Elijah.

Like a sudden raspy slap of the coldest swirl of air- her face haunted me, displacing each an every element of stability within me. My flesh grew pale, though the blood within never felt warmer. It was like a sudden rude grip by unnaturally long fingers around my neck, I do not understand how a face can be so hauntingly beautiful. It ruined me for life.
Her brows stayed home, though the lingering questions escaped the chilly calm on her face with just a tinge of a smile. I refuse to understand how her body, so white like a possessed corpse could seem so alive with the unabashed inactivity in her character- by just standing there with those piercing eyes, she was ruling my existence. If moments could bleed, this would be it. 

Her lank poker straight hair plastered the contours of her oval face like a wedding ring too tight for a finger. The streetlamp on top of her head made a halo of her frail figure that stood too strong, too tall to go unnoticed in the nocturnal camouflage of the snoring night. She was the literary equivalent of star dust, she said.  
Somewhere in the throbbing veins of her hand, I heard a universe call and somehow I believed it really did exist.

Ghosts, spirits, demons and angels seemed like myths of the past that crawled away, intimidated by this Mother of Zeus- if we were all to be thin air, she would be chariot swirling the sky.
So harshly real, emitting a flow-charted insanity of sort- I was left crippled, impotent- a wounded soldier whose words were slashed by hers even before I could conjure a thought. 

Nationalities, religions, myths and epics failed to define her aura that was like a walking aurora in the middle of a battlefield with bleeding men and parts of scattered limbs around dynamites. Her presence was so raw, that you lament over the inexplicable reality of her tenderness.

She churned my insides in a way that would set the democracy of my ideas on fire and would establish the anarchy of my emotions.   

And yet what I felt was the casually tossed idea of wanting to die because you were just that happy. And perhaps, right then I realized the original difference between happiness and elation.
I felt the pores of my flesh, the pores of my soul, the pores of my eyes widen up like open gashes of wounds and found healing in the nakedness of my armors- armors of my flesh, armors of my soul and the armors of my eyes.

I stood right there, once the moment had ended, and the sprinkles of its blood shone in the creases of my fingers. The bones of her haunt made a moment bleed, which is now. 

_____________________________________________________________________

Something I wrote for the Poetry Slams I've been doing the past few months. You guys are beautiful, to have stuck around :)
I'll be back soon, I just can't tell when.

-After a long time,
Nil.

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. :)

-Love,
Nil. 

Flame fleeced.

History.
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? 

-Nil.

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?

-Nil. 

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,
Nil. 

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. 


-Nil.

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.
-Nil.

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. 

Thank you for not making sense.

A pandemonium inside your bony skull and within your heart that's the size of your mere fist can some times, absolutely paralyze you and hold you still in the middle of a hot, working and busy day. The kind of day when even your subconscious mind should ideally turn dumb, deaf and blind; to ensure no manifestation of mindful disasters. Mindful, mind you; not mindless. 

Such a pandemonium usually means a lot of noise which only gets louder once you plug in your earphones, and every song almost sounds satiric, mocking to your misunderstood misery. 

But say thank you, for not making sense. After every file of obviousness that's been neatly stacked into your mind, and every little box tightly packed away into quiet corners of that coffer throbbing inside your chest.. after such achieved order, we often trash away the not so obvious which wasn't highlighted with a neon marker in the rationality of your mind or consideration of your heart. But often, those little eightysixed details end up actually being the full stops to years worth of bemusement. 

What happens when all those file are scattered on the floors of your mind which is used to being in an apple -pie order? What happens when all those little boxes are blown off their lids and all the four walls fall apart with everything inside meanders out?

Beautiful happens. 

Because all of a sudden, every orderly detail stands next to the ones that are not. And like trifling chipped ends of blue tiles, you connect the dots you thought that were already connected, only to form a completely new pattern, and you witness the same story you thought was over; from the same pair of eyes, except this time, with a sensible mind. 

Yes, I said sensible mind. For in all the chaos of nonsensical shenanigans in your head, all they did was form a nebula of affairs; from your mind, and from your heart. 

It gave you a chance to make sense, once again. 

- A much tranced out,
Nil. 

Untitled, for once.

Have you ever had that one stretch of uncounted hours when your mind shuts off to all the sense in the world, and you find yourself in a boat; a boat, in the middle of your mind. You can see the walls of your mind but all they ring of being cold air. The seams of the white in your eye have a tinge of red, your throat is chocked but you're biting your lip as hard as you can to not cry. You're a strong girl, strong girls don't cry. That's not what the world said, no. That's what you told yourself.
The little lamp of white light next to you gives you no comfort. If at all, it reminds you every minute that there is not a single door present in the valves of your mind, there are only walls; which do not even listen. No matter how much you speak aloud, you'll just bite your lips harder when your words ring back to you.

You don't understand this. You don't understand this confinement, you don't understand your mind. And you know; this too, shall pass; though this one sure is doing everything it can to make you ridicule a hopeful belief, such.

You're a strong girl, though. You're not going to cry.
Tell yourself that, just one more time. 


-Nil

Still alive who you love.

Origin of this post: 

It began with a quiet hum, almost like a silent conversation in the back of my mind. The hum was low and melodious, though abrupt and began out of nowhere, not a single origin was in sight. As the hum grew vociferous, a beat caught up, and some sense began to unwind from its slumber. As soon as I began understanding today, tomorrow ran in; as I tried to understand tomorrow, day after tapped its foot impatiently. So I decided to unlearn what I realized, and I decided to listen hard to the music which made no sense to me, at all. Though that music felt like a part of my world, and even though the melody grew into something stronger, that faint hum of abruptness didn't leave me. For that hum, was my discovery. 

The hum became an epiphany, it became a dream that should have been seen before, it became a possession  it became a performance... it became a masterpiece.
The song was never staged, though. It resonated much too often along the veins of my body which helped more revelations travel, than fluids. A feeling was the perpetual invader of my existence, irrespective of which one, but there always lived a feeling.

And perhaps, that is why a faint hum eventually turned into a marched progression of a sense of strangeness, though a strangeness with a twisted smile, the one that looks beautiful on a face.
And while I live on along with this strangeness and a constant hum that feels abrupt in all its glorious continuum,  my existence will resonate nothing but blessedness, for the beauty of discovery is such that the unfamiliar becomes and acquaintance, crony, and some strange day I shall realize; it's become a part of me, and its existence is seen, felt, and heard every time I sit alone on a quiet afternoon, feelin' blue..

For that hum was my discovery,
and for me, that hum was you. 


-A happy feelin'
Nil. 

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, it's a...different style of writing that I attempted, to free my head of certain epiphanies and visions that were rather vociferous. This post was inspired by a random photo of a lazy cat that came and cuddled next to my foot and I clicked a picture of. 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.

______________________________________________________________________

The lazy cat looked like she knew what she was doing. There was not a hint of abashment or fear as she kept slumping her hilt on a new spot every time the bedeviled waiter shooed her away, making strange noises. At another corner of the world, a boy sat down ridiculing how people phrase regions of the world as 'corners' when none actually exist, when there isn't a literal end to the world, and how in reality, we're all naive early men within who comfort themselves with ancient, impractical thesis. At that very moment, a stand up comedian in your home town makes a cat's purr the butt of his pun and a blink later, the lazy cat stirs next to your foot. While you distract yourself from the utterly boring conversation the lady ahead has to offer, you look down and the cat looks up. And right at that very second, the stand up comedian forgets his punch line.

A gypsy woman recites her burglary around the world to a six year old boy, while her scarf hides the source of her dreamy voice. A caravan stops eight stops early to pick her up and away it went, puffing smoke from its choking rear. 

Mars decided to shine a brighter blood red, and that simple celestial decision made an old man very happy. He smiled a weak smile that peeped brighter from behind his half moon spectacles.. He particularly missed his dead wife, tonight. 

While such preoccupations worried the world, the cat purred next to my foot. And when the waiter came to shoo it off yet again, it picked it's hind up and settled on the foot of another distracted conversationalist. The lazy cat looked like she knew just what she was doing. Unlike me. 

-Nil.

 

Fragile.

"Fragile." 
Your suitcase is going to have that sticker when you're at the airport, right? I want to be that sticker. I want to be a part of that suitcase that you packed from home, that has that book you kept asking me for but ended up buying instead, that has the orange shirt that has the cologne on from last night's farewell, that has the black bow tie I always wanted to see you in, and the little black diary of yours that's tucked away into a chain.

I want to be a part of that box of home that you're carrying to a new land. I want to sit next to you when you tap your foot impatiently, waiting for your flight to take off. You've been waiting too long to escape this place, haven't you? The ticket in your breast pocket was the one shot you needed, it turned out to be the one shot you finally got.
I want to be standing right there when you step out of the aircraft and see the new city for the first time, when your mind has no curfews and you're all set to run... I want to start running with you.
I want to be sitting across the table, when you have your first breakfast away from the round table with a red and white checkered table cloth back home.
I want to see you quietly put a letter you received a day back at the bed side drawer, I want to see you read it, again. I want to be the last full stop, on that letter.

I want to be each and every stamp on your passport. I want to be every single crinkled bus ticket that stays in the pockets of your jean. I want to count your change while you tip off the waiter at the cult cafes around the world, I want to share the binoculars you see through to see the horizon complementing your new terrace. I want to be the coin you toss in your first wishing well in Europe and I want to be the chop sticks you use so proficiently for Sushi.

I want to feel your pulse as each and every second becomes an experience.

However, I see the ends of your trousers flapping through the gust of air that comes in while you board the plane, and your suitcase goes away with you, while the Fragile sticker stays on with me.

-Nil.

(P.s- I promise and update post, next. I'll spare you the perpetual after-midnight- Fiction OD.)

Where do you go when you're lonely?

Do you walk on that one street with restaurants on the right, glowing a gorgeous warm yellow and buzzing with the clutter clatter of cutlery? 
Do you feel a little comforted when you see people from those big glass windows dining and toasting to company? 
Do you quickly hold on to the cap on your head, feeling the warmth of the wool and wait for it to breathe out cold air, just like you? Or do you blow out that very cold air into the chilly evening and pretend for it to be smoke, just so you're not alone, just so your mouth is in touch with something, if not words. 

Or do you switch on that old sitcom while it starts snowing outside and you're too scared to look at the white outside, to remember last winter..  
I've noticed how you never put out the Christmas cards on she shelf anymore. Don't they make you feel more at home? Don't they remind you of home? 

Where do you go when you're lonely? 
I've seen you get nervous even when your shadow follows.  
Do you go to the town's carnival, buy yourself cotton candy and eat it while your eyes descend to London's big eye and the time you took a tourist friend on it? Or the one time you had your first kiss in one of the cabins in it? 
Do you remember your old high school corridor? You never felt lonely when you walked on it, did you. 
More so, because you were too busy driving away her blues every morning. 
You often wonder about her.. She still wishes you went to college together, in the same city. Even though it's been so many years to those times.. But  yes, you both still do think of each other. You hope so.. 

I've seen you walk into one of the big games with a single ticket too, at times. I've seen you keep quiet while the whole stadium went wild. 
I've seen you sitting in movie theaters, half listening to the dialogues and half smiling over youthful shenanigans in the theaters back home, with her. 

Doesn't everything about this new city remind you of those times? 
Every street is different from the ones back home, and yet you can see the same things happen at every corner, at every cafe, every colorful door on the white walls. 
She loved colors, didn't she? She also loved long walks... long walks, with you.  

So where do you go when you're lonely?
Somewhere.. where you hope she follows you?
Haven't you both... just been following each other all this while, sweetheart?  
______________________________________________________________________________

The inspiration to this post :

So yeah, I promised some fiction... Sorry about the abstractness of this piece but aah well, Rem sent me this version of When Stars Go Blue, and I just wrote ahead with a smile. It's alright if you felt a little lost... This post was a little cuckoo in the head, and even more in the heart :) Much loving, Nil. 

If irony were a hint, I'd be in trouble.

It's been a strange night, not a quiet one in particular, not a silent night. A usual night, with every prerequisite element of normalcy. Except an epiphany; 


If irony were a hint, I'd be in trouble. 


What do you do when a realization of sort awaits you, like a person walking quietly to your door and is about to knock; what do you do when that realization is something you'd want to be hit with later, in future, in good time and when you're a few more days older?
That realization's waiting outside, it's presence has been realized by you, for you can see the hovering shadow of its dense existence outside the door of your acceptance. 
You've had thousands of people nudge you, to think, to consider; some even spelled it out for you-- but you let it go. Why? Because the subject of that realization had dismissed its rationality. It's proof. It's...being.
And you let it go, you asked a valid fact to scoot away, so life would be easy and pleasant for the two of you, without troublesome shenanigans and you'd still be at that safe harbor, with nothing to risk, and everything gained. Almost, every thing gained.


Now, what do you do.....when the very subject of that realization nudges you to rewind and realize in the past, but doesn't ask you to alter the present and yet promises a future?


What do you do, when the only answer whispered through that door is simple; What is meant to be, will be...
While somebody, is waiting, beyond that door?

-Nil. 

I have a lot to say.

Hello, there. I wouldn't call this post completely fictitious, it's a...different style of writing that I attempted, to free my head of certain epiphanies and visions that were rather vociferous. It was stimulated by Van Gogh's Starry Night. And call it crazy, I found just the variation of the painting I wanted, online. So 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 may not make sense, due to the drastic transitions of odd imagery. But it's raw and unedited.
That should be intriguing enough.
___________________________________________________________________________________________

I have a lot to say about your catastrophic ways at romance.The kind which elevate your lovers just enough to bring them down on hard rubble, away from the skies and your red skirts. The deep rings of the ocean will coo deep within the marine land which would then birth the butterfly effect, around the world. You never considered the golden strings around that quiet cocoon which conceived an unholy crossbreed of the moth that resigned to growth.  All those tales which sing the hymns of Juliet aren't all that forlorn, anything that's been a part of history has stirred, moved, revolted, and been enshrined in script, in mind- though very few in heart.There's a brothel in your mind, perhaps there might be a temple, even. The point of reckoning being, there's a threshold to both them abodes. Each threshold holy to its indweller in their own ways.There's a sense of exhilaration in the careless free-fall of ash. That sense of exhilaration magnifies at the cinch attempt of beating that ash to dry paste. The salt and pepper like appearance brings about a silly sensation of appeasement. The heart has been an immigrant to seek, it can also be an emigrant to leave. Ultimately, words when spoken are relative, for they are evanescent once the will erodes and the thought is forgotten. What is fearless? The absence of fear may sound splendid, but uncommon. Is 'fearless' a state of insensitivity when the repercussions fail to inflict any sort of effect on you? Because then it wouldn't be such a glorious feeling after all.  In all its ignorance it may give me the attention that would tame me. However in the midst of all the shenanigans your existence may be party to, there lies an order in the desperate disorder of chaos. Now isn't that brilliant and inspiring?  -Nil.

Shine On You Crazy Diamond.

"Can't a man just be happy?" was his answer to my risen eyebrow, questioning the abrupt subito smile of his, which had a question lurking somewhere in that crescent shaped happiness of his.  A question whose alpha was the night of celebration, the last night of the year. The night when every face had a haze of intoxicated wonder; of happiness, sadness, retrospect, nostalgia, regret, contentment. The night when the cause of each and every emotion felt could be found in the flirtatious sweet little nothings of the night, of that one person you somehow find in the confluence of so many people who cheer to every mistake and every hour of joy for the year that was.

The clock struck 12, and the world rose their toasts, embraced, some kissed, and some... sat in silence, and waited for the wishes to end, the year to start, and for something to begin.. Something, that came without a flag, without a warning. In his case, it was a song. And quite subtly, that song entangled me into its trance of thoughts which brew like quiet vapors of romance, of hushed smiles, and of sweet..very sweet denial.

The room was dark, all the light we knew was that of the shy remains of the Christmas tree, which glorified the shadow of an eyelash here, a frown there, and a smile hangin' in the whispered conversations and deep warm breathing of the other that sent ripples of goosebumps on my skin before it could recuperate from the one before. Fragments of conversations would be remembered the next day, which is why we gave in and let the alcohol speak, and counted on amnesia for the next day's laughs and winks.

If there was to be an hourglass for that night, it would be a weeping one. We'd make the sand stay clenched in between our fingers, we'd hold on till the last call of the pupil to beg for some slumber, we'd hold on till we could refrain the urge of floating into sweet unconsciousness, we'd hold on to time till we found its track again.
Hours sweeped, and our arrogant ignorance to it was never too appalling to the both of us. Ironic how the first sunrise of the year was ignored in pure bliss, perhaps because there was too much of warmth in the fluidity of words that brushed past the blushes on our cheeks ever so often.

The night ended, dawn cracked, morning peeled itself, bold rays of sunlight pinched our irises which still protested to stay unbolted, to be stared at, to be looked into.

And while the day took onto newer revelations...epiphanies from the last night flirted around the corners of our minds dancing to the quiet tunes of that one song... Shine on you crazy diamond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And there y'go. First piece of the new year!
-Nil. 

A pathetically usual Christmas eve =)

Believe me,this is an absolutely good for nothing post. So here goes :) ---

So maybe after a good 4 months,I got a lonely evening to myself where I did nothing but nothing :D

Starting from a lazy, long lunch with dad...

and then Yes,I watched Juno, did an excellent job at becoming totally emo about teenagers and going preggers.

Sigh

Then what? I was mourning mentally on the emotions of being a mother,due to which I actually put myself into some use in the house, trying to help my mother-- However resulting to be kicked out and sent to m room to go to hell.

"Who are you trying to kid?"

And then I threw the duster and went back to my ole buddy Laptop! xD

Yes,

Then about an hour and a half on the internet, searching the most pathetic videos on Youtube [ Pigs Flying ] and annoying people on Facebook.

Then, Ms.Mrinalini Abot decides to call me and then accusing me of the bill she gets. I give her a whole lecture explaining what an ass of a retard she is calling me from her school practices and that staying over friend's for 14 whole days just proves the fact that she needs help.

I pity over her mother,and promise to send her sweets via international links someday when I'm rich. Mrill attacks me of being "A rotten cherry" - which thunders my laughter for bang 15 minutes.

Finally I say "Fuck off sweetness,go study some Geography" and hang up, and the woman calls back accusing me of the bad weather which apparently got her hair soggy. .

*Laughs to herself*

And then people call Me Random and stupid.

So,that conversation really lit up my day, and I'm glad she called.

I love you my hotstuff :P Mwahahah! I'm so proud that you can be weirder than me :D

However,don't think you're in the league just cause of a petty convo of weird and abstractness. I'm unbeatable,and you're filthy incompetent in the field of Weirdness =D

^Kidding love! .... Not. x)

After all these personified alarms of Mental Help, my parents decide to go for the Family Christmas Eve outing to CP. Which suited me just fine,untilll I stepped outside.

My eyebrows froze, and I remembered the fight I had with mum about a sweatshirt being pathetically insufficient for a day like today and that I was a Problem Child.

:|

O,Shit.

My thought process was interrupted by the irritating nudging of my good for nothing brother who handed me my sweater.[The Dorkiest one,but the Good-for-nothing statement above boo's at me now]--Not good >:

So anyway, we went to CP,did the usual rituals we do every year- Drove around the inner and outer circles,burgers at Mc.Donalds, my inevitable shopping and my parents natural nagging :)

So yeah,it was just like the other years.

So,all in all,i had a nice evening :) Although CP was not crowded this time,which sorta ruins the charm, but whatever,i had a nice time :)

What about you guys?

What didja lot do Christmad eve?

Clear skies and Santas to y'all! ;)

Jingle Bells,

-Nil.

[P.S-- Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all of ye fellows out there!!]

Ho! Ho! Ho!

Santa laugh,however lame :|

;)

Words.

This post is dedicated to all those posts of you all which have made me think and realize more and more with every day passing and every blog update that a feeling can be reborn by words and a feeling can be burnt by words.. I have always passioned writing. Today,when I look back in time,I don't think I would have ever had the confidence to pen down my thoughts and scribble them in untidy handwriting and still having the courage to show it to my freinds/teachers and feeling confident about my ideas and innovations.

Poetry was always a bigger corner of my heart.. However,with time,I realized that wiritng stories have their own charm.. To morph myself in the alphabets of those lines and verses is a satisfaction in disguise to somehow know,I'm writing reality.



I'm in an extremely emotional mood right now,and hence maybe I feel so strongly about a casual post my friend Remya wrote. I have always considered her feelings deep and respected her thoughts on paper, but that post- however so causual and honest-lift me off my feet. I couldn't believe how the words captured my mind,and how it took me back the time line and reminded me of every minute expression during that particular conversation. The humor,the sarcasm,the wittiness,the melancholy-everything.I was in awe. People say "awe" is used for beauty, but indeed the beautiful way how she captured that episode of history left me in awe.
Kudos to you,friend.I'm so proud of you. You make me procrastinate on topics which require justice and hours,just the right amount. As a retard friend- Haha, but indeed you make me proud.

I would also like to thank my English Teacher; Mrs.Suman Anand without who I would have never smiled at my horizon and realized the extent and flite of my capacity. I would have never realized the my thoughts could be a ship which could carry so many voices,which could comfort so many hearts,to let them know,they're not alone.

This post is to all your guys, You guys do a wonderfull job on Blogger. With every day passing and every blog update,our spectrum of perceptions and opinions bridens.. Here's to each one of you who've made the tiniest or the biggest of difference in my life by their words.

Today's evening is your's,
Cheers to you.

Take care,
Nilanjana.

After a wretched week.

• After a really wretched week, I had a good day today (:

My week consisted of nothing but ;

• Textbooks


• Notebooks


• Tension


• Anxiety


• Feeling of incompetence


• And every other horrible feeling possible

Today,though, I had a pretty okayish -more to the better side- of a day. Didn't go to school,did my part of textbooks for a day,and spent time with people that made my day better. ((: I'm working on a project for now, with mum ranting on about my dinner lying cold on the table. Dad giving me looks that explain his sadness for the lack of response from kids today. Brother, out. Well,so pretty much a normal day,yea.

Had my moments too, have them everyday : Don't know how I manage them,but well, I do. about 100 days to Boards.

Heh.

I'm laughing. I have no clue why. That's been happening lately, whenever I hear the B word. xD

Anyway, I have to go.

I have plans of texting Remya and terrorozing her to ditch school tomorrow :)

You guys,have fun. And yeah, never bother to be in a Board [LAUGHS] year. It's better you'd turn into a hippy and discover the world with flat sandals and spegatties *_*

Sigh. Fun

Gnite,people.

[P.S- a random picture.]