In the frame today:
- Virginia Woolf by Alexandra Harris, a signed copy from JLF last year.
- Freshly baked whole-wheat choco-chip banana bread.
- Freshly brewed cup of french press.
There are fantasies inside me. And desires; which run unfathomable miles across my soul and make me ache for an immeasurable pleasure of loneliness.
She was rough
Unlike you expected; unlike the stereotypical soft you expect girls to be.
You rubbed your soul on the rough of hers
Little did you know that the friction will burn you to your core.
These are the city lights.
They magnify the tiniest of the desires.
This is where dreams come true and hearts break;
Souls breathe in smoke and glitter;
And make ordinary art for extraordinary hearts;
It smells of blood in here; and of perfume and of work;
We live here. Continue reading “City lights.”
That fancy watch on that pretty wrist
That cigarette between those thin fingers
The air around
That smile on his face
That frown on hers
Those sly errands
All contained a pleasure in themselves
Pleasure. No pleasure. Didn’t really matter.
I was just the ordinary; the usual.
But the exception.
– Gursimran Kaur
And it happened again; her life was shattering, right there she could see it. It was her will being played with; her thoughts being laughed at; her desires being questioned. And she was witnessing all of it; how could she not, after all it was her thoughts conspiring, while her soul sobbed. She was tired of faking; faking those smiles to those people. She was sure now that she didn’t fit in, anywhere. And was all alone in all of it; which seemed pretty at times but dangerous most of the times. It was never easy to explain and it never will be; she’ll cry herself to bed at the end of every day.
It’s not what it looks like.
It’s not even what it feels like.
It’s something that cannot be looked at.
It’s something that cannot be felt.
It’s something inexplicable.
Can I die? Only if I had the courage.
I’m dangerously alien and you don’t know me; I don’t know me.
I’m weirdly difficult.
The moment I think I know myself is the moment it all starts; the haphazard way of life starts.
And my mind, the queen of labyrinths, begins to play with itself.
I’d like myself to think that I fit in but as soon as myself thinks it, it’s already too late.
I’m dangerous. At least I like to think so; for this situation is pretty much what I live in these days, moreover I do not like to be disturbed.