A Bag of Thoughts

The thing with writing and I is we’re both hugely egoistic. We hate to admit that we don’t quite understand each other and that it might be that we’re making a mistake in training to do so, and as you can imagine this leads to this immense dearth of communication and of conveyance of words. I must say, I don’t know why I persist writing and why I feel calmer after writing even though I’m mostly over-thinking thereafter. Writing? Well, he’s a feisty one.  He’s a haughty, passionate lad who knows what exactly he’s doing and has a plethora of spontaneous mood swings. It’s a paradox in a way; to know what you’re doing even when you’re working on impulse. I say that writing is impulsive as a person because I don’t usually write when I’m expected to. I just write whenever the rush of words and thoughts and metaphors and oxymoron deluges my brain and I know better than to ignore it. These phases of ‘insight’ are like fits- they randomly strike me and then, time is a ...

The other day I was crying, But the funny thing is, I was crying just today, oh, in fact, just now, right now. Because everything changed so suddenly, so warning-less-ly. My journal became a distant classmate, and, the victim of my curses - my partner in everything. It's strange. I don't fit, anywhere, anymore, but maybe that's because, I'm not so slim, I was never one of those, who cried under the shelter of night, who screamed silently, who sobbed under control, who's afraid to awaken the others, I'm tired, everyone expects, but do they not see? I know how much will, kill me. PS- This was written right after I cried and thus, is exaggerated and melodramatic. I did not want to post this but I like the way it's written if you overlook the drama and feelings.

It's a mystery, a pain, a constant burden, a floating bubble, an orthodox temple, my home. It's a paradox, it's full of bathos, it's born born of lameness and frivolousness, it is a cape of irresponsibility, it is my brother's nonexistent sense of humor. It's superstition, a constant duty, selfless consternation, an obsolete trend, my mother's smiling, it lights up my day, It's endless understanding, it's ethereal filial love, painstaking gifts, for always the greater perhaps, it is my father's ability to adopt all, points of, view. This is our little world, and, I love it, I repeat, I love it.

Wild like a prisoner in a prison, Happy like a swarthy girl on the streets of Chandani Chowk, Content like the forced recluse, Blooming like the embryo of a Sunflower seed, Observant like the earthworm under the seclusion of a Mulberry tree, that's what I want to be. The smell of a red, sloppy Sahyadri, football field, the just-perfect dim reading light of the setting sun at Asthachal, the presence of a perfectly timed excuse in the times of scoldings, that's what I love. The blaring noise of frighteningly amusing crackers, the anticipation of lethally amazing food Mom cooks, the familiarly surprising laughter that Dad engenders, the obnoxiously nonsensical blabber of my rival, who you might call my brother, the feeling of satisfaction and belongingness, is all I have and, treasure.

ONE. A frozen clock, It doesn't measure, the committed sins, for if we never measured, there would be no time. A struggling loser, she doesn't stint, she doesn't mind, existing in the nothings of betrayal, traitor luck, pretentious fate, shambles; life. A lost reason, it's looking. Reaching out. For its master. for true stalwart quality. A mystic forest, is misunderstood. Feeling, mourning, expounding. Always. But, no matter what, it will be, what you expect; not. TWO. A chirp. Is it? Or is it a lost scream? A searching tide? A helpless night? An inexperienced lover, perhaps? A rustle. Friction. A sudden intake of breath. A sigh. They're all akin. An aghast, an apprehensive, an expecting, a broken, expression. Broken, irregular, like a patient's heart.. Beating. Beatin. Beati. Beat. Bea. Be. B. . . Till it fades away. THREE. Swinging through age, Climbing through phases, I don't real...