Invaluable

You really cannot attach a value to some things in life. This heroine always knew that but never understood what it meant. Maybe she hadn't had anything like that in her life perhaps. This heroine understands that now. It's her friend. Yes, this heroine also writes about the other heroes in her life. He's just such a good friend. He really is invaluable and probably someone she had underestimated the most. That Audrey Hepburn key-chain she finds when rummaging through her drawers. That D.F.T.B.A note in her cellphone. That birthday present, that bloody brilliantly creative birthday present he put so much thought and effort into. The call that lasted till 7 am in the morning when she needed someone to talk to the most; someone who would simply listen, be there without questioning what, why and when and hear out her anger, disappointment and embarrassment, in short, all the drama. 
 This might sound deathly cliched but really that is all there is to a real friend for me. He/she needs to be here. And that's still not it when I really sit down to think about it all. That's the thing about him, I guess: the amount of thought he puts into everything. How he always goes an extra mile to make his friends feel special. You know what? I don't even think he tries. It's just naturally him. The fact that I came to his mind when he randomly came across that Audrey Hepburn key-chain, the time when I couldn't stop stressing over my stupid weight issues but he actually bothered to guide me through a workout routine; the fact that he stayed up till 7 am to simply listen to me when he probably had a final exam to study for; the fact that he's ALWAYS ready to listen to my sad-ass sob-stories without fucking judging me one single time. Honestly, I can keep on quoting instances but I'll spare you the boredom.
Eventually, if that sort of thing isn't invaluable, I don't know what is.
What leaves me speechless every time is that without me leaving any signs, he knows. I think he does. He sensed the trouble last summer and wouldn't stop asking until I finally ranted one night. Of course he is full of flaws. Those moments when he tries really hard to act all smart and sophisticated, are priceless! He ends up coming across as adorable, actually. There are times when he says the shittiest things but I even that out by being the phenomenal bitch that I can be.
I have seen in him what I have not seen in any other; Something I have always found missing in myself: That endless, unconditional capacity to give, give purely without expecting anything in return. That is probably the gist of what you can grasp if you read everything I have written about him. If I think I know him, he really is unlike any other boy I have ever come across in my life. So now, every time I open to check the reminders in my phone, that D.F.T.B.A note is always there to make my day complete.
He's a friend. It's his birthday today. It's quite sad because if you read all of this you will realize most of this is about her as much as it is about him. It's true. She probably hasn't been even a quarter to him of what he's been to her. She realizes this and goes through the most terrible, inexplicable embarrassment. I hope she can be his friend too one day and make it all up to him. She knows he's changing. She hopes he changes for only and only the better like he has so far. Despite knowing she hasn't been that friend to him, she hopes, hopelessly, like the only thing she can ever do,  that he doesn't change to forget and make this drama queen a part of his fond memories.

Deaf.

What is it about the sound of twisting knuckles and ticking clocks, and footsteps that makes us so anxious? Can a sound, as simple and momentary, reach so deep into the senses and wring them into reaction? If it is so, then how come the sound of a lot of words goes unheard?

The Minor Costs of Living

There are times when I want and only want. The rest of the time I try to work a way around it. Sometimes, the 'Should' of 'The Way It's Done' happens. Most of the time there are just diversions. I scare myself in the most unpleasant way, by wanting to own. Obviously, I say nobody owns nobody. Empty spaces are only good to lose yourself into but they are anything but good to look at. At times I want to fill the spaces around me with people. Of my own. And then I say, people cannot be owned. Nobody owns nobody. Nobody thinks of it that way... like you yourself have been thought of all your life. That's not how it works. That's not how life works, I say. Fancy bed stands, jewels, vacant chairs and empty rooms are one of the few things that you can completely own. And your own self. I say, it's right. I daresay, love comes with costs but not for a price.

Your silken tie, around my finger
A half-opened envelope, longing, stirred,
I dance in circles around the fire in this absurd skirt,
 stirred by the breeze that comes through
the shattered, misty windows
our yellowing, bare, chipped walls.
Now the room stinks of your dog's urine
outside
The train's whistle carried on the wind
like you
Would carry her first child on your back.
Your idea of
me
on that table
lies, rests broken beside the equally broken fountain pen.
The burnt wick, the blues radio, the black, shrivelled rose
My hair strewn across
your shoulder
I stand
you are
between you and I
In silence
in smoke
Scratching away the expiration date
Wanting, kneeling, praying
to forget
just this once
(I think of you)
more.

No titles for the lost.

Look. Turn around. Take a step back and pause. Just for a moment.
I look for him every day. I search for him all day long. I try to pretend all day too so that they know I'm still searching. I try to pretend as if I found him for their comfort to remain unperturbed... But then how is it a 'he'? Who decided to associate the masculine to His name? I just capitalized the 'aich'. Does that mean I believe he is out there? Is there a difference; difference between the fact that I search for him and the belief I have that he is out there? Or is this temporary cynicism as I am told? Cynicism that will be swept away with one blow; a tragic blow, they said. It must be tragic, and full of regret and remorse. I don't believe it. But I have felt it. The fear of being completely and absolutely unaware of what may come. I am not ashamed of owning up to my fears and never was. It's my lack of ability to display it all too animatedly unlike the immaturity I put up on display every moment unabashedly. I am not afraid of being called shameless or immature. I am afraid that might be too right. Too much than I know it to be. And just like them, I fear too. Sometimes people are blind to the difference between unabashedness and fearlessness. You want know where I think the line is drawn? Perhaps, there is a transcendental quality to fear, that is unlike the very humane shade to shamelessness and unabashedness. I rarely feel shame. I do however fear if that's all right.
Not that I was forced to think today. In fact there isn't a moment my head stops talking these days. I don't think it stops talking even while I'm asleep. But here I lie, and here I sit. With my palms stretched out beneath my eyes and I simply stare and try to win the staring game with whoknowswhat. I barely stand. Here I sit, angry, unable to do, unable to stand. This ability to speak, write, type and express! Express this anger coupled with this inability to act. A disastrous pair. A situation sold to hopelessness. Anger for naught. Corrupted. Maybe he was just joking. But I know he's right. It did hit home when he told me to take a long look at my jokes. It was a stale joke too. Then again, I guess all those jokes always were. Maybe I'm just trying too hard to get a sense of humour about all of this. But I hear that tone every other day, that glare, that sigh that indicates a critical case of worthlessness. Their expressions that suggest and perhaps, just maybe even mock the dormancy and aimlessness of this time of my life. And I know there is truth in it. It's a little scarring.
Perhaps it's all right for us to carry scars. Shamelessly. At this point, when my friends' return to their moving lives, their lives that are much ahead with speed of purpose and momentum of cause, I try to calculate and recall my worth but the figures say zero and I spend another chain of hours doubting every part of myself like I have every day of these two years. Slipping. Tastelessly. Losing. Slowly. Every hour, every day. Doubt scraping at these walls that have set themselves up over these two years. Screaming. Screeching it's sharp, tormenting nails down these bare, chipped walls.
It's just another day when my anger will not let me sleep. Another day when it can't stay unspoken, unwritten any longer. I don't even think this is anger. Anger is supposed to be productive. I say something clever and then the utter futility of it hits me. The fact that those 'clever, well intentioned, carefully thought-out words just dissipated into a vacuum-space. "Har waqt bolti rehti ho par kuch kar nahi sakti." It's frustration but it's all in vain. I contemplate him, contemplate my search, contemplate if even this search holds some meaning. I try to stand up but fail to find my position in all of this. I don't know what this is. Out of the 24 hours of an average human being's day, the averagest of our kind probably spend 20 blinking, lying awake with exhausted eyelids that want to retire but do not know how. I don't think crises have homes to retire to. They just die. Die down, die out. Like those epidemics we hear of that take hundreds of lives in one day, out of nowhere. Gradually we stop hearing of them and forget about the whole thing all together.

Wiping off the fog my breath forms on the looking-glass, I look at myself and then I realise how much all of it is nothing and might never be anything. I look but I don't see what I'm looking for. I don't see myself.

No flowers for the dead

GazaMassacresDronesU.S.AShootingsDelhigang-rapeBalochistan(Bangladesh?)ShahzebShot
What is WRONG with us?
This year ends in 2 days.
Does that even mean anything?
Does this blogpost help? Does it do anything?
Where does it all go? Where is this going?
Look at us.
Law was stocked in the market and subsidized. Then banned.
Society is the prostitute you married to destroy her face with acid.
(How does one sleep tonight?)
Do
What?

Irrational.

If perfect sense came with the explanations for everything that happens to us, to the best of us, we would all of us write our lives out page by page, purging it of all skeletons, all guilt, all anger and every regret.  It is the questions that swoop, curl and move in concentric circles inside our head, the ones which keep us lying sleepless all night that knead our sense of contentment, coerce rest into near elusiveness and make space for anger. We stare into empty spaces, look through glaring windows, stop amid sentences and twist knuckles. We search for an explanation. We demand familiarity. In it's most basic, intricate workings, the mere human mind is taught to assume that familiarity is knowledge; that only if an idea rings true to the common nature of what we have known so far, which is assumed to be everything, only if it molds and slips easily into this frame that has been constructed over the years, it maybe allowed the privilege of recognition, and into existence.
And if in one of these seconds and minutes that tick by relentlessly, we manage to throw our hands out, wrap our fingers around and clasp an explanation tightly that refuses to fit into this shape, we reject it. An explanation now exists but does it make sense? It doesn't fit. The questions that ensnared our senses are now in the company of rejection and refusal. The noose tightens. Spend twenty more sleepless nights and silent days.The demand grows and sweeps in the first of its guests - desperation
 Some how, we feel that like all building blocks that we put together as indifferent children, our thoughts owe us the logic and pattern of those toys too. We do find answers, but when we fail to find all sense in them, we hold onto the questions like a stubborn, ignorant child.
While we involve into this unforgiving pattern, we also fail to realise that time really does wait for no one. There comes a time when this shapeless, homeless notion grows out into a monster and grows bigger than the man who sheltered it in the first place. For every question we cling on to, every explanation we try shake into sense, we lose the time to step ahead and the opportunity to look further, to attempt and stretch this frame wider. Hollow, dark crescents beneath the eyes, scaly hands, disheveled strands of hair. We begin to resemble the monster.
To stop life in its shoes, we tie ourselves down to the mercy of explanations.  All the while, the sand in every hourglass continues to pour down in submission of gravity, the world walks us by and nothing stops unless we stop looking into empty spaces.  In seeking answers, some of us, unconsciously mine deep into Anxiety. Unlike the outside, all halts within us until that one day, we hear the alarm trill beside our pillow; the shrill call that carries us back to a time of movement, a time with life. Until we consider stepping outside our own authority, our own cruel limits and consider for one moment to simply walk the shore, count every wave that kisses our feet and forget to demand.