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.
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.
