Facts.

Some facts:

1. I like thinking about the many ways in which I can die.
2. That is an extension of the fact that I like to think about the many events that can occur to me.
3. I have a small, arrogant part of me which believes it will get whatever it wants in life. It, being me.
4. I try very hard to convince myself failure will not be the end. Failure being unable to sustain myself. Remaining lazy forever. Not passing. Not understanding. Understanding refers to empathetic understanding.
5. Basically by conventional interpretation I overthink. I like to think I do what it takes to get me through the day.
6. Rounak Haolader makes me cry.
7. Has made me cry for a total of 6 times.
8. Rounak Haolader makes me more happy than I think possible.
9. Rounak Haolader drives me nuts to no end.
10. His bum happens to be the heavenliest thing.
11. His face happens to be the handsomest.
12. His heart happens to beat the loveliest.
13. The number six stated does not mean I hold it against him.
14. Rather, I think it's the most remarkable thing.
15. Very few things and people have made me cry.
16. I am human.
17. Sudden, but true.
18. As a proof of my humanity, here are my most potent fears:

•     Rounak Haolader getting hit by a vehicle because in India any kind of accidents are possible.
•     Rounak Haolader deciding one day that he may love me, but I am not what he needs. 
•     Rounak Haolader suffering from amnesia, forgets all about me. 
•     The Demogorgon. 
•     Before that, actual unfriendly aliens.
•     You see, this is not a fear, but I believe in aliens. Not all must be unfriendly.
•     Unfriendly is strictly by human standards. 
•     Both my parents dying. 
•     Other girls interested in Rounak Haolader, because he is my man, and he is excellent. All are very interested in him, which is strictly my belief and not his, 
•     Becoming dependent and not independent. 
•     Remaining lazy. 
•     Not being able to empathetically understand. 
•     Little People. 
•     Sagnik Das. (I was. I reiterate, I was. I've listed this one because I want to remind myself what I will never again stoop down to.)
•     Rounak Haolader's anger. (potent, yes. Simply terrifying. I do not mean I don't want him to express anger, I simply mean it's scary. This does not belong to this list, but I simply listed it.)
•     A world solely ruled by machines. 
•     The Matrix becomes real. 
•     On one level I believe The Matrix is real. 
•     The Internet taking over. 
•     The Dark. 
•     The above stated is very ambiguous. Here is my explanation:   While I fear the dark, I continue to be hugely inspired by it. Inspired how? Well very much like Calvin when I look into infinite space, I do not realize how insignificant my day-to-day activities are, for in that I am a rebel and I believe they are infinitely more significant. But instead I see the possibilities. The endless, all-encompassing, world. The huge, huge word. The countless possibilities. This does not scare me at all. But then I remember we are merely a ball enclosed with darkness. Mere spots on the face of a large, velvety, flowing darkness. That does not scare me. It again, inspires me. Black is very inspirational. I love the Dark. But at once, I fear it. You never know what's lurking. I am deeply fearful. But I prefer the Dark. And yet I am fearful. Because I know there is no other way for me. For I have acknowledged it, and I must exist in it, go through it. I sigh. Sigh. Cold dread floods my being. What if an alien appears? What if a serial murderer does? Or I am shot dead, point-black range, because of what I think? And there are so many things I think. All of these are at once, welcome and unwelcome. But my heart trembles, surprises excite my heart. Mad heart, be brave. 
•      I also happen to be very fearful of what might happen to the world if everyone realizes at once how vulnerable and how fragile everything around us actually is. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Weak points exist. 
•      Hollow people, the ones T. S. Elliot talks about, scare me. I am scared of becoming one. Scared of mendacity. Scared, scared. Scared that I'll be found out. That someone will be screaming in my face, "You are a sham. A fake. A phony." Afraid that I am nothing, because I know I am not nothing. Afraid that the right people for me will think that I am nothing. I have nothing to prove to anyone except myself, yet I do not want Rounak Haolader and Janhavi Sathe to think anything other than the fact that I am not nothing. And that I becomes in turns them, and in turns me. 
•      Scared of the next time I say no to Rounak Haolader. No I do not feel like sex. No is just a word, yet it breaks hearts. I hope to be strong enough to not say no, yet while trying to not lie, I end up hurting. Sigh. Roll up your sleeves and fight on. 
•     Scared that my sister will not see it for how it really is: an endless fight. Not the romantic world she envisions, as I had done when I was her age. Nor the world where free will rules. Not even the world where destiny is the only guiding factor. But a world full of circumstance. Filled with happenstances, and only how you react to them. Sometimes you create these happenstances and sometimes they create you. The Universe is you and you are the Universe. The art is made by the artist and the artist is made by the art. Same principle. And you just keep trudging on. No other way to do it. And you survive from day to day with the help of your heart, so I pray that her heart is strong. I pray that she makes her heart strong, I pray that I am able to give her a strong heart. I can lend her support but I cannot become her pillar, we are too different, and we vastly misunderstand each other, for me to become that. And when the time comes, I hope she had what I had: A belief in people. In a person. In her person. If she has her person by then. 
•     I am mortally afraid that I will be caught in the rat race. The cold, gravel-laden race where I do nothing but keep on running to make it on top. Is that what modernism signifies? An endless race to be 'modern'? Gee, I'd rather grow my own vegetables and read endlessly. My ideal life. And a cottage. But I was born human, born without roots. I have been searching for a place to sink them in. I found my person, which brings me to my last fear for this list but not the last fear I have, because I have so many:
•     I fear that I might be uprooted one day, that all that I am will be destroyed. I can build myself up, no fear, I can work on that, but I fear the loss of independence and the loss of my person. My person. Rounak Haolader. In this world devoid of meaning and endless madness where everything seems hopeless and most of it is, you are the only one helping me redeem my hope. I hope the next time I see you you are healthy and have been eating. I hope you make it through the rut you are stuck in. I hope life becomes infinitely better for you. I hope you believe in me. I believe in you. Another fear: Loss of belief. Sigh. 

19. While the list has not exhausted, I have been. My fingers have, to be more precise. Of typing on my father's laptop which is hurting my fingers now because it is hot enough to fry an egg. 

20. A final, utterly true fact, you are loved and I am the one who loves you. 

And you better believe it, no one else knows how. 

And if someone comes along I will be thrown into jail because I shall have murdered them. 

Or be infinitely depressed. 

(Well where else can you find a lass jolly about the Universe being devoid of meaning and laughing at the Universe. Hold her hand, kiss her mouth, don't mind how plump she is getting (positively fat by now) and be happy.)

I love you. 

What pace this world moves in.

No, I cannot write here. Not anymore. The mood rarely comes upon me, and my parents are too disturbing.

Time for a letter.
Expect it tucked within the pages of the Roald Dahl book I will give you.
Apprehensive about whether you'll like it or not.

Sigh.

That's the only thing I can say. The only response I've been giving to the world around me.

Sigh.

Things past and things about to happen.
Irene, we saw it all.

How'd we peek into the future, Hugo?

Oh but we didn't peek Irene.
We saw.

We knew?

Yes we did.

How?

He looked towards her now, only to find her staring back already. He stared. 
Started. 

Because we will make it happen.
Aren't you glad Irene?

Glad of?

Well. This night?

I'm glad that I met you.

He smiled.

I am too.
Actually wait I'm having second thoughts about that-

She rolled down the slope. 

Hey!
Where you goin'

Down the hill.

And when they went rolling down that hill, blue and black blurs each, the green Tree watched restlessly.

Things were beginning to change.

Removals.

This Saturday I listened to songs from Grease and 90's British pop bands and I bounced wildly on my chair.
The computer worked.
The AC smelled great. Smelled like old, sprawling flats with wide, airy verandas where you fill the inflatable pool with water and play on Sundays.
I felt nice.

So much has happened in all this time.

Why do I write?
And then, for ages and ages why do I not write?

Why do people believe I am this person who can write- and write I do- but can write beautifully, they believe.
Because I've somehow come to believe I am someone who 'writes' and hence gravitate towards places that brim with artistic writing or because people have been saying it to me for so long it feels wrong not to gravitate?
How about both?

I never wrote to write. I never wrote because someone thought- "Hey! This girl writes!"
I wrote only to write. I only ever wrote because writing was the thing it was, it was just there.
I loved putting pencil or pen to paper and if the texture felt good and smooth, I could write random words which all made sense to me and feel so utterly exceptional and beautiful that I could stay like that, feeling that way forever.

Recently there have been a lot of arguments on the heart-front. The heart-field. The soul-realm.
Call it whatever, but there have been a lot of arguments.
One of the issues dealt were, is she selfish?

I have to pause and reflect here, and that also through writing, as I am writing this, I realize that,
all artists are selfish.

I chose Humanities didn't I?
Inevitably we are all students of the art of life, still learning, unceasing, unfaltering quest for self-truth, knowledge.
But I chose Humanities.
I chose to be in a field where I can feel and get away with it. Keep on feeling and feeling.

I was a girl who would write six random words with a full stop after each word and sit or lay staring at them for a full hour, basking in the beauty and the warmth of those words.

Serendipity. Love. Books. Life. Music. Happiness.

Serendipity. That is my favorite word.
Since my vocabulary keeps increasing every day, and I have found I've more favorite words than just one, I seem to love them all so dearly much: but I love serendipity so much, and if anyone ever asks I'll tell them so.

And I would stare at these words and vague snatches of happenings and dreams would formulate in a convoluted soup in my head, and amidst a black-white sea of starry thoughts and whizzing thought-trains, I would indulge in that feeling. That feeling which was Every-Feeling.
That feeling which made me affirm my life-long belief,
"Was there something strange about my head?"

And did I like the strange?

I've always been very, not always expressively but always shown, the things and people I am fond of.
I am picky. Selfish. I try to talk to everyone, I try to be comfortable, I try to be a polite soul.

The first day. Attempts made. Day gone.
Nothing gained.

A few weeks go by.
A chance encounter.
A meeting.
A short talk in two free hours of study-break.

A long-term friendship formed.

That's me.
And I'm unapologetic.
It's me isn't it?
Why should I ever, ever apologize?

Back to the point, catch the thought-train, don't miss the thought-train.
All artists are selfish.

They're not writing or creating something because you want them to, or you have commissioned them to,
No sir. Absolutely not.
Such ignorance! Such abhorrence!
(Yes I say abhorrence. A group of students that accompanied my English Elective teacher [Ms. Sharma, bless her soul with happiness] to a literary fest where Jhumpa Lahiri was attending, was positively shocked, [such ignorant souls] when Ms. Lahiri replied to a comment about who she writes for, and she said "Why of course dear ignorant-reporter, for MYSELF!" [I paraphrase with aplomb. Also a sense of excited rambling in my writing. It has taken a form, a note, a tone, a tune, a little fun jazz sensation. I am on a roll now. Writing for myself after AGES this feels divine. And I have three commissioned projects to get back to. Where were we? Ah yes. Lahiri.] And those little dove-eyed darlings came away from that experience 'bitter' having had the scales pulled from their eyes. Such ignorant souls. An artist isn't going to be your whim. You are his. You do not know. Yes, keep on walking. Your gait will be made beautiful, transcendental as you walk. There is a pair of eyes somewhere, unknown, unseen, ready to turn your gait into a magnanimous rising of the soul. Every step you take away from this literary fest having had gained fresh insight you desperately needed, and yet you 'hate' her now. Why should she care? Why should she not? Well yes. There is some sort of duty, of course there is. But where will you get your beautiful art from if you expect her to produce art that is produced with the expectation of being able to please. Please. No one should that. Do not please. Do not always please yourself either, yes, true.)

But be true.

No more lies.

I'm sick of mendacity, and I'm going to rise.

I've chosen.
I'm not lying.

Back to where we were.
Selfishness.
We all are.

Not born with a white soul, I called my parents names when I was a wee lass.
Dreadful names, mind you. In my household a mere "pagal ho kya" elicits a shocked response.

(are you mad, dearie? yes, why yes I am.)

I find it incredibly difficult to discern, these threads in me. One of the patient daughter, the other of the incredibly impatient one. Well maybe she is hormonal, that one is.

One of the raving lunatic who shakes her hands wildly in excited gesticulation and one of the morose young lady who sits slumped in her chair hearing you, not listening.

Roles to play throughout. And yet all those roles are me.
me me me. what is m e. m e .
m
e
.

is me a concept so abstract that she is pig-headedly sure of herself and water-flowing unsure of herself at the same time?
I've always believed in a number of things and one of those things has been the concept of existing in irony.
Because- duh! Life is a great big irony!
BORN TO DIE!
EACH SECOND THAT PASSES IS MOVING YOU CLOSER TO DEATH!
WHY WERE YOU EVEN BORN!?

Oh, but. To live.
What an incredibly exquisite thing it is, to merely exist.

I sigh.

Oh, to answer a previously stated question.
The answer to which should be obvious by now.
Yes I like the strange.
There is a reason I inhabit the strange.
A reason why I am unapologetic about me.
I love me.
Whatever me is, I love me.

I am really fond of me because me is something I can always shape.
Oh but I hate me too. Me can be so utterly stupid. She says the craziest of things you'd never expect her to. Sometimes what she feels and what she says are completely contradictory.

Yes, I do feel extremely disappointed and deeply sorry for the things me has done.
But I love me.

And to go back to the crux of this post, let people assume what they do, because darlings I only write for the sake of putting pen to paper, or feelings into perspective, or overflowing... this something I cannot define or put a name to that is overflowing, for the sake of making sense of me.
I am overflowing.
I have to give.
I can N O T not give.

I write because I cannot not give.
Paradoxically enough, I am also one who takes.

But let's focus on giving, I love to give.
I have so much to give.
I'm a cheesy ol' soul, you might say, because I shall forEVER echo Dumbledore when he says, "Love is everything."
[Paraphrasing again. But that chap does believe love is everything. Darling chap, I always rather liked his silvery beard.]

Oh god I love him.

Oh we do too.
No you silly buffoon, him.

Oh.

Him.

<3 p="">
Hearts look like inverted butts.

ANYWAY.

So bloody much has happened.

That line is cliched as the history of cliches go, by far the MOST cliched, I believe, especially on blogs you'll find. Or see.
But I find it original every time.
Because it is true every time!
So much has happened!

I'm feeling sentimental and extremely soft now. All of a sudden..
I call it soft because suddenly the fan is all I hear, and no one else in the house is speaking while my room's door is wide open, the sound of the cook cooking some sort of subzi is wafting through to me, the fan's sound has increased now, and the sensation of the keys as I type away on the keyboard feels so good. Because I'm typing uncontrolled.

The best kind of writing or art is one that isn't planned.
The best things are natural.
Bukowski said, if it doesn't come from your soul, and it's overwhelming and you have to write, then don't write!
Good one, Mr. Bukowski though I've not read your poems I've read one and I agree with you.
Do not force yourself to write unless it comes.

And it will.

Trust me, even then, before writing this post I had to force myself to sit down, and I had to re-read this post as i went on writing five to six times. I mean, till now I have. And yet I feel this is flowing out of me, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

What matters is what you feel.
What matters is how you grow.
Some people are there for you, they stay through.
And some people you have to go,
to. You have to let them help you grow.

Someone teach this to Doggie.
anywayanywayanyway,

Me is an incredibly amazing concept, no doubts there.
But You is what I love. And You is beautiful.

You is what I deem beautiful. I blush with my soul to think the same for me holds true.
And even if You isn't, who is to define You? No one. Not even You. You have to let yourself find out yourself.
And I don't love You for You. You can change. You can evolve.

And through all that I just love You.
And I live for the moments I see You.

Was that the crux of this post?
Inevitably for Me, everything is.
Everything is the crux.
And You are everything.
You have been, You are and You will be.

All I've ever done has been for everything, and everything has forevermore been You.
I don't need to get cheesy the conventional way. Whatever I do feels so natural and right. It is all simply a gigantic love letter to you.

My magnum opus is my love for You.
There is a reason I open my heart to You.
And if I didn't believe that with sufficient fervor, well I would just be displaced forever wouldn't I?

But we are displacements and we are anomalies and mortals who are just the Leftovers Death has such a hard time being faced with, every day, of every year, of every epoch, because we never cease haunting him.

We are haunting.
Because we have created the very world we can destroy, and yet we have not.

There is no meaning if there is no love.
In spite of everything I love you.
Through it all I love you.
me is just A Concept, unsure, unformed, fluid.
you are what is true.
And hence beautiful.
And hence I love you.

And when Will touched Pan, Lyra gasped with unbelievable pleasure.

And I want you to know it's the same for me.
And for us.
and for me+you that makes me and you that makes a certain RH and PS which sounds like Rhizopus when put together why am i so weird i just love you i won't omit this from the post because i am weird and this is spontaneous and I LOVE YOU.

Our bodies touch, you even hold my hand, and I feel unbelievable pleasure coursing through me.
Even when our thighs graze when we sit together, that one time we sat in the bus?
Electrifying.

No qualms to anything dearest, I have no qualms to you.
Everything. Absolutely everything.
You are true
And when I am free and overflowing I just want to tell you over and over again without ceasing to stop,
I love you.

Don't give your heart out to them,
he said.

And she agreed.
Better a miser with some people than generous with greedy ones.

But something struck her about that.
Had she truly given?
And she decided she better start giving.

She would take care of herself.
But before that, first and foremost, she would give.
Burn out than preserve.

But she would take care.
That they'd be the ones left speechless.
Unable to say anything.

And she would burn out than preserve.
She would light them up and go out with a bang,

Out where?
he might ask.

Out to you,
would come the reply.

I am selfish.
she said.

Selfish and obstinate, always doing things my way.
but a part of me says,
i'll light them all up.

And for you, my dearest, I light up the best.
~

Magic.

Nakupenda is my music,

the fire that nourishes my soul

the song we all dance to

what makes us whole.

And the theory of everything.

For it is magic

we feel tonight. 

on this kaleidoscopic day of alignment of stars.

And don't you witness the beauty tonight

and the cosmos coming together 

for you?

Isn't it cosmic?

Magic inhabits us all

we go back to black 

we go back to beauty, to terror, to feel;

let it all happen to you, beauty or terror, 

flow. 

Let the music wash over

be relentless, the stardust spilling from you shines,

your eyes sparkle as you love with fresh eyes your lover.

Listen to the song of the Universe, my love, listen to it's echoes. 

The reverberations that continue till the end of all existence, 

carry forth this love. 

We are eternal, 

the song is eternal, 

this is the song of the Universe. 

Isn't it cosmic? 

The wind carries forth the petals that spread all around, 

the dance of souls continues as long as the song plays. 

For it is eternal, 

this song. 

Be abashed with the force of the Universe,

look love, it smiles for you. 

There are great sorrows and great joys, 

and what more meaning than to spread this bittersweet 

longing, love, sadness. 

You firestar, burst of moon-shine, 

spread your energy, 

it's all the Universe's anyway. 

Never cling too long, 

Carpe Diem is the term. 

Pay attention to the details, 

an attentive driver is beloved than a careless one,

who wrecks everything; but you create.
Fight and fight, for that is existence,
a dance to last, a dance to feel divine,
complete, love. 

Play and dance your way through existence,

with the song of the Universe. 

Rejoice, love, feel,

inhabit, read, believe. 

Isn't it cosmic?

Dance to the greatest song of all. 

The song of the Universe, love, 

look inside, you're a star. 

My star.

Drown in this twisted happiness, love,
we never get more such chances,
'my experience tells me we never get more than once or twice'
and these are changing winds, my star.

Hold on and do not let go.
Let it carry you off somewhere.
Return to love anew.

Inhabit the Universe, love,
feel the cosmic song vibrating in your atoms,
know what you never were promised,
seek it, believe.

This is the song of the Universe,
love, look inside.

You're a star.
The sheen blinding and
the lambent light washing over.

Dance to the song, love.
Live with all your might.

Witness the greatest song of all, love.

Isn't it cosmic?  

There are certain rules to be followed if one is ever, accidentally, for it is almost always that people stumble accidentally, into Evol.

It is neither a fabled land neither a unsung one.
It is neither sung about glory, nor of mystical, unknown lands.
For Evol is a city, a quaint town, rather, of such rotating underlying dynamism that people rarely ever leave.
Ever.

And that's how it should be for those of us who understand to never forget.
Evol never lets you forget.

And it is in that town that Cassidy had been living all her life, which was just a decade plus six, to be accurate.
And in such matters one must always be accurate.

Because sixteen is a strange age.
Now which age isn't, but currently, she was sixteen.

And it was strange.
On the cusp of entering another realm altogether, non-literally, of course.
And on the brink of leaving beautiful things behind.

Now, like all great things that we daily worry about, human as we are, Cassidy was obsessed with leaving things with a flutter, a bang, a smile.
Like every human ever, Cassidy loved it when things were going great.
She became numb, like voices were continuously, consciously speaking to her in her ear for her ears hurt. She became numb and didn't really comprehend anything when things weren't going great.

Rarely, did it happen, that things were ok everywhere, but for her, it was an inescapable sadness she needed to sleep to forget about.
And when it did happen, she emerged in a different light.
That melancholy light.
The bittersweet betwixt of life.

For things were ending.
Faster now.
And never did the realm she had to non-literally enter look so lonely.

Maybe she was the one who had to change.
People always told her she never was truly happy.
She knew because she never really paid the proper attention to the right places, it was all a motion into one direction only.

And that wasn't how it should be.

It was her that mattered at the end.
And hurting and being hurt was just a phase.
A necessary interlude before friends emerge and look at each other and wonder how they're still there, still hanging.

Cassidy had once read that people who meet halfway across the bridge are the ones you should go for.
She wondered now, if she had crossed the bridge entirely or if she hadn't crossed it at all.

She had to change.
She pursued certain things to the lair while not even wondering where was her happiness at.

She kept searching for beauty for she thought she would go after happiness when she thought it would appear.

And it never would.
She tried to pursue once, all she got was one misunderstood hour.

And all great things come from within, one need only have the courage to look.
And so, she would change.

Happiness would come from within.

But that didn't mean the things that were ending weren't saddening her already.
She cut onions to make herself cry.
She wondered and wondered if an entire year had been for naught, only because she had pursued.
Was she to be a gentle walker halfway across the bridge or a mad pursuer?
She had been the latter, she wanted to be the former now.
But she couldn't help wondering if it had been for naught.

And that was bittersweet.
Because it had been so beautiful while it had lasted.

And therefore, there was meaning.
There is meaning in all things beautiful.

But she still wondered, as she was human.

And that is why people rarely leave Evol.
For beautiful things happen here.
Truly sad, yes.
Sometimes maddeningly happy.
But beautiful.
So exquisitely beautiful.
~