Dream Days: 2015

AWKWARD MOMENTS Part 1

I just remembered that My social skills (which is a wrong word for what I possess) are more fractured than the head of a nail. So here is a peek into a few indignities of my threateningly endangered social existence.

CASE 1:

Guy: *accidently touches my boob with his bare hands* (well, I don’t think it’s accidental)

Me: *wishes for a portal to open into a parallel universe* uhh....huh *Averts gaze like I am Scott Summers*

Guy: *sickly pallor and a death wish* uh..I....Sorry....God, I hope I instantaneously combust...but...umm...I am sincerely sorry...I’ll understand if we discontinue the friendship. *Deer

caught in headlights*

Me: *takes a deep breath* It’s all right. Brain: *I want to kiss that face*

Guy + Me : *Mexican Standoff of stares ensues*

Guy: I can’t even pat/massage the part I hit.

Guy + Me : *UGLY RIOTS OF LAUGHTER*

Brain: *I wish you could though, I don’t mind massages :P *

CASE 2:

Guy I have been stalking for a while: *waves* Yo! *expects reciprocal YO, ignorant fool*

Me: *Looks at him and then behind herself for another person, coast is clear? What?* Gggggg...

*sprints away faster than Barry Allen*

And never crosses path with the aforementioned guy until the end of college life.

CASE 3:

Stranger: Could you hold the door for me please? My hands are kind of full.

Me: *holds the door without replying*

God: *sends a fleet of strangers who suddenly want to go to the store*

Me: *After 30 years of holding the door for the entire population of the country* My hands hurt, How do I tell them that I need to pee?

CASE 4:

A college Senior: * waiting in the food line*

Me: *forgets to take a fork, goes back to the table and weirdly makes faces and grunts so as to get the senior to move* *faintly whispers* Excuse me ma’am.

Senior: *thinks I wished her good evening* Hey what’s up?....*smiles and does not move*

Me: *NOOOOOO* Nevermind, I’ll use the spoon for the noodles. *walks away*

CASE 5:

Communal Hostel Washroom: *Batch mates lurking in the dark corners*

Me: *groans internally* Some other life then, Goodbye acute need to pee.

CASE 6:

Me: *to the pizza guy* Thanks..

Pizza Guy: Enjoy.

Me: Umm..you too.

Brain: WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?

CASE 7:

Person: *is three years older than me* Oh hi there! I know your full name, your family history, your first words, what you’re favorite ice cream flavor is, who you hang out with, and every embarrassing moment of your childhood!

Me: *sweats* Your name has an “ah” sound in it, right?

CASE 8:

Me: * sitting with a person who was clearly forced to socialise because our parents know each other*

*AFTER AN HOUR OF EXCRUCIATING SILENCE*

Me: I love quiet people.

Brain: *FUCK YOU*

CASE 9:

Person: *Has gathered all the wrong trivia of my favorite fandom and is not shutting up*

Me: Be right back*I need to cleanse the lies out of my mind* *flicks Holy water all over her body*

CASE 10:

Something Me and my friend were told:

“You guys are worse than gangsters. At least gangsters acknowledge each other when they walk past each other.”

BONUS:

No way did I just get caught sneaking downstairs to grab a midnight snack by my mum, who too was sneaking downstairs to grab a midnight snack.

GOTCHA MOM.

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, by Unknown

books

READER'S DISEASE

I have semester exams the entire month and I am lying on my bed scrolling through Will and Tessa posts with Once upon a dream haunting me through my earphones, I am just shy of a sniffle and then an ugly sob. It’s hard to get over tragic endings.

I was updating my Goodreads to-be-read pile and an epiphany paid a taunting visit, I’ll never be able to read all the books that have been and will be written. My heart sank into a dreadful limbo of helplessness and anxiety, I assuaged the sudden panic attack by ordering more books and making my to-be-read pile a to-be-read fortress.

I just wish I could time travel like Tim from about time and just relive the first spark of comprehension, the sweet relief of not feeling alone because someone in those pages gets it. Snorting at someone’s joke because it reminds you of a familiar line from a book. Being emotionally invested in fictional people never ended well for anybody.

The feeling I get when I touch a crisp cover a book I have been pining over for more than a year, the smooth ridges, the dentition left on the book-rib from the journey from the store to your hand, the mind boggling smell of mint condition books. The even more mesmeric scent of second-hand books. Old books, especially, entrap you into their history. More than the story on the pages, I wonder about the previous possessor; if he was happy in his life, if he’d read this book during a sad time of his life, if it held meaning, did it make him cry, ponder, reflect or was it an insipid guest on a short stay on his nightstand. And if you’re lucky you’ll be treated by a small name and address or a short note from the previous possessor. When I find this treasure I always hope that they are fine in their lives and that they miss the book sometimes, I know I would. But then I would never give away my books, even for charity, I don’t possess a golden heart you see. No, I am not even giving away The Twilight saga.

Do you ever feel that one consequential moment of enlightenment, that one moment of clarity, that one moment of profusion of ‘sense’, in a word at the right place or a short sentence of evangelical intervention? You feel blessed, a new form of life. It’s like the author wrote the lines only for you to make sense. I love the feeling of being helplessly at the mercy of these words; completely surrendering to these blotches of ink. Sometimes I thank these words through tears or ‘poetic-debt’ as I love to call it and sometimes an endless ode in the form of a fan e-mail to the author.

These aren’t just words trying to impress me through their curves and arrangements, these are living memories of the hope to make sense of ourselves, Books aren’t a matter of ungrateful handling, they are as alive as you. They help you find lost pieces of your constitution. When I read, it feels like I am waltzing with the words to the music of the story. It is the only time I am ‘not lost.’

I think Books are a reader’s chance of redemption. Redemption from: society, non-conformity, loneliness, misanthropy, cynicism and self-loathe. I don’t recall a book that did not rekindle my love for life, every book has a certain uniqueness; a royal subtlety. If you’ve read a book that you like, it means it reminded you of yourself but in an altered way, you see yourself in the goodness of the character and understand your own vices through them. You hope that you will become that beautiful sentence that has been permanently etched in your memory, a reminder that you are more than what you think.

I think it is important to be alone with a book, read the irony in this line, reader. It’s important to surround yourself with people you’ll never meet, places you’ll never see, emotions you’ll never feel but in those printed pages. Trust me it is important. Let the words romance with your thoughts, let the lovers unite.

Aren’t we all stories waiting to be written in the end?

I remembered a line from The Book thief: “I am haunted by humans.” Said death.

I could feel the torrid of mind numbing emotions coursing through me when I read this line. What if we let these stories haunt us? What if we become each story? It wouldn’t be any less an adventure than Alice, would it?

P.S. I have problems reconciling with the fact that I should not read books for an entire month but I am going to disobey my disciplined conscience. It would be an absolute pleasure to receive the titles of your personal favorites.

5 comments

, by Unknown

blues

BLUE DAYS

It was spring and it was sad. The sky a peculiar shade of violet, dark at the fringes and a soft pastel through the grayish clouds, like a child’s bell like laughter; happy at first then a scattered silence. The effervescent nip of winter still present in the wind, like a reluctant guest. It was haunting and beautiful. The wind, the sky and the stupidly pretty wildflowers that grew out from every crevice of the uncharacteristically desolate park.

And she swayed back and forth on the swing, the unpleasant creaking of the old screws the only evidence of motion. Her hair a mess from the jolting wind, her eyes closed in meditation, drowning in her own sea of thoughts. The song changed from a soft melody for the worst – a befittingly strange sorrowful lullaby. She kept her lids closed, she couldn’t open them even if she wanted to, she was trying to prolong an inevitability and callously losing. She’d have to face the now sometime. People like her rarely flinched from the majesty of the world, the ineptitude to swallow the beauty and tragedy whole, to make sense, to make grave mistakes and live on. Today she understood the shock of the fall.

She felt like a piece of fiction ready to float into a chaotic abyss; barely there, barely breathing, barely making sense of herself. Tears of disbelief and betrayal rolled down into silent prayers when they reached her mouth. Now it’s getting dark, another sense of an ending approaching her uninvited. Rejection is not a scandal of slippery handling. Rejection barks truth in unpleasant ways, it’s true that words can be knives.

The man sitting under the Rowan tree has witnessed a silent explosion, His hands working a manic frenzy on his typewriter. Who knows how long our immodest guest maintained his silence. The keys betrayed him. Betrayal has become a hot commodity, has it not? He shifts the cigarette, rolling his tongue and steadies his gaze on the heartbreak on the swing. Then almost imperceptibly plucks a daisy from the ground.

She holds the chains of the swing and feels the cold hardness of the inanimate. It’s so easy to be immobile; a vapid existence is so tempting. Life sometimes is a silent lament, a hollow sob of sorts. But there is a rationale behind the eyes meant to see, bereaving herself from the hurtful truth would not atone the past. She flutters her eyes open in time to find a short note in her lap.

Daisy,

That’s the problem about being the strong one,

Nobody offers you a hand.

The printed letters are fresh as is her volition to survive.

P.S. I wrote this after listening to a train wreck of Blues. It's good to let sadness seep into words. Also, the daisy is a metaphor for despair. I'd really like to add this setting to one of my long stories.

2 comments

, by Unknown

fiction

Creature Of Habit

Fuck MY life. I switched the charger on and it wasn’t plugged into the fucking laptop. After I came back from a super exciting (sounds blond to say but reading is a different perspective, right? Or is it.) rendezvous in my lawn with my dog with the moon up high(seems legit) THIS is what I get? Betrayal by the higher powers? I am hanging by something thinner than a g-string (19 percent battery life).

I am trying to remember the good old days when eight year olds asked you for a toffee rather than to get a life. Old habits, old days. Well not Clint Eastwood old but old enough. So what is it about the past that more often than not deludes the future? What is it about the ancient that lacks in the young? The most uncomplicated answer is – Familiarity. We are creatures of fixation. We secure a profound vindication of our wicked feats, consoling ourselves that we imprinted the former self we once inhabited. Now that you know why we feel what we feel for the long lost past (not saying it is a correct deduction, it’s mine so it must be) we can come back to the objective of this mind rattling exercise just executed. And don’t we just sometimes catch ourselves smiling at things we still unconsciously perform without meaning to? We do. If you don’t, you’re not a human being or you are a lying piece of kiss my -well- proportioned derrière. Choose wisely whatever it is you are, reader. Your existence thereby will be dictated by my aforementioned expert inference.

Do old habits die?-no

Do they survive? – partially

Are they toxic? –Varies from person to person (stereotypical question)

Should we start judging people? – Leave my sacred blog you pest. (that discretion is solely mine to be possessed)

Enough, now that you may or may not be expecting a barrage of philosophical dung from my brains, fend for yourself, reader. I ain’t your therapist. My job is to mind fuck you- not answer questions.

I am now going to elaborately explain my old habits and why I hate myself (I swear I am not crying in a dark corner waiting for your approval, if you post a comment that might cure the blues, heh) -

-Ending every call without a proper ‘goodbye’.

-Hoarding : old doodles on tissue paper, erasers that don’t erase, Clothes ;my upper kindergarten yellow hoodie, pirated DVD’s, glass containers and an infinity of other literal crap.

-Never saying ‘hi’ first : it’s the divine rule of my miserable existence.

-REWATCHING stuff I know like the back of my hand.

- Same with re-reading.

- Snacking for no reason, trust me when I say that I snack hardcore, my hunger for unhealthy is the equivalent of Nash Grier lover’s hunger for stupidity.

-Parallel tangents in conversations spring up like a... never mind, you get it right?

-Random song lyric insert in any tortured conversation is the truth of my life. I think it’s a good old habit.

- Eye rolls.

- Reading the epilogue of a book first.

- Not knowing how to fill awkward silences, on second thought it IS an awkward mishap because of the silence. Right.

- ALWAYS walking, sitting, sleeping, ALL movements on the left side.

- Never taking the fist plate from a stack.

-Filling water bottles to the (sweet lord Jesus’s) brim.

- When unaccompanied, helplessly looking for someone to cross the road with. THEY ARE DEATH TRAPS.

-Bursting soap bubbles no matter if you’re standing in the middle of TOY WORLD, which is embarrassing for any self respecting adult to even witness. Not me, watch me.

-Cynical head is back in the game, wait, it was never gone.

- Say hello to Mr. Procrastination. Hello *Barney Stinson voice* ( I have always envisioned procrastination as an assholy suit and tie guy).

-Bubble wraps. NUFF said.

-Not saving the damned game I am bleeding my eyes over.

- Petting my dog and my neighbor's dog and the neighbor's- neighbor's dog and the clean looking street mutt and well dogs and occasionally cats.

- Relating to song lyrics that were clearly not written for me. (I am definitely not talking about Hozier’s someone new).

- The old pining away for things.

- Getting defensive over which Jane Austen hero takes the cake (not being biased or anything but I know that Mr. Knightly never gets due credit), you see I deal with a lot of unresolved crucial issues.

- Not apologising. It hurts the emo to not say IT, but the emo subdues it.

I hope you relate a few things if not all, even if you don’t , convince yourself that you do because I would really be pissed if you thought me the antagonist from Psycho, you see it’s not a good thing to irk potentially hazardous people. ;)

The list would have beat ‘Gone with the wind’ in terms of being boorishly long but I just discovered that my roommate has kept OUR Worst photograph together as her Profile picture, I hope she commits suicide before my hands squeeze the soul out her blasphemous throat. I have to perform some damage control , reader. *flies out in a flash of lightening* if only Barry Allen could see that. Thor would suffice too.

4 comments

, by Unknown

books

THE FICTIONAL BOY SYNDROME

Before finally starting this post I randomly typed the title (of this post) on the google search engine to cure my curious cat. Nothing came up. Achievement unlocked. I find immense pleasure in finding rarity.

I was wondering what I think about whenever my head is careless. It started whilst socializing with fellow humans (chore if you ask me). The girls in my class were talking about prospect catches and misses. My non- existent dick just yawned but as mentioned earlier, I am a hypocrite, so I sharpened my hearing while acting all smug and nonchalant. Familiar names popped up, some boringly cliché others, a revelation. That got me wondering if I might ever develop fondness for another REAL person. REAL person is the key word, reader. I know, I know that I’ve had a solitary crush once in the dark ages but the present is an Uninviting Garden of doom. Yes, this is my problem; pathologically-romantically averted to real people.

I swear I’ve done the research and screen-shoted a myriad of similar sufferers. At least I am not alone. Once I realised my complication I dedicated myself to a quest for finding the origin; fountainhead, creator (he’s got a lot of names).

I went back in time, looked at the present and it struck me. I have romantic feelings, all right. But for *uncomfortable silence* fictional people. It’s not a revelation, just an ignorant denial in full bloom.

Who am I duping? I’ve known this FOREVER. I hope you understand my predicament, reader. It started with a sinless liking for our dear Harry (Potter).

Then came the reign of Samurai Jack and Robin (teen Titans). You are now witnessing my perpetual downfall. I never noticed when the lines betwixt the hero-worship and fascination with righteousness dissipated, I became a creature of the shadows, always lurking in the dark, waiting for my next prey; I was now personally invested in their conquests and failures. What they thought, said, did or dreamt became the truth of my reality.

Then came the storm of sixth grade, yes you are right; Prince Caspian. I couldn’t conceal it no more. No more. Take time to shed a few tears. I understand. He was the beacon of life in my desolate, lifeless world.

Chivalry- check.

Accent-check.

Physique-tested positive for earthquakes.

THE HAIR- L'Oreal sponsorship for life. I finally lost the ability to even.

By this time my sweet-observant mother had realised something funny with my Boyometer. I did not like real boys, news to her, and eye roll for me. She thought it was a phase. Don’t laugh.

Then came the epic disaster that was Seventh grade; Edward Cullen. I don’t know how many people have snapped their laptops shut (if anybody reads at all, that is). I was THAT girl. Biology selected me to play her cosmic joke. I was obsessed to the point of ignoring the passive aggressive psycho stalker that was Edward Cullen. Feminism hit me soon after.

Edward Scissor hands, misguided and clueless as he was of humanity- was one fleeting yearning I’ll never completely understand.

Ichabod could investigate me all he wanted (from sleepy hollow).

Then came the phase of the emotionally conflicted Charlie and Holden (perks of being a wallflower and catcher in the rye respectively).

I cannot call it a phase because it will be a betrayal to the lasting impression they left on my mind, I still imagine myself engrossed in a conversation with Charlie, of what he thinks of the universe and why people behave the way they do. And ask Holden if he approves of this post, I am scared that his will be a negative response.

Nonetheless, it came down to William Herondale and Ash of the Seelie Court (Infernal devices and the iron fey series respectively) who were the dreamy ones, the final fantasy of every female. Will promised eternal love while ash taught me that I was enough for the world.

Hannibal Lecter. As convoluted my personality gets, it was this man who stole my sanity. Happy I lived in my mythical lands but he mingled his obscene reality. The danger, the thrill, the sense of exhilaration in his (mis)deeds, I embraced them and warped my carefully protected brain cage. The layers of lies and half-truths and honest emotions held me captive, I unabashedly spent nights wondering what if Hannibal found me incessantly looping loops around him and his memory palace. I am a sucker for emotionally tortured characters with a ghastly past.

The more I tried to reconstruct my own mental anatomy, I felt a stinging melancholia of an unsettling truth.

I was a foregone conclusion; I was too attached to the imperfections (as society has taught me) in these men. I’d let them consume me entirely into their lives, I’d forgotten about the people that existed outside these pages, I was a walking paradox, reader. It was and wasn’t my fault to have arrived at the end of the world, only to jump or retrace my steps. I chose the latter, I am too scared you see.

This is all I know and it (fiction) has a familiar pain in its non-existence in this dimension.

These poetic heroes draw you in even when their worlds are falling apart. I guess they present a fourth dimension of humanness that reality, the treacherous mistress restrains from us. These apparitions of the authors mind offer them(authors) a branch to hold on to when they are falling onto the ground, the vestigial hope that we are really perfect in our imperfections and if not this life in the present then another life in the pages will bear testament to it. That’s the price we pay, of losing a beauty often declared insipid, often overshadowed by the struggle of trying too hard to be perfect(in reality). I wish we could be the books we read, the unsung lullabies, the vague allusions, the distant cries and the broken hopes that these character so easily assume the roles of.

I have been bombarding my personality onto you reader, I am converting you into a deranged creature, an empathetic equal of Will Graham (he’s hot). I will be a cosmic metaphor for falling into the arms of an illusion by the time you read this. Nah, I just mentioned the last sentence just to sound smugly superior. But I hope that the aftermath of this post will be a sweet acceptance of people who often hide their love for myths and fiction and feel ashamed for essentially being too phantasmal for the real world. Oops I did the smug thing again.

6 comments

, by Unknown

fiction

EMBRYO

The Google result for 'beginning' gives you the title for this post. Personally I find it really cheesy to write it as a title, let alone post it. Call me a hypocrite. You just did. If you think I am some rude- intellectually stimulated-glob of anxiety- hidden behind a distant demeanour kind of a person, yes, I am. You still have time to yawn and snort and click another hypable or Holywoodlife article and forget this ever happened. Bye. But for those of you who are loser enough to stay please go ahead. *reluctantly mumbles* thank you. -_- I have been contemplating what feels like forever about actually buying confidence on sale and posting my thoughts online. Well I guess I just did that or else it would have been the gazzilionth post on my 'save' hoard. God. I just got to know that my first ever real-person crush recently shifted to FRANCE. FUCKING FRANCE.

So I am doomed for a life of a desolate, misanthropic spinster. *sigh*

This post is a fucking embryo, don’t kill it before it sees the sick sad world, as Daria would say. Save the hate for later commoners. So, traditionally I should be posting something about myself so that you feel the thread that connects us all with the cosmos; relatability (I tend to be a tad verbose, if you haven’t noticed). And my outdated software indicates with a thin red line that I have misspelt the word. Fuck it. Sometimes this software makes me want to pull off a Sylvia Plath.

I normally write very ornate sentences but my brain disagrees today. I write because I feel brave when the ink spills on the pages, the black characters dance across the screen. I write because I think it’s important to share what you feel, if only with paper. I read because this life is just not enough and I distinctly remember this line from somewhere but I am too lazy to look it up. I read because it means that silence speaks when the world shouts gibberish. It’s exhilarating to keep some strangers thoughts with yourself and feel propelled by them. I carefully construct this haven of pages and ink to escape from reality. When J.M. Barrie urges me to be kinder than necessary, or when Nathan Filer talks about being trapped in the pain of our minds, when John Cooper Clarke says that he doesn’t want to be nice, when Vazaki Nada says that my sanity is your fabrication, something unites with my own essence; I understand like we understand silence(instinctively). These thoughts never cease to dazzle me with the imperceptible mundanity of reality. I think art is the most accepting divinity there ever was. I also think that I think too much. Maybe it’s not a bad thing after all. Art that makes you feel something. Anything.

When I am speaking of art; Music revives even the dead. When you close your eyes and sway to 'Rape me' or hum to 'come as you are', you realise that reality is a beautiful illusion. I love the independent rock genre if it’s not stereotypical enough for a newly born intellectual. But I adore almost all kinds of rock , especially the raw bluesy kind that makes you feel ancient and wise and profound and purposeful. Unabashedly, an Arctic Monkeys fan(besides being blindingly hot, they offer meaning). I love how their lyrics are so carelessly yet carefully constructed of the bland indignities humanity faces everyday and yet pensively embrace sadness. Bring me the Horizon might not impress your parents but it is as legitimate as twenty one pilots. Deal with it. I appreciate Florence Welch for her surrealism and pseudo spiritualism. Music connects you to emotions you thought were deeply buried into the abysmal chasms of your being. (I incorporated abysmal chasms) Seriously, I am trying too hard. You will find heartbreaking pieces of the human imagination in these lines. It’s up to you to find them.

I dance like a hippie.

Just random important facts about me:

I am random to the point of disintegrating into a million pieces of chaos. Also, I have a habit of being corny and cool at the same time, like now. I am a creative thought, shot from the cosmos dimly illuminating the darkness of this mortal frame. See what I said about being corny. It's a riot, A fucking emo kid scene. A circus, my mind I mean. I am really fond of building up pseudo realities and impossible daydreams where a nerdy raven haired boy is a fairie in disguise and loves mismatched socks. I doodle indie patterns and save retro vintage stuff off the internet for my never ending projects. I obsess over non-existent crisis and my imaginarium of dreams. I collect souvenirs of the dead moments gone by. There is this magnetic pull of time, it's so bewildering, like wine, words absorb profundity and mystery with time. Sometimes my heads spins faster and it almost becomes impossible to contain the wonder that it is Just(Alex turner accent) short of bursting at the seams. It's a party.

I have an unmistakable yearning to travel. Wanderlust as commoners call it. CONCERTS make me drool incessantly. No shame. At least I accept absurdity. I love dark things. I love sadness. I love this familiarity, the comfort, the peace of being in my true element when I am all blue. Like a smurf. I've got a sense of humor. Heh. And I hate that this post has a lot of "I's". 'I' sound like a narcissistic desperate bitch right now. We die every time we care, I think. So I don’t care (I do). I wish we could rise above this crippling need. Brutal isn't it? Supreme Self deprecation at its haunting best. NOT to forget that I stalk Brits. All and everyone (which is a song by the way). All this time I am keeping a count of pop culture references essential to keep the readers interested, I am failing calamitously.

Sometimes I dream that my hands are charcoal and my face is melting and there is just music and the moon. And I am flying back to 'it'. whatever that is. I hope I am making enough sense for you to follow me to the end. Reader, don't judge me for being too corny as Holden would say.

sometimes I drug myself into sploshing ink on pages.

6 comments

, by Unknown

AWKWARD MOMENTS Part 1

READER'S DISEASE

BLUE DAYS

Creature Of Habit

THE FICTIONAL BOY SYNDROME

EMBRYO

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