Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Spaghetti alla Carbonara

I think I can feel the world passing by. One minute at a time. While I sit here and desperately seek out something to do. Searching, searching, eyes glancing from one thing to the next, hands fidgeting.

Seconds cease ticking by. Even the clock has stopped working. No joke. Restlessnessness.

So, writing seems to be the best alternative to avoid premature symptoms of high blood pressure and insanity. Thank god for the invention of the written word. Or rather, thank some old, white bearded, bored man for deciding to encode the language.

Or maybe, they’re the same person.

We’ll never know.

All I know is, you like spaghetti alla carbonara. Talking to you is like talking to myself. Which is weird, but kind of amusing at the same time. I wonder if it will ever get annoying. I wonder if we’re just lying to ourselves. We’re too practical, you and I. Biggest hypocrites on the planet. And maybe the biggest cowards too, who knows. You call me a kid and that scares me. Because you know what, I am. Because I don’t want to take things so seriously. Let’s be kids together. Be stupid together. Let’s play and laugh together. Splash in puddles. Run so fast our legs seem like they’ll fall off. Hello-hello each other like idiots. Forget the world and all its problems, because like you said, no one comes out alive anyway.

This restlessnessness.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Where the heart is

Where, when you step inside, the familiarity overwhelms you.
Where you wake up in the middle of the night, and go to the kitchen in search of food, and you actually find some.
Where people rip the blankets off to wake you up in the morning.
Where you somehow know where everything is, even when it's pitch dark.
Where people cook for you.
Where you're allowed to watch cartoons all day.
Where all the clothes are washed and the food is made, as if by magic.
Where you have to tap the bathroom light switch hard because it doesn't turn on otherwise.
Where you're allowed to look your most horrible, in the foulest of moods, and you know you're with people who are biologically tuned to love you.
Where you know which stair to skip over because it creaks.
Where retro Hindi songs play on Sunday mornings.
Where evenings are spent laughing in the kitchen.
Where you occasionally have to chat with your brother online to get his attention, because he just can't seem to tear himself from the computer.
Where you can sing and play the guitar as loud as you want.
Where no one drinks from this one mug, because its yours.
Where you have pizza nights on Fridays.
Where you fight about which movie to watch while eating that pizza.

That's home.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

I think that, in life, there are two kinds of people. Ones that disappoint you, and ones that are about to. Maybe they were right. Maybe we have too many expectations. Maybe the problem is within us. Maybe we disappoint ourselves at one point or another as well.

Moral of the story. Fuck your expectations. Because people can never live up to them.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

For You

Can Stone Heart be gentle? Can he be passionate impulsive, soft, caring? Is he pure stone?
Is he all heart?

Can he hear what the wind does not speak? Would he want to? Would he dare? Would he mock it? Would he roll past or would he pause?

The leaves, are they in the way? Does he need to meet a river? An ocean?

Listen to the voice, Stone Heart. Pause for the gentle wind, the roses, the leaves which fly in a multitude of hues in celebration.

Of you.

For you.

Are you pure heart? Or are you all stone?

Some more weird thoughts I had.
I should really stop slacking off at work.