i play so far away by dire straits a million times each night because it expresses everything  i want to say to you about how much i miss you. then i get sick of it. then i turn it off. then i play it a million times again the next night.

white

it's a funny thing, having a place in your heart, or your mind, or whatever, that's reserved for a ball of white, pure, hot anger, that never ceases to burn, that will never run out, that keeps you fueled for life, and that no matter what you do or don't do or think or forgive, that place won't go away, and its existence pains your existence, but somehow keeping it for all these years has made you form yourself to a shape that can accommodate that anger, and keep it within you but without you, keep it hidden yet very much alive, like a crazed convict with a maniacal laughter that resounds off of dungeon walls, but that you shush in the presence of good company, that you keep quiet in the presence of any company actually, because this secret of yours, this precocious secret, it can't be let out, no matter how much it tries to break through from within, no matter how angry or upset it makes you, no matter if it makes you want to tear the head off the person that has caused its birth, because it's your secret you know, and you're scared what kind of rampage it would cause were it to be let out, and if it were let out would it lose its power, or would you lose your fuel? is it even the right kind of fuel? you've tried to quell it a million times over the years, try and try and even then when you see the face that caused it you can think to yourself that you may be over it, but then the white, pure, hot ball of anger starts to bubble and cause trouble and you hope that your eyes don't leak out the secret that they have to withhold, because if they do, no, that would be a catastrophe and families would burn down, or would they, maybe no one would actually care, maybe the reason for the fuel in your life is meaningless to other people, so no, this secret you hold on to yourself like a lunatic till your grave, and perhaps in your grave before the sand finally covers you, you can point to someone, and whisper this horrible secret into their ear and finally die in peace, hoping that perhaps some justice will be brought, and that anger which caused so much suffering will bear fruit, but even if it doesn't, you did your part, you didn't hurt anyone, you kept it within for so many years, and now you can let go in peace and close your eyes and not be haunted by memories that make you scream in humiliation, but instead dream in the blackness of your mind of a white light that is going to comfort you in your final moment. where you will finally be safe.

on being home

I don't know why mothers never seem to think that their child eats enough. Never will a mother say, "Gosh, beta, one more roti? Don't you think you've had enough?" (Except for my aunt, who's got a child as heavy as a baby elephant. Seriously, no joke. And he's eleven. He's on food patrol.)

So, following suit, when my mother saw me after a year, she immediately pounced on my emaciated health, raggedy clothes (both of which, I'd thought, were perfectly fine) and general pathetic state of being. You know you've slipped low in the world when your mother refused to be seen with you in those chappals. That, or a severe generation gap.

I knew she meant it all in kindness, however. So I begrudgingly (haha) went for the shopping trips, bought myself a decent pair of shoes, some new pants. (Another weird thing about my mother (and I could go on and on) is that she always insists on buying clothes that are size S. Now, I don't know if she's making up for when she had to buy XXL clothes for me when I was ten or what, but damn those clothes make it hard for me to breathe! And I came home to eat, not to worry about love handles that would be going to waste anyway!)

Another awesome thing about my apparently anorexic form (which in itself is laughable because I weigh ten kilos more than some of my other friends) is that I now get to take vitamin supplements. Lemme explain to you why they're awesome. This means you can eat all the junk in the world, and be sure that your body is getting the nutrients it needs. Calcium, magnesium, iron, vitamins A to Z or whatever. It's awesome. And, just by the way, it starts making your hair and skin awesome! Goodbye frizz, hello healthy shiny hair!

Sure they nag, crib and whine about they way you're wasting your life away, but in the end, if you know how to balance it right, being with family can be beneficial for both parties. Never thought that was possible.

Discovering books that you used to read when you were twelve is like reuniting with your old best friends.

Uff this prolonged longing for the long gone.

You know, the scary thing about relationships is that there is no way you can hide who are you from the person you are in a relationship with. Whatever odd quirky eccentricity you have will be revealed to the other person in due course of time. And that can be scary for those of us who don't fart out butterflies, if you get what I'm saying.

There are lots of things we spruce up before we head out the door. Hair, makeup, contact lenses - yes. Weird habits, granny panties, dysfunctional childhood, etc - under the bed. But this person, with whom you're about to share every being of your self with, they're going to know all about everything. And you just have to hope that they'll stick with you despite it. Or if you're lucky, because of it.

So I was lucky enough to meet someone who forced me to be myself on an everyday basis. Here are some things I've done with him that I don't usually do with anyone except maybe sometimes my really close friends. Or not even them (the PG rated list)

1. Wore my glasses in the mornings.
2. Left my hair in an unruly mess.
3. Cried my heart out.
4. Cooked horrible food for (which he still ate and complimented)
5. Thrown up in front of and been a disgusting drunk mess in general.
6. Expressed my weird need that he be in his own house so I could... you know.. shit. (Funny story.. he thought I  had problems with him because I was telling him to go home for such a ridiculous reason.)
7. Told him how I actually feel about him (the good and the bad)
8. Talked about family. And future dreams.
9. Named our imaginary child Momo.
10. Eaten in my full messy glory. With mayonnaise dripping down my chin and whatnot.

There's probably lots of other things. And the thing is, I learned so many things about him that I normally wouldn't know, and that make him the person that he is. I'm glad that I got to know someone so damn well.

Ironically, when I told my first boyfriend that I wanted to get to know him completely, he completely stopped calling. Ah well, probably didn't have much to say.

A lot of self reflection has been happening lately. Mostly because there's just so much goddamn time to think about things. And I realized that sometimes, it's just really hard to talk to people. Just some people. Actually a lot people. These people come in the category of those that I have some respect for and want to keep talking to.

See, the people who I don't care about are really easy to talk to. Because, deep down, I think I have a superiority complex somewhere. I say what's on my mind and dare them to judge me. Low risk involved with these sorts of people. Being myself with these people is what actually helped me have the most interesting conversations.

Then, there's the close friends. The people I love and trust. Those are easy as well. Even if we don't communicate for days on end, I know it will be the same.

Then there's the horde of outside friends with whom occur the awkward conversations. The conversations are only good for short witty banter (if lucky) or awkwardly asking about their families. And other awkward areas of life and sordidness.

You know who's fault it is? My mother's. For feeding me when I was young and making me so fat that no one ever talked to me, hence robbing me of gaining the skill of social interaction.

I miss that chubby girl. She had it all figured out.