Mistakes

Maybe it's time to end this. This is not what I imagined it to be. This is not what I imagined myself to be. It's all too much, too heavy, too needy, too dependant. That's not how it was supposed to be. And I don't need it right now. And my god, there're so many expectations. I can't even begin to tell you...the ones in my mind. It's not your fault but sometimes, they drive me insane.

I'm going mad. I can feel it. And I think it's this, which is driving me towards insanity. How is that possible?

How can something that makes me feel so good also make me feel like such shit? What is it? Is it love? Or desperation? I need you to be with me, but I can't say it. So I throw tests which you ignore.

Heavy. Way too heavy.

It's like a snake. Coiling its body. First one way, the good, happy, "we're so into each other" way, and then the other way, where nothing seems to go right. I wanna end this. Make it a chapter. Stop it from being a book. But that's recklessness.

But I want to do something...something I know will hurt me so bad I'll crush. Under the weight of my own stupid, stupid mistakes. I want to see what it's like to feel like that.

Mistake. I can see it's my fault. I'm throwing the tornado in my head at you. You don't know what to do about it. I told you I would be this way. Tell the tornado to stop.

I'm begging you.

Electric vibes make you hyper.

The End of the Beginning of the End... of the Beginning

Yeah try making sense out of that one. New relationships are tough. Even when you think you've got it all under control, you've got your head on straight, you know you've learnt from the past errors that you may have naively committed...

Nope, even then, a leopard doesn't change his spots, Queen Victoria doesn't suddenly sport hair, Osama bin Laden doesn't all of a sudden join the Gay Parade. It just doesn't work like that. We all have our baggage, our issues. That's alright. Right?

Just on an offnote, I thought of this amazing line...inspired by Machiavelli.

*Clears throat*

Vodka corrupts, but absolut vodka corrupts absolutely.

*waits for applause. crickets chirp in the distance*

Alright anyway, what was the discussion again? That ever-old, "Why is he being such a douche" problem? Fuck that, the new generation is too cool for that. Moving on to happier topics, like women being raped just a few miles from UN peace keeping troops in Congo. So much for peacekeeping. Guess someone's not being paid enough. Has anyone ever noticed why men are never (ok seldom) raped? There's something fucked up about our patriarchal society. And something slightly offputting about the desperate need to copulate that some men are often consumed with. What a sick, truly dastardly thing to do. And I never use the word 'dastardly' so imagine the seriousness of this issue.

I want a new beginning. Someone hit refresh.

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.

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.

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.

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.