Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Cities Are Like Tattoos.

Another serenading suicide. Another trip to insanity. I hate this part of the city. The part that surrounds home. There are stories written in the wind. Memories are scattered here.

I walk on with a lonesome song blaring in my ears. I want to walk to those parts of home that trouble me, that madden me. Autos, blue buses rush past. I walk past the 'favourite chicken roll' shop, and then, pass that old I-pill medical store. Noone knows what I'm thinking. Not even close people can guess that I'm constantly comparing myself to that girl in the picture postcard, whom I wasn't even supposed to find. I get flashes of the photographs I saw last evening. I create stories about that girl in my head. And wonder how this idiot wind with infinite memories could never ruffle her thoughts.

I walk ahead. I curse S on the phone who has kept me waiting knowing how this place torments me.

I want to purge myself off this city. Of certain people. Even if it leaves bruises, even if it leaves me empty with an unendurable void. I want to close the doors to this part of this city. I want to return to that night in Delhi when I drank so much that I forgot everything and went to sleep with temporary memory loss. I want that retrograde amnesia to continue. I want this city to be devoured by that Korsakoff's syndrome. I want to search for an Axis Bank ATM, pick up whatever money I have and run away where this city won't find me.

S still isn't here. I cannot take it anymore. I want to rush back home. I want to be left all to myself. I want to go back to university. It's safer there. Even Delhi was safer, for that matter. At least, I'm not scared of those cities, like I'm scared of this one.

I look ahead into the darkness, with the same song now playing in my head. This place has long spells of loadshedding.
I wonder what the girl in the picture postcard must be doing with her newfound lover right now, and cry.
I am selfish, I think.

Friday, June 12, 2009


I haven't been blogging much. The problem is I cannot get myself to conjure up nice poetic things in my head anymore. No, it's not a block or a hiatus. It's more than that. I do write in my private blog once-in-a-while, though. In fact, I had actually thought of deleting this blog a few days back.

Anyway, I haven't done much since I came back from Delhi. Only read a lot, watched old episodes of Friends, Boston Legal and Full House, ate and slept. I also went to the court a couple of times and ran around in search of a second internship. Hmm, I haven't done much. Only thought too much about life and got depressed. In fact, I can't wait to get back to college (Yes, if Ma reads this, she IS going to kill me) to start the next semester and work my ass off, again.

I have been procrastinating. There is a paper to be written, and I haven't even read enough for it. I'm sure A and S (joint-authors, and very very close friends) haven't read too. I'm wondering what we are going to do at the conference if we don't have a clue about anything.

Hmm, in other news, I have become a quieter, more eccentric woman. People don't like me, and I don't like people much. I think I'm getting crazier, and my blog, it's dying.