Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

Month: June, 2012

The chat window

The curse of the age is the ability to see how long it has been since you replied.

And the most embarrassing part?

That relief- that utter, complete, overwhelming relief when you do.

I know you’ll be too consumed by the day to probably type in something.

But there’s a tickle inside me that says, this moment, you want to.

It’s overconfidence, like every time before, that brought me down.

And again, that exactly, placed in you this time, that makes me feel that all of that,

What I told you about?

All of that wounding, bruising, bleeding?

Scarring?

That all of that was worth this.

I know it’s too soon.

I know it’s too optimistic.

I know it’s bordering on stupidity.

But just knowing that you are on the other side of the window,

Wanting, waiting,

Willing to say something to me?

It fills me up like orange juice.

I know. I know it’s different. I know it’s impulsive.

And I know we could be blown to smithereens if one moment went wrong.

But we’re still here. And I love the hope in your words.

This? This is as I wonder, one more time today, at how we even started here.

This is to remind myself, some years from now, that this is where I was.

And hopefully-

Just hopefully.

– Share it with you again.

Those many years from now,

That silly smile we have on our faces.

Good night, and I’ll let you have the last dance.

Radial.

Photographs should be circular.

Circles make so much more sense when it comes to people. It’s the easiest way to draw the connection. I mean, will you call your friends a square? You’re all sitting and you’re all connected in a way that has no, well, angles to it.

Angles make it so cruel. Anything. A right angle is so blunt, It’s a fact, not an opinion, not a feeling. An acute one is narrow. So limiting! Imagine sitting with a friend and all you think about is, how the person is confined. In an angle. An obtuse angle, you’d say- is freeing. But it’s not complete, you know? It’s incomplete and a little too free of responsibility. Nothing to rest your back on.

Any quadrangle makes things distort. Have you ever tried peeping into your TV, into the sides to see what was happening beyond that screen? I have. It’s silly, but there’s so much more to everything that a straight line just leaves you disappointed and empty. A photo in a polygram is a memory- yes. But when you were in it, don’t you remember the noise? And the way the sky looked? The colour of the air then? An edge cuts them off. Tells you where to draw the line. And circles don’t do that. They give me the feeling that the world’s growing.

Ideally I’d have a vast, vast circle of sorts. That can include everything I saw right them, with a bit of peripheral vision. They connect feelings. Circles draw in people. They divide, but they don’t edge people away.That’s something you don’t want. A corner of a room. An uncomfortable place for your final say.

I’ll tell you a memory I have, which wouldn’t need a photograph for it to be etched. I’m sitting in a room, with the dim lights on. With friends and non-friends. One’s head is on my lap, and he’s asleep. The others, me included are playing truth or dare. The guy I liked then, (Hello, if you’re reading this) is sitting a foot away, to my left. I asked this girl- sitting opposite me, why she doesn’t talk. What she replied, is lengthy- but I’ll get to the best words she said. “How can feelings be right or wrong?”

The episode apart. It’s the room. The buzz of the breathing, and people talking, the tickling awareness of this boy sitting besides me, the warmth of my friend’s head on my lap, and the silence between that girl and me as she asked me to verify the one single-most relevant thing between us. How could I capture that moment in a square? It makes it so insignificant.

But the moment concentrates in her dark eyes and expands like a growing vortex, beginning to include the colours, the moods and the breath of people in the room.

Moments are circular. And if photographs are memories, reminders, reincarnations of those, they should be, too.

One of many.

Are you happy?

Maybe not as much as you’d want to be, not as much as you’d seen someone else be- which hurts more, if you’re that kind. It doesn’t hurt that they have the happiness, it’s not that you want to take it away from them, but it’s that teal-grey that seeps into your eyes with every time someone gets what you wish for and haven’t got.

Or even worse, something that just slipped out of your hand.

When you were looking somewhere else but thinking about what was in your hand. Who slipped, really? It’s awkward- being the dreamier of the two. But not being that is a lesson that you’ve tried learning over and over again but simply haven’t been able to grasp.

And this isn’t how you saw yourself- but then, what was it that you did?

Over time, and it will happen, it’ll be more about how you felt, than who you felt it for. How far you pushed yourself. Over time, the traces of him over you will fade. The scent will become less familiar, and the words will not be the same- at least, not their meaning. What’ll stay in your head is how you reacted to them. Those particular words.

It won’t hurt over time, and if you’re lucky, you’ll have those stolen moments of golden sunshine that see you patting your back for having got those 4 weeks right. Almost, that is. Because if it were perfectly right, you wouldn’t have been here. Trying to figure what went wrong. And in moments of weakness and being petty, trying to figure who went wrong.

The might of the ego versus the deception of the heart versus the craving of touch versus the silence of the mind.

All in one person who cannot abandon any of these- all in you.

And in your mind, all of the time- dreading. Dreaming. Stepping. Slipping. Falling. Flying. Fighting. Forgiving. Hiding. Highlighting.

You couldn’t be more alive, and certainly not more dead.

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Judgment.

We sat across each other.
I couldn’t look at him as I told him about ‘finding someone’. Someone who believed that I could be worth the time, the wait. I found myself fidgeting with my bag, undoing my hair and tying it back as he asked me questions. About someone I barely knew and he didn’t know existed.
He smiled at me. Not for me. I know him just as well now. I know he wanted to be told that I was lonely again. Not for him to stand by me, but because he didn’t want to be the only one left standing.
For the second time, it wasn’t me, it was him.
He tried searching for a link to the me he once knew. What he saw today was older, more contrasting, and with more sound in the background. He did not see the eighteen-year old who had eyes and ears only for him. The eyes had seen someone else. He feared looking at my ears because he didn’t want to find marks of that someone else on them. But his eyes did scan my neck.
He looked at me again.
All he saw was a sketch.
He looked at me again.
I turned my eyes away.

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