I'm tired. Not whiny, I don't want to clean my room tired but a kind of tiredness that's filling the hollow spaces in my bones with lead. Times like these, I rewind over every insignificant detail or decision that's gotten me here. Like deconstructing a game of chess. Only, in reality, I can't separate the black from white and put everything in their own, neat squares. So I make rose tea, listen to The National and eat apricots.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
I was strolling along today, when I suddenly realised I don't quite know what to do with my arms. I tried swinging them all briskly like the women in those exercise videos broadcast on TLC at the oddest hours, but it felt super- weird, like telling people that you love your grandmother when you really couldn't give less of a shit weird. Stopping, I tried to let them sway naturally to the dulcet sound of 'Start a War', causing the not-so-high-powered business type behind me to snarl, "junkie" and stalk (rather unsteadily) ahead of me in her Bandra Blahniks. Bitch. Folding my arms across my chest was the next P.O.A, but it was too, "I am emo, watch me bleed." Also, I found myself unable to walk in a straight line which made me sad in all kinds of non- shallow ways. Jamming my hands into my pockets (I love pockets. More than my grandmother even), made me look faux cool. I was cool with being faux cool, so I bought my oranges.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
buying cotton pants
a month passing without me getting tired of people
having a new, favourite band
freshly laundered sheets
last minute plans going beautifully
someone rubbing my shoulders
mint milk chocolate ice cream
the colour indigo
the walk from Colaba to VT
sitting near a window in a train and listening to Sweet Disposition
not being asked for my i.d.
Monday, February 14, 2011
I miss having good people. People who call me for shits and giggles and not for hey-wassup-how's your headache-can you please give me information that will take the shitfest that is my project and elevate it to mediocrity- and if you don't you're a horrible human being who deserves to be badmouthed to the extent that you begin wondering whether it's worth attempting to be honest in the first place? OKTHANKS.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Will it be loud?
Like your car backfiring or
Dropping a stack of plates onto linoleum?
We’re oddly quiet. All of us. After hours and days and weeks spent in that smoke filled room, playing Mr. Jones on loop. After doing our best to feed our cravings that twisted, writhed and palpated. Begging, begging. Today we air out the room and close the blinds and sit on the ground among the ashes and coffee stains on your mother’s hideous carpet. If anyone knocks on the door, we fall silent and sit still, until they go away.