of water.

She spoke much fondly of bees, she often cackled to the buzz and drew yellow and black ones on her palms. Uninterrupted would be the curled strand of lock that played high and low tides on the left side of her face, while her long legs escorted wild thoughts with the pace she sauntered at, in and around the world.
Her bifocals were just as much a part of her face as her arched eyebrows; as sure as the tip of her illustrated nose; which always reached a destination a second before the rest of her chassis.
She often let daylight lick her like a cone of strawberry and vanilla. One would oft see her sitting unusually away from most people; soaking the dissonant sun with her long legs stretched and her face separated from the sun by the blinds of her eyes. She peeked with an eye open, once in a while.

To every one who raised an eyebrow at her vicissitude way of life, she'd say "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side." in Lou Reed's deep voice, and leave just the way she entered; like a whirlwind.
Apart from the 3 fingers on each hand with questionable rings, the other two would mostly be drawn on by neon highlighters. Her obsession with patterns left an impression not only on her apparels but on the bellies she wore which some times had little metallic balls  filed lines or curly circles doodled on them. Every mote of her existence had an ethereal and evanescent element on its toes, and yet she was as real as her loud Aztec leggings or the little ball of silver on the right side of her nose.

She was a strange girl in a stranger world. Everything bizarre was another route to happiness, every print on a cloth was something she'd have to doodle on her wrist that very afternoon and every page of a book was a paper plane with a lot of words on it. Interesting, she thought.
Interesting, she thought. She stopped the world in her head, stretched her long legs on the floor and spoke to the sun.

- Nil. 

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Oh the unspeakable things.

"Oh if you knew what it meant to me,
Anywhere but here."

Hello, World.

It's already the 12th day of the year and not only has everything been racing its pace but I've been running along. College has been immodestly demanding of my time, starting 8:40 am morning classes to theater and Acapella rehearsals after college. By the time I'm home, I'm dead. I have no will or energy to argue or agree. I just like to retire to my space; a quiet dimly lit room, some good music and my laptop.

2013 is going to be the torch bearer of interesting events. The first two weeks have already proven my theory and thus, turned facts it is. But anyhoo, music has been keeping me sane. Lots and lots of music which I listen to, which makes sense and I keep all that sense bottled up inside me and try my best to not blurt it out to the world. Cause it'll only make sense as long as it stays with me. Most things turns unnecessary, as soon as they're peeled by the world, eh?

Book I'm currently binging on- My Friend Leonard.
Random winter-y picture from this week.

So the next few weeks are going to be crazy busy. The next ten days have lunatic hours of society practices, followed by the Lit Fest which I hope to head for this year, for sure. And then we have Comic Con coming up, for which, might I add, yours truly shall be volunteering. Should be fun. Free comics, goodies and friends to run around with. Works fine for me, for now. (OH, and free fruit beer. Jussayiiin'.)

 I'm currently obsessing over this song. It makes so much sense that it's pretty much overwhelming, to say the least. It's just the kind of mood I've been in, and it's just what's been in my head. It's almost like I spelled out everything I couldn't figure out to someone, and she made the song for me. Just like that. There y'go.
So yes, I've been shaking my head all evening and will continue doing so for the rest of the night about how a song can make so much sense. At the oddest time and in the oddest way. But then again, that's what songs do. They make you sing along, and I'm singing along, alright. Give it a shot, it may make sense to you, too.

(Courtesy: Vanta.)

So hopefully, there's going to be some fiction coming our way. I've been slightly stuck with a godzillion stories in my head and yet having a brain freeze when I get down to typing it out. Hopefully with it being Sunday today and me catching up on what I compromise on such nocturnal hours, I'll be able to come up with some more fiction labels. But first; sleep.

Good night, or good morning.
Much loving,
ole Nil.