Unspoken and Unheard

 I am sorry

These words are said so often

Almost worn thin

But never have I meant them more before

So much you could have been

A bundle of wonders, hopes and dreams

A lot of him, a little bit of me

Or maybe just a wholly new you

Maybe in a different time, a different world

Or maybe if I were as courageous as I always believed myself to be

Breaks my heart like I never knew possible

Every moment, every day

What words will make this okay? 

People are sharing love and support for me

But who will care for you? 

Because the one who was supposed to, turned away the first chance she got

Maybe it was never meant to be

What else can I tell myself? 

I will always carry a heart made heavier with grief

For a love I never knew but lost

For love

You lie there, catching your quickened breath after another bout of lovemaking. At least that's what he calls it. For you, it is just another successful attempt at clinging on to an unsuccessful existence.

You lie there, on that same crumpled, yellowing comforter, with a cigarette burn from last Thursday night. Last Thursday night, when you needed to feel something. When the emptiness was swallowing you whole, so you decided to let him devour your self-worth instead. When his hand on your breast seared you to the bone, and you shivered with the sudden onset of feeling upon your being, no matter how loathsome.

You lie there, with the same Damien Rice song playing over and over again. You are sick of the song, but most of all, you are sick how loudly it rings in your ears and your head and your heart; 'Did I say that I loathe you? Did I say that I want to leave it all behind?'

You lie there, the clock ticking eerily loud. Four hours and three orgasms later, waves and waves of disgust are still washing over you like massive unexpected torrents. The astonishing part? There's a sick satisfaction filling in your punctured soul.

You lie there, a mess of both of you dripping on to the bed, adding on to the numerous stains. The warmth of it strikes hard against the sheer deathly coldness of the act that brought it about in the first place. The stains all mock you silently, bearing witness to a love sabotaged repeatedly.

You lie there, clutching and unclutching the comforter into your fists, rendering your fingers numb. The feeling of his lips on you, of him moving inside you, of a shuddering end, all of it made your head spin and your eyes water. But you couldn't shake off that feeling of having triumphed over your sense of right and wrong you were so determined to hold close this time around.

You lie there, complete with your freckles and that slight bruise on your wrists, where he tied you to the bed and rendered you helpless. Ha, such a naive soul, this one. You had already brought that upon yourself a long time ago. It didn't bother you anymore.

You lie there, staring at his chest rising and falling softly, at the mole right below his heart, at his slightly open mouth. You can't understand the reason behind his strong, ever-strengthening hold on you. Why a single phone call turns into a night of indifferent intimacy, why a kiss turns into sweat and those fleeting moments of heaven.

You lie there, and you will lie there. Till the dusk conquers twilight and gives way to the dawn. Till he wakes up and touches you again and you just keep moving mechanically, basking in the shame of letting yourself be used. Till he makes false promises of maybe loving you someday, and you giving him a hollow smile, acknowledging the lie that you both just shared.

You lie there; breathing, staring, being.
You lie there; loathing, fighting, losing.
You lie there; missing, craving, longing.

And then you'll walk out, clothed yet naked, and you will never hate yourself more.
And in that moment, you'll be hit by the blow of the love you loathe to love.

Who's the biggest sinner of 'em all?

NOTE : Purely an attempt at making the Writer's Bock go away. So the piece isn't very well structured. OR written, for that matter. Bear with me please. 
As she was sitting in her balcony sipping on her morning cup of coffee, her mind started going numb. The dishonesty, the manipulations, the falsehood, everything sucked the life out of her being. It was difficult existing here, you know? It was a task to not be dysfunctional. Thinking, pondering, discarding, giving up…a life so predictable, so hollow. Mirth? Myth.

And then, a sudden chill coursed through every fiber of her being. Jolted her, gripped her. Her heart skipped a beat, her thoughts muddled. She opened her eyes; opened them slowly and cautiously. The feeling was beyond human, almost supernatural. What happened? Did the world change in that one split second? Why did everything look so different, so…STILL?

All of a sudden, it hit her. The world just froze. Life stood still. Literally, metaphorically, in every way imaginable. The old lady with her rosary beads, gazing emptily into nothingness, her fingers still on the rosary. That quiet man who lives across the street, transfixed at his doorstep, one leg half in motion. Those two little sparrows, frozen mid-air like little wisps of polluted air.

But then, why not her? Why did the world stand still FOR her, and not WITH her? She was perplexed beyond limit. Was she doing something wrong? Different? Was she turning a blind eye to something that needs to be seen, ignoring something that has been screaming to be heard? So many unresolved questions, doubtful theories.

And then she saw it. The lady. Her eyes. Filled with sadness, haunted by the ghosts of her past. But she had always been the cheerful one in the neighborhood, with her rosemary and kind words accompanying her everywhere. But now, with all the flitting and fidgeting eliminated, she saw into her soul. The sadness was eerie, unsettling.

The man. The quiet, docile gentleman, caught mid-step. His eyes were SCREAMING to be heard. There was SO much running through his head, coursing through his veins, begging to be let free from the chained bond of fears and apprehensions. All his soul wanted was to be heard, to bare it all. Yet, there he was, his hand clutched tightly across his briefcase, turning his knuckles white. There he was, sabotaging his inner self with pursed lips and escapist gazes.

That little girl on the swings. Eyes mourning a trust betrayed, a truth plundered. An innocence marred by a strange hint of gloom. A lonely childhood enveloping her being, closing in on her happiness. Till now, she was just another pretty little girl in a summer dress. Now, she’s an epitome of mystery beyond comprehension.

And just like it came, it went away in a jiffy. The beads started moving(A smile across gardens followed). The feet moved on from the doorstep towards the car(a nervous glance towards the balcony followed). The swing went higher and higher(a hollow smile followed).

That’s when the realization dawned upon her, leaving her aghast. Everyone carries their own unfair share of grief around, their own set of ghosts of the past. Every one of them is haunted by one evil or the other, disrupting the normalcy of life, giving the façade away. Her devils aren’t hers alone. Every soul has a part of it. Breaking people apart, piece by piece, lie by lie, sorrow by sorrow. She wasn’t alone; lonely, yes. Alone, no.

Those few seconds transformed the way she looked at life. There’s no sin insignificant enough to be eradicated, no sin grave enough to be overpowered by it. It is there, it is who we are. Sinners. We live, breathe, feed on them. Sins. We, the sinners.

And one of these days, all the sins in the world shall amalgamate to constitute a vice so overwhelming, its mere presence shall drive all the good in the world away.
And then, we’ll be one. Us. The Sinners. We shall be one. A world of lies, a world of manipulations, a world of dishonesty, a world of gloom…….but nonetheless, the a world shared.

Le Beau Ideal

Her beauty is inexplicable. It is beyond words, beyond songs, beyond ballads, beyond poetry and prose, beyond the feeble power of any form of mortal communication.
Beautiful eyes. Big, black, pure eyes, with a hint of conflicting sadness. Eyes that have seen her through situations unmentionable, and yet and keen on embracing every moment with the most glorious of twinkles. Eyes that look at him with insurmountable, insane and incredible love. Eyes that drink him in with their mystique and power to captivate even the most callous of souls. Beautiful eyes.
Delicious lips. Uneven, yet the epitome of perfection. A full, ripe, quivering lower lip and a thin, hardly-there upper one. Lips that talk without speaking, emote without moving. A smile that pierces her eyes, radiating beauty that's almost unbearable.
And that perfectly synchronised dance that her eyes and lips perform together? A stolen glance with a mischievous smile, a caressing gaze with a knowing spreading of her lips. Ah! The sheer magnificence of it could make you cry.
Her uneven, small teeth. The way she presses her lips between them, each time she fails to get away with a prank, arouses you in a way nothing else ever can.
They way her jaw moves oh-so-mildly every time her lips utter melodious words. Her voice. Hypnotising, mesmerising. How it wraps you in endless warmth every time you hear it.
Her skin, with all its unevenness and imperfections, is the embodiment of perfection to you. The freckles, the crinkling the skin around her eyes every time she cringes at something you say, the lifting up of her cheeks every time you plant a kiss upon them, the radiance of it every time a bead of sweat rolls off her forehead.
The way her unruly hair fall around her face. Fall over her eyes, across her delicate forehead, stick to the nape of her neck.....her beautiful, slender neck. The way it sways every time she turns to look at you, the way it arches every time you make love to her, the way it twitches every time you kiss it.
The way the small of her back fits perfectly under your hands. The way the fat around her waist helps you hold on to her tighter.
How her lithe hands play with yours, blessing them with their short-lived moment of grace. You can SEE how perfect that ring you are going to give her is going to look on her right hand.

She is beyond beautiful to you. So intense that you want to cup her in your palms and keep her there forever. Protect her from the gashes this cruel life might inflict on her. Keep her safe in the store of your heart, let her live off you.

She is beyond beautiful to you.. ONLY to you, maybe? Who knows? But then, who even cares?

They were right, weren't they?
Love can't be put into words. Her beauty can't be put into words.
It is beyond words, beyond songs, beyond ballads, beyond poetry....

Destroyed restoration

Pick me. Pick at me. Pick at every part. Pick at every fibre of my being. Pick me. Pick me apart.
Scatter them. Scatter them all on the ground. Scatter them like they mean nothing. Scatter them like they aren't me. Scatter me apart.
Lick them. Lick each one of them. Lick each piece at a time. Lick it off of every emotion to have coursed through me. Lick me apart.
Stomp over them. stomp over all the ghastly pieces. Stomp over the words unspoken, the memories yet to be perfected, the love yet to be immortalised. Stomp over my existence. Stomp me apart.
Redesign them. Redesign each one of them. Redesign them to suit your thoughts, your feelings, your insecurities. Redesign me to be you. Redesign me apart.
Cut through the rotten ones. Cut through the dreams, the aspirations, the moments of pride. Cut through them, stab the fucking life out of them. Cut through me. Cut me apart.
Pick me. Pick me up. Pick up every piece. Pick up every fallen part of me. Pick me together.
Reassemble them. Reassemble the hope, the life, the glint in the eye. Reassemble them to be me. Reassemble me together.
Caress them. Caress every piece. Caress every emotion, every tear, every smile back into them. Caress me. caress me together.
Cater to the bruises you left. Cater to every gashed attempt, every bruised love, every dented success. Cater to me. Cater me together.
Restore me. Restore every piece of me. restore my mistakes, my successes, my insecurities, my strength. Restore me. Restore me together.
Glue me. Glue every fibre of my being back together. Glue me back together to form a perfectly imperfect person. Glue me. Glue me back together.

I am back. I am here, and I am back. I am breathing, and I am back. I am dreaming, and I am back. I am striving, and I am back.

I am back. I am me. Or am I you?
I am back. I am living my life. Or am I living yours?

I am back. I am restored. Or I am destroyed to be you?

Am I you?

Writer's Block go away, come again another day. REALLY. :|

So, I won't count this as a post. It is essentially a desperate attempt at getting rid of the writer's blog that has been plaguing me ever since January now.
This might go from random to boring to plain nonsensical. So please, bear with me.
Also, all the new followers of my blog, thank you for appreciating my blog. :)

NOTE : The paragraphs aren't related in any way whatsoever. It is random rambling at its best. Or worst, depending on how you see it. So don't waste your time trying to establish connections that aren't intended to exist.

I am essentially stuck in a rut of a lot of events presently. What did our humble NCERT call it? Yes, "caught in an ugly middle position". Though this particular phrase always made me grin because of its not-so-holy meaning, this is the only one I could think of. I divulge. Getting back on track, the rut. Yes. School's over, Boards didn't go very well, preparing for an entrance I'm not too sure of and apprehensive about college and its related dimensions. Aren't you just a lil' bit jealous of how perfectly life's fairing for me? :')

So that's the reason behind me writing this post at 4 in the morning, sitting in a corner of my room with the most reliable companions of all times : A steaming mug of coffee and a pair of headphones. Sad life, yes. -shrugs-

Have you ever had that feeling of getting something you weren't too sure of right? Of being awed at how very perfect it turned out to be? How, even with all its oddities and impossibilities, it is quite possibly the most beautiful thing in your otherwise hueless existence?
Amazing, isn't it? :)

If someone asks me to pick three words that best describe me, I think I'll go with love, insecurity and art.
Bizzare combination? Maybe.
But where there's love, there's always this nagging insecurity of losing it, isn't there? It is just that in my case, the insecurity is a bit too pronounced.
And art is love. Love is art.
Music, colours, words, faces, skies, patterns, emotions, fabrics, places. All if this, and more. Art. Love. Insecurity.

You know what calms me like nothing else days? Looking into a child's eyes. The innocence, the purity and the love that resides within them just...HEALS me. I am not a great fan of children mainly because they basically come with self-destruct buttons, but this somehow gets to me. Maybe the child in me? I don't know. But it does.

You know what I REALLY want to do? I want to tie my hair loosely, wear random clothes, carry a beautiful notebook, go off to someplace like Italy, and WRITE. Write away to glory. Write till the voice in my head gets exhausted. Till I've used every word I've ever known. till I've depicted every emotion to have coursed through me. Till I'm so tired that I don't feel tired anymore.
Of course, a little music won't hurt either.
Damien Rice, Birdy, Andrew Belle, Secondhand Serenade, Stateless, Coldplay, The Weepies. The likes, more or less.

I hope this will get the "creative juices flowing". ( Pardon the cliches')
'Cause if this doesn't, God knows what will.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo

A dark room, with the faintest gleam of light streaming through the overhead dirty-glassed window. So feeble, it almost looks like it is mourning its own advent. The room reeked of a life gone wrong, an existence gone sour. A musky, heavy smell, which makes you want to crumble onto the floor, a humongous pile of fear and regret and dry tears.

And in one desolate corner of the room, a dead mortal. An unkempt soul, with her knees huddled close to her chest, her hands moving in sleek precision, her eyes wincing with every small movement her bony hands made. Her mute demeanor screamed of unending pain; a scream heard only by those who've suffered an agony of the same degree, if not higher.

The sun shifted in the sky. So did the light streaming in. But as soon as it touched her bare, mucked feet, she scampered deeper into the fort of sorrows she had built all around herself, as if the sunlight was scathing her. A feeble entity, she.

Her being shivered with uncertainty, anguish and a lack of will to live. Her scantily clad frame punished for daring to exist, she didn't bother to cover it up. It was like she basked in the moroseness of her life.

Her hands started moving all the more furiously. As if she couldn't wait to hurt herself more and more. As if the scabs from the previous deliberate injuries just weren't enough. As if the puddle of blood surrounding her wrist was not enough to be taken into consideration. As if running the blade over the gashes repeatedly would take her hopelessness away in SOME twisted way. Make her feel less betrayed by her own self, make the pain go away, make her feel a bit more alive..