Floating bubbles keep bursting against that unknown, throbbing pain she likes to call love. It isn’t, as always. Might be desire. So she gets soaked in soap water and slips all over the place. Some say she picked things up from here and there, tiny and huge inspirations, copying at times, without knowing? Should it not remain the diary of a stranger one comes across one day and forgets about the next? She likes to believe her face is worth remembering. The sickly pink paradoxical haze perpetually poisons fragments she keeps calling her vision. Big words make her feel big. Then last night she woke up from deep slumber claiming to be drifting into some suicidal delirium. It’s always funny as hell for she can call up this counselor she knows anytime. She doesn’t because she’s narcissistic and she likes the attention. Deep inside, she doesn’t want it to stop. So she lets her mind wander and fuck with itself time and again. She realizes she might just jump from that five storied, white building. There’s this one snail which keeps crawling up.
‘I’ll jump and when the world around is a blur, the Father’s face will revolve softly, slowly and then faster. I’ll cry and then hit the ground. THUD! The skull, cracked, swimming in a pool of crimson blood will STILL try to protect the grey ugliness within.’
Crimson happens to be a favorite color. She says they’ve heard a lot about scarlet. She uses crimson sometimes just to prove them wrong and because it seems it looks better on her, around her, in her head. Scarlet and Crimson should battle it out and find a solution for a change. Oh she just realized she writes all of this faster than the assignment answers. It’s hard to know who she is at times. She already thinks this is his style but she’ll like to retort and mock herself because she likes it simple now. It’s easier to chase the pain away this way. Subconsciously though, she keeps watering the notorious plant which is growing its roots in her head, gripping all that it can, breaking and rejoining a few bones. Now she’ll giggle in pain and talk about the eternally present parasitic pain which sits on her shoulders.
‘Let me tell you something I cooked up in my mind right now. The kind of intimacy which lies in poetry is not a thing everyone is comfortable with. So, they associate, interpret, condemn and criticize. HAH! That explains it all doesn’t it? Oh come on! I just convinced myself to have faith in my PRETTY self. Learn!’
She feels lonely and says that even though the earphones work fine; her favorite songs only play through the left ear plug. And the voices tell her it’s all her imagination that is making her fuck herself. Should she get a man for herself now? Oops. She just realized that she needs to talk decent here so she went back to her warm cave and now sits there, cross legged. She’ll cut herself into three pieces and dance with all of them soon. The thought of it is so exciting! There, after this sentence 511 words shall be over.
She’ll hug and let it know it has a mind of its own. You pervert, it’s the snake which sleeps in her palm during winter. That’s where it hibernates. Later it will shed its skin and vanish. That is when she will start slithering too, in remembrance of the cool and smooth presence which drove her senses mad. Snakes need not symbolize the male phallus! She keeps weeping and telling everyone how she’s utterly tired of that word and its existence. Oh you need babies to live on as a race.
‘What the hell is wrong with you? All you’re capable of is talking shit. Who counts words? I miss my snake and I’ll crib. You were supposed to remember that it’s the biggest secret I told you to keep. You don’t love me anymore? No one does? Don’t you want me? Tell me you want me! Tell me right now! You need to. Come on. You keep implying how irresistible I am to you! I am NOT the illusion anymore? So WHAT are you going to do about it? I am going to sleep.’
She keeps getting upset over trivial things. Yesterday she told me how she wanted to lie naked in a haze of smoke. Now she’s crying because she thinks she is a pervert. A dimple will hold a tear and she’ll prefer to swim in it. Happiness comes with smiles at times, not always. Light brown eyes remind her of a world of childhood snatches she can forget if she wants to. She likes to believe she can. Let’s not upset her more by doubting her words, please? Yes, you understand. Also, curly hair reminds her of some sorrow she kisses to sleep every night. She still picks up random images and calls them love. She doesn’t like hating much.
Is this a diary entry?
‘You think you can play mind games here?’
Him- ‘Your mind is not your friend.’
‘When did I have friends?’
‘Fine, I did.’
My lie stays my truth and my truth a lie you cooked up.
‘Drown yourself in a bucketful of tautologies.’
Good morning (its morning whenever you want it to be)
‘Optimistic bullshit.’
<giggles>
Ok, now I am scared.
No comments:
Post a Comment