We haven't met yet.

The young night, dressed on with pale moonlight,
And the music is fine,
like the bubbling sparkling wine.
The evening's starry breathtaking gown,
holding hands in the towne.

~We danced through the night,
Darling, we lit up like starlight.
I heard you smile over my shoulder,
The shiver sparked a snow-white stone colder.
And in the moment, I forget you're older.

Walking home, evening shine.
Nervous touch,
Staying up, and waking up- hand in hand.
Summer breeze across the floor.
Candle reflections in the door.

~I knew I'm so in love with you
I want to stay with you,
Until we're grey and old.
I hope you know.

Knots.

"In writing, habit seems to be a much stronger force than either willpower or inspiration."

.John Steinbeck-

Basking in the cold of the winter, sweetened by the warmth of morning sun- home is too far. There is an unattended pile of things to do; books to read, groceries to be bought, classes to be joined, places to be seen, friends to be called, family to be seen. Home is too far. 

Reminiscence is a part of the day to day chores. 

The smell of the roasting masalas. The pug marks on the edge of the bed. The little munchkin's chatter. Dad's bed-time tucks, just, making sure everyone got in okay. Mom's stories. 

Mindfulness, absentmindedly, clinging onto home. But home is too far.

Life in letters.

Change happens in little sniffles through the curtain of dawn. 

I'm abandoning and losing the idea of writing the 500 pages. Trying for that one page each day. At the finish of it, in the end, it's always a surprise. 

Distractions.

“Until science can explain

How this world began,

You, me and everything else

Will be magic.”

“How are you?” I enact to myself in front of the bathroom mirror trying to mimic a real-time conversation. As I flip through the daily ‘to do’s of my diary, I realize how soon time passed by. All of past 6 months, could they have gone by, so soon. Maybe in the rush of familiar routine, everyday regime- of waking up, getting to work, working the chaotic undertones of work and friendships, filling in the loose gaps with recreations.

Earlier this week, when I actually started writing this article, it talked a lot about liqueurs and placid music tones. About beautiful blue bays, sunny soccer fields, picnic tables, and rainy runaways.  The magnetism and fascination catches on. I got distracted.

A few days have passed since; the irenic collective playing still has me preoccupied.

Glittering quicksilver.

Suitcases.

"My dance is neither a philosophy nor a job; it is the way I am feeling emotionally. This is why I move."
- Olga Kuraeva.

It's awfully quiet nowadays. It gets dark sooner than usual.  When the sunshine breaks through the curtains, I'm still tired from the sleeplessness.

The flickering lights look beautiful at night from up so high. I should tell, my new current temp address is the 14th floor of a building. Facing the bay. With the Anzac bridge placed delicately over it. The crystal blue waters match the clear blue skies perfectly. Even the white floating yachts imitate the luscious clouds. It's scintillating, the view from here. The township on this side of the bay isn't too de rigueur. The paper mache browns of the buildings are well compensated by the greens and yellows of the winter season.

It's close to a scene out of a fairytale. 

In the current temp, it's still a little messy- the room, the luggage, the hair. The suitcases are all open. Yet to be unpacked. Don't know it's worth yet. The current temp validation is only until another day. And then the next one, for a week perhaps. Maybe a few juggles around, until.. until some time.

Learning the ways of nomadic fate. (living out of suitcases)

The stage never gives you second chance, so I prefer photos and videos. The camera is able to capture real and deep emotions. 

"It doesn't matter if I dance well or not- the most important thing is that it is real."

Work In Progress.

Probably the longest I've gone without blogging something. Not that I didn't scribble here and there from time to time, or at least I think.
Thinking if I should bother cooking up an excuse. Isn't it something we all look for in stories, 'answers'. I could probably talk about how I've been preoccupied with work (for 5 whole months, day in day out, what, are you kidding me!). Or maybe figuring a life plan, I am 24 after all, it is time I decide where to go here on, professionally, personally (could work, age beneficiary, and all of those 'what are you doing with your life' questions from ever concerned parents).

Honestly, I'd be shamming it. (epiphany post countless Friends and House MD episodes later)

I'm going to talk about how I was looking for some sort of of right kind of inspiration. (And that's my excuse of the millennium, you don't get you use it. Ha.)
Okay, 'nuff with the jokes.

For those of you who've missed out, I have made it to the news headlines. Look from afar, I have it all figured. I have the coolest job- working this awesome profile. Try topping that with getting to do your own room after a lifetime of planning. That's that. Let's see, job, house, I think I've covered it all. Almost.
Recent turn of randomness made me apply for masters. I started with Delhi...Mumbai maybe...considering other states, more cities, keep options open.

I won't bore you with the details. I am leaving soon. The continent. Barely 30 days to go.

All formalities done. Well, getting there.

Been super busy collecting stuff to take. I have a blue suitcase close by and a one-way ticket in hand. The pile of clothes to be packed in the corner of the room is a literal version of a mountain out of a molehill.

Suitcases and Jetplanes.

Ps. The need to write this one came while I was in a metro-train and found myself dancing to the music blaring in my headphones. I loved every bit it. 

Zeitgeist.

It’s dicey typing on laptop now. The screen keeps jiggling, apparently office madness made me plonk it around a few times. As exciting as it gets around here. Beat you, didn’t I.

Few things on mind.

Gentlemen, progress has never been a bargain. You got to pay for it. Sometimes I think there’s a man behind the counter who says, “All right, you can have the telephone; but you’ll have to give up the privacy, the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote; but at a price; you lose the right to retreat behind powderpuff or petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air; but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will smell of gasoline.”

Just as this character launches himself into this speech, it gets me wondering about the changes around. Take a second off my coffee table at the café, it’s a rare sight to see people talk amongst one another without lifting an eye from their tiny screens for a even a moment. The lost art of devouring books, or conversations on vacations.

Ps. I’m a wreck with technology. FYI, tonight I also learned I miscalculate the ‘right-left’ directions too.

That’s not what all this is supposed to be about.

Recently, had the urge to go off the face of the earth, socially, obviously. While deactivating facebook, it asked if I wanted to do the same for the blog page I created. Got me wondering why I created it in the first place. I remember my first publication. My first article. My blog wasn’t it. It was a dream come true. It was published. For people to read. Something I had written. Nightmare come true. Eventually as time passed, frequency of publications increased, I got a hang of the critiques’ taste. What I actually write is till date only up for selective few.

Don’t mind me. I am awed by the ones who can write when asked to, whatever asked to. Amazingly impressed with the ones who can cater to the taste of their audience and themselves. I think I've tried. I think I aspired for it secretly once. To impart that burning vision. To share the true brilliance of the truth.

You know? The ones, they are the ones who put thoughts to paper, and not start to wonder, ponder, scheme only when they face the blank canvas. I envy them. It’d be insane to have a market chase you for a book signing, to be a huge success. To be a writer?

Why do you write? Why do the others write?

What’s my, or anyone’s relation of writing to being a successful writer? Is that what’s the ultimate goal is?

Artistic bedlam.

I write, like I choose my music. Chaotic, erratic. Random. Experimental. Thoughtlessly flirting with words. Festival of jumping from one feeling to another mood. Tenor in some, alienated in the others. The freedom is thrilling. The rush is exhilarating. (I may often miss the sweet spot or two, but..freedom is petrifying).

As I think about the next blank paper, endless thoughts and questions fill my mindspace.

picture credits: Gauree Sharma

Study in blue.

I needed some simplicity. "Write about it", she said.

That was the thought in my head I woke up with. Last night's devilish Cosmopolitans still swaying soft around my lips. It was a pretty special night, last one at that. And now here I lay in my blanket-den with the remnant thoughts violating each breathing cell.
I knew I'd have to crawl out at one point or the other. Though I really didn't ever want to leave my blanket or even move for that matter. The hammer in my head breathing of restlessness. In flashes, I linked substances from the night before. Half-dazed, wondering about the ride back home. Pining away about the worthless excuse of a head or sense.

Something had changed over the past few hours. Hazily, I shifted a little in bed. A lilt of heartbeats. Flashes, about the fired passions. Don't know how long that'd go on for.

"I wish you would say something that doesn't bore me, dare you, to ask me something that'd make me stay." Was one of the morning calls before I jumped back into bed back home.
I found the courage to peek out of my blanket. My senses still nascent. Random checkered memories sneaked up to me. Apart of me besides me even so raw and soft, asleep. Tad bits that fortified the break of the sun through the glass.
There's this stage of beauty- the pretty, the praise, the attraction, the screeching scream to grab the eye. And then there's this arena of self-aware. The comfort. The strong, gentle lighting grace. Snuggling into the monster, inconsequentially, the sparks had infused to crystals. You get used to it no matter where you go, where you may travel to. The layer, the guard already distinctly shed. (spotless silver lines)
In trance, time warped me.

Incognito vex.

"When you are mad, mad like this, you don't know it. Reality is what you see. When what you see shifts, departing from anyone else's reality, it's still reality to you."
(madness, this mind of mine)


~Spaces filled in with the cool morning breeze.

Sketches in letters.

"I will find color in your darkness.

I will look through each door.

Put apart each house.

Dismantle each emotion.

But I will find your color

I will find you."

Words are lost. Words fade. You and I do too. (do we?)

The more I think, more the idea gets tangled up in my knotted head. They say I'm oblivious. I must be a little more obvious in my words. How beautiful is the game of expressions, how would I ever tell. The fury, the lull of a lover's quarrel, or the soars of a heartbeat under the star-night- write about it for me, won't you.

Brick walls are there for a reason. Brick walls are meant to be broken.

Mine are vulnerably monochrome.

Anywhere, and I will follow.

This isn't about me. This isn't about you either. Neither is it about the kids playing fire 'n ice on the terrace today. Nor did I start writing keeping the messages in mind. This isn't about my thoughts, or the pain.

Words over my head, I know nothing at all. Stumbling, falling, learning to walk, I'm breaking the habitual stability.

Expressions. (divenire)

*post script first. 

There's this soft tone playing in my head tonight. The slow curves of a sketched figurine on a paper caught my attention, all (only) just in my head. Inspired in my own passion, I retrieve all of lost essentials, with the fire ablaze, I move into the new turns.

Time passes by when I think of the last time, when was it, that we played our little game of catch a crook, or was it hide and seek around that old tree in the backyard. That childhood past, oh, how long has it been. Get a new hobby, they tell me now. Start something new, they advice. Learn a culture, they ask. What's new, they implore. Now, they question. I stare into the warehouse of my head- sparkling eyes, wandering souls, stolen smiles- I answer, as I pack my tools, there's so much for me to do.

The dreamers, my culture, as I stumble to answer.

The musical figurines, my new hobby to tell and paint and dance and sketch and turn wheels. The craft.

I don't come from this world of real.
~I grew up in glass castles and amongst hollow enchanted caves. It was somewhere around where dreams are made- oh, could be the golden pot at the end of a rainbow.
Silly, you called me. Dreams, still lead me on.
Just see my work station, you'd know what I'm talking about. (Of course I work). But I still secretly live in the notion of my need to fall asleep to let Amelia Jane roam about along with the other billion little elves.

I'm the misfit outsider. The weird writer. The wary dancer. The difference. The dreamer.

'she dances to the song in her head,
speaks with the rhythm of her heart,
and loves from the depth of her soul.'

Post Script.
Starting out as fiction, balancing on words and wires, it is something i'm growing to live in. The song is still playing, is what added to words rolling in. (Ludovici Einaudi- nuvole bianche)