I should have kissed you then,
When our smiles and eyes were drunken and content.
I waited to find if it was true love or ethanol,
but really, I didn't even care what it meant.
When our toes touched
on the smooth marble floor
and I noticed everything,
your dimples and the glasses you wore.
The day you bought me pie in the rain,
And cake - one of every kind.
You were soaked and delicious and almost mine,
I must've been out of my mind.
When the hazy heat settled heavily
on our summer skin,
And your cool fingers on my back
traced out irresistible sin.
I should have kissed you and more,
Shouldn't have let it fizzle and end.
I could have loved you,
But now you're just an 'almost', you're a sad poem, you're a Facebook friend.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Good Things Come To Those Who Wait
I am impatient. I blow dry the nail polish on my hands because I know I can't sit still for 10 seconds. I x8 fast forward the MGM lion before movies. I don't write about the little things in my journal when I have big news. I eat whole bars of chocolate in one go. I wikipedia uninteresting movies to know how they end, and I never sit through the credits. Dessert is the first thing I decide on when I look at a menu in a restaurant, and spend the whole meal pining for that last half an hour. The way I drive lets people know that I hate Are-We-There-Yets. I pick at my scabs before the wounds heal. I have never managed to listen to an entire Dream Theater song in my life.
What I'm trying to say is that if you want me, come get me, and come quickly. Because I won't wait. I don't know how.
What I'm trying to say is that if you want me, come get me, and come quickly. Because I won't wait. I don't know how.
Monday, September 26, 2011
I do not rest in peace
You said you would never leave me,
and you never have.
Every lonely cup of tea
is a stinging reminder of
the empty space beside me
on our too-big bed.
Every empty room
fills me with the lack of you,
your lithe limbs, your gravity, your perfume.
Everything is cold without the heat of your gaze.
What good is my breath, my life?
It is wasteful; I do not know
who to be, if I cannot be your wife.
Truth be told...I do not even know how to be.
What good is anything now,
when you have turned to dust?
The strawberries are bitter, broken is every vow,
and beauty itself has begun to rust.
You said you would never leave me
and you never have...
because I have buried your body in a way
that I cannot bury your memory.
and you never have.
Every lonely cup of tea
is a stinging reminder of
the empty space beside me
on our too-big bed.
Every empty room
fills me with the lack of you,
your lithe limbs, your gravity, your perfume.
Everything is cold without the heat of your gaze.
What good is my breath, my life?
It is wasteful; I do not know
who to be, if I cannot be your wife.
Truth be told...I do not even know how to be.
What good is anything now,
when you have turned to dust?
The strawberries are bitter, broken is every vow,
and beauty itself has begun to rust.
You said you would never leave me
and you never have...
because I have buried your body in a way
that I cannot bury your memory.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Risky Business
Great love carries great sorrow
upon its back,
When you have everything,
Then, you will find something you lack.
He is gentler than a warm summer breeze,
but remember, you are fragile; easy to crack.
And if the breeze should ever a storm brew,
He could turn your sky from azure to melancholy black.
You are the most beautiful love song,
but melodies end, and stories can fade into a yellowing paperback.
Then how do you preserve your love
like the fragrance of cinnamon on the old spice rack?
Sweet, comforting, warm always,
Never surprising you, never cruelly taking you aback.
"You can't," she said,
She said, "You must trust that love is not a one way track."
upon its back,
When you have everything,
Then, you will find something you lack.
He is gentler than a warm summer breeze,
but remember, you are fragile; easy to crack.
And if the breeze should ever a storm brew,
He could turn your sky from azure to melancholy black.
You are the most beautiful love song,
but melodies end, and stories can fade into a yellowing paperback.
Then how do you preserve your love
like the fragrance of cinnamon on the old spice rack?
Sweet, comforting, warm always,
Never surprising you, never cruelly taking you aback.
"You can't," she said,
She said, "You must trust that love is not a one way track."
Monday, September 19, 2011
Forever
Your unkindness, it has withered me down
into flesh hanging loose
on tired bones.
Bitterness has seeped into the streets of this small town,
into the walls of our home, and into the walls of my heart.
We never buy butter, chocolate and silk,
Instead we carry shopping bags heavy
with regret
and fresh milk
that will go sour, like we did.
The cotton candy words you spun,
Once so sweet,
Have come undone,
and have begun to rot my teeth
and eat at my soul.
I find every slight a mountain
that I am now too weak
to climb.
And my forgiveness is a fountain
that has dried up.
Our bickering is unending,
And I have known not peace
since I have known you.
Our fights are left pending
because I can no more bear the cruel curl of your mouth.
Our breakfast conversations are burned
with your caustic vitriol
Each word
is an effort, twisted and turned,
it is a lump of burning coal.
Yet, I love you
And I do not know
if it is the dint of habit that keeps us together and true
Or if we are meant to be,
destined and forever.
into flesh hanging loose
on tired bones.
Bitterness has seeped into the streets of this small town,
into the walls of our home, and into the walls of my heart.
We never buy butter, chocolate and silk,
Instead we carry shopping bags heavy
with regret
and fresh milk
that will go sour, like we did.
The cotton candy words you spun,
Once so sweet,
Have come undone,
and have begun to rot my teeth
and eat at my soul.
I find every slight a mountain
that I am now too weak
to climb.
And my forgiveness is a fountain
that has dried up.
Our bickering is unending,
And I have known not peace
since I have known you.
Our fights are left pending
because I can no more bear the cruel curl of your mouth.
Our breakfast conversations are burned
with your caustic vitriol
Each word
is an effort, twisted and turned,
it is a lump of burning coal.
Yet, I love you
And I do not know
if it is the dint of habit that keeps us together and true
Or if we are meant to be,
destined and forever.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Table for One
I have become an island. Sure, it's a scenic place, and there are ferrys at regular intervals. But the weather is unpredictable around these here parts and when my temper is particularly torrential, not too many people are willing to ride that lonely, rocking boat with the creepy old one-eyed oarsman to get across.
I don't mind it. I can stand in queues alone even when my iPod battery has died. I can drive alone, and I can take walks alone. I can drink coffee alone and I can drink whiskey alone. If I was the kind of person who smoked, I would be the kind of person who always had her own lighter and never bummed cigarettes off anyone. I can think alone. Cocktails and reservations - I can make them for one. I can tell myself my butt doesn't look big in that dress. I can buy myself pretty things and ice cream on a bad day. I can buy myself pretty things and champagne on a good day. I can finish my own popcorn at a movie, and I can hold doors open. I can't bake alone - but then again, I can't bake at all. I can keep my own secrets. I can go to the supermarket alone and buy ten boxes of sugar coated cereal instead of sensible things. I can be far too practical to be lonely. I prefer the singularity.
I have learnt to be alone. I only hope it was a choice.
I don't mind it. I can stand in queues alone even when my iPod battery has died. I can drive alone, and I can take walks alone. I can drink coffee alone and I can drink whiskey alone. If I was the kind of person who smoked, I would be the kind of person who always had her own lighter and never bummed cigarettes off anyone. I can think alone. Cocktails and reservations - I can make them for one. I can tell myself my butt doesn't look big in that dress. I can buy myself pretty things and ice cream on a bad day. I can buy myself pretty things and champagne on a good day. I can finish my own popcorn at a movie, and I can hold doors open. I can't bake alone - but then again, I can't bake at all. I can keep my own secrets. I can go to the supermarket alone and buy ten boxes of sugar coated cereal instead of sensible things. I can be far too practical to be lonely. I prefer the singularity.
I have learnt to be alone. I only hope it was a choice.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Puzzling Pieces
You flit in and out of my mind,
and I flit in and out of love with you.
Oh, you've been so unkind,
and I know I have too.
This delicate dance,
it has to end.
There is no hope, and not a chance -
for you and I will neither sway nor bend.
I can't seem to hold on to you,
but don't blame me - neither can you pull away.
Without you, all I ever feel is blue
but with you, I can no longer stay.
You kiss my lips,
with goodbyes you never mean.
And I forgive your mistakes and slips,
but we can't always be the in-between.
So today, I'll pack up my things,
Take my boxes, my big heart and my pointed wit,
Maybe tomorrow we will be more than one of those flings
Maybe tomorrow, just maybe, we will fit.
and I flit in and out of love with you.
Oh, you've been so unkind,
and I know I have too.
This delicate dance,
it has to end.
There is no hope, and not a chance -
for you and I will neither sway nor bend.
I can't seem to hold on to you,
but don't blame me - neither can you pull away.
Without you, all I ever feel is blue
but with you, I can no longer stay.
You kiss my lips,
with goodbyes you never mean.
And I forgive your mistakes and slips,
but we can't always be the in-between.
So today, I'll pack up my things,
Take my boxes, my big heart and my pointed wit,
Maybe tomorrow we will be more than one of those flings
Maybe tomorrow, just maybe, we will fit.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Ghost of You
Sometimes, I catch myself staring into the endless blue,
and seeing only you.
Sometimes, I listen to the radio for too long,
and hear your voice say how much you hate this song.
Sometimes, I pour my whiskey,
and think of how you love tea.
Sometimes, when it rains and I'm soaked to the bone,
I hope that you are not alone.
Sometimes, when I am in a crowd,
I hear your laugh, especially loud.
Sometimes, when I find myself asleep on the floor,
I find comfort in remembering that you snore.
Sometimes, I wonder who I am,
and if you were the lion or the lamb.
Sometimes, I think about when things got tough,
and I know I should have called your bluff.
Sometimes, when I go off track,
In a moment, it all comes rushing back.
Sometimes - even the times I'm just making toast,
You sneak up on me, and I am overcome by your ghost.
and seeing only you.
Sometimes, I listen to the radio for too long,
and hear your voice say how much you hate this song.
Sometimes, I pour my whiskey,
and think of how you love tea.
Sometimes, when it rains and I'm soaked to the bone,
I hope that you are not alone.
Sometimes, when I am in a crowd,
I hear your laugh, especially loud.
Sometimes, when I find myself asleep on the floor,
I find comfort in remembering that you snore.
Sometimes, I wonder who I am,
and if you were the lion or the lamb.
Sometimes, I think about when things got tough,
and I know I should have called your bluff.
Sometimes, when I go off track,
In a moment, it all comes rushing back.
Sometimes - even the times I'm just making toast,
You sneak up on me, and I am overcome by your ghost.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Coffee and Cigarettes
She occupied the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. Although, to be honest, both 'occupied' and 'restaurant' would be a rather deceptive choice of words. Her petite, nervous frame barely took up any of the ample space offered by the large, tattered sofa; and this place - with its mildewed walls and crooked picture frames - could hardly be called a restaurant.
Her appearance was, in a word, careless. Her choice of clothing was a haphazard assembly. Her hair was seemingly reluctantly held in place by a pencil struck through the loose bun of curls at the nape of her neck. The fingers of one hand absentmindedly fidgeted with the fraying edge of the tablecloth. The watery coffee, long cold, stood at the forlorn edge of the table; It was merely an excuse to remain seated and keep the nosy waiters and their questions at bay.
She scribbled on the menu card, each doodle flirting with the idea of completion, of being more than a half finished sketch of the coffee cup or the curtains or the lonely old owner of the restaurant…but no. She never could finish what she started.
Behind the glazed over eyes, her mind reeled with questions. "How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "
The door creaked open to let in a young man, handsome and impeccably dressed. He paused for a moment and took in his surroundings, but he was far too polite to let what he thought of the place flash across his face for more than a split second. He decidedly made his way to the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. He unbuttoned his expensive blazer - finest Italian cut, no doubt - and took a seat opposite her. After a cursory glance at the menu, he ordered an espresso (strong, please) and a tossed salad (dressing on the side, no tomatoes, thank you). He unfolded a newspaper and made his way through the developments of the day. Front page, local news, business, international, skipped the comics, and ended with sports. He drank his lukewarm and weak coffee in silence. He picked at the salad for a few minutes before asking for the cheque.
He deposited the money for his meal along with what most would deem a generous tip, thanked the waiters and promised to visit again, buttoned his blazer and made his way out onto the street. After the appropriate amount of time and hesitation, she followed. A chauffeur driven car pulled up to the curb. He held the door open for her, and she got in.
"Lovely weather," he said, after a few minutes.
"It is", came the stony reply.
"You know it took me over 4 hours to find you? We looked everywhere. The servants have interrogated every shopkeeper on the high street about your whereabouts. We even called your father."
"Hmmm."
"I should have known to look for you here. Darling, I know it's a quaint little place and special to you…I only remember it because it's where I first met you - to discuss having your paintings on show at the gallery…but it is not somewhere a lady of your standing should be seen! You are no more the poor artist, you are the gallery owner's wife! It is not befitting of you to be seen in the places you used to haunt when you could afford no better! Now, for heaven's sake, get out of those old clothes - the servants have picked up your dress for the ball tonight, but you need to call mother about the flower arrangements…."
She looked out the window.
"How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "
Her appearance was, in a word, careless. Her choice of clothing was a haphazard assembly. Her hair was seemingly reluctantly held in place by a pencil struck through the loose bun of curls at the nape of her neck. The fingers of one hand absentmindedly fidgeted with the fraying edge of the tablecloth. The watery coffee, long cold, stood at the forlorn edge of the table; It was merely an excuse to remain seated and keep the nosy waiters and their questions at bay.
She scribbled on the menu card, each doodle flirting with the idea of completion, of being more than a half finished sketch of the coffee cup or the curtains or the lonely old owner of the restaurant…but no. She never could finish what she started.
Behind the glazed over eyes, her mind reeled with questions. "How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "
The door creaked open to let in a young man, handsome and impeccably dressed. He paused for a moment and took in his surroundings, but he was far too polite to let what he thought of the place flash across his face for more than a split second. He decidedly made his way to the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. He unbuttoned his expensive blazer - finest Italian cut, no doubt - and took a seat opposite her. After a cursory glance at the menu, he ordered an espresso (strong, please) and a tossed salad (dressing on the side, no tomatoes, thank you). He unfolded a newspaper and made his way through the developments of the day. Front page, local news, business, international, skipped the comics, and ended with sports. He drank his lukewarm and weak coffee in silence. He picked at the salad for a few minutes before asking for the cheque.
He deposited the money for his meal along with what most would deem a generous tip, thanked the waiters and promised to visit again, buttoned his blazer and made his way out onto the street. After the appropriate amount of time and hesitation, she followed. A chauffeur driven car pulled up to the curb. He held the door open for her, and she got in.
"Lovely weather," he said, after a few minutes.
"It is", came the stony reply.
"You know it took me over 4 hours to find you? We looked everywhere. The servants have interrogated every shopkeeper on the high street about your whereabouts. We even called your father."
"Hmmm."
"I should have known to look for you here. Darling, I know it's a quaint little place and special to you…I only remember it because it's where I first met you - to discuss having your paintings on show at the gallery…but it is not somewhere a lady of your standing should be seen! You are no more the poor artist, you are the gallery owner's wife! It is not befitting of you to be seen in the places you used to haunt when you could afford no better! Now, for heaven's sake, get out of those old clothes - the servants have picked up your dress for the ball tonight, but you need to call mother about the flower arrangements…."
She looked out the window.
"How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Nana & Nani
My memories of this place are safe in the bubble wrap of time and distance. In my eyes there are no cracks in the crown moulding, the yellowing paint is white, the now threadbare rug is still plush, the fraying lace curtains look no less decadent than they did 15 years ago and I still hear the cuckoo clock that nobody has found the time to wind. Most of all, my grandparents are still young.
My feet skip nimbly over the slew of medical paraphernalia attached to their big comfortable bed when I land myself squarely in the middle of it. My eyes somehow glaze over the mountains of prescriptions littering the bedside table. My mind pretends not to notice how their hands tremble when I hold them in mine.
Until this year's visit, I was scared. Petrified. I refused to acknowledge it. Nothing was taking them away from me, especially not this proletarian concept of Old Age. But life has a funny way of trapping you in a tiny room with your worst fears until the two of you talk things out and part ways with a mutual respect. So they both fell ill. Unreasonably ill. Why? Not because they weren't eating all their vegetables, not because they'd smoked themselves into cancer, not because of any fault or neglect on their part. Just because they were old.
So this year, I saw them as they were - tissue-paper skin, porcelain bones, salt and pepper hair. They weren't all that different. I'm not claiming that they have maintained the same mental and physical agility - but they are the same on the inside. They are not blighted with bitterness - there is no vitriol in their speaking or thinking.
What does it matter that my grandfather now has to lie down while playing teen pati with me, what does it matter that my grandmother forgets that story of Krishna and the Gopis half way, what does it matter that they now tire after walks around the house rather than walks around the building. What matters is that they still love us, they still want to do all these things with us.
If I ever do get to being old, that's how I want to do it. Fighting what I can but accepting what I must.
My feet skip nimbly over the slew of medical paraphernalia attached to their big comfortable bed when I land myself squarely in the middle of it. My eyes somehow glaze over the mountains of prescriptions littering the bedside table. My mind pretends not to notice how their hands tremble when I hold them in mine.
Until this year's visit, I was scared. Petrified. I refused to acknowledge it. Nothing was taking them away from me, especially not this proletarian concept of Old Age. But life has a funny way of trapping you in a tiny room with your worst fears until the two of you talk things out and part ways with a mutual respect. So they both fell ill. Unreasonably ill. Why? Not because they weren't eating all their vegetables, not because they'd smoked themselves into cancer, not because of any fault or neglect on their part. Just because they were old.
So this year, I saw them as they were - tissue-paper skin, porcelain bones, salt and pepper hair. They weren't all that different. I'm not claiming that they have maintained the same mental and physical agility - but they are the same on the inside. They are not blighted with bitterness - there is no vitriol in their speaking or thinking.
What does it matter that my grandfather now has to lie down while playing teen pati with me, what does it matter that my grandmother forgets that story of Krishna and the Gopis half way, what does it matter that they now tire after walks around the house rather than walks around the building. What matters is that they still love us, they still want to do all these things with us.
If I ever do get to being old, that's how I want to do it. Fighting what I can but accepting what I must.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Easy Come, Easy Go
I'm very good at losing things - singular earrings, multiple cell phones, other people's belongings, my train of thought, the list is endless. I misplace my mind with a refreshing regularity. Though that is true, it's not the kind of thing I want to talk/type about losing today; I'm also rather good at losing people. This is rather bad, I gather.
I don't know whether it's sheer carelessness on my part, disregard for their feelings, my self admitted apathy and fear of confrontation, the fact that I have the attention span of a gnat or maybe just me, being a bad person. As much as I detest this conclusion, I've ruled out the possibility of a It's-Not-Me-It's-You scenario. This has happened far too often. I know this is harping on the selfishness thang I had going a few posts ago, but hey, forgive me if I'm identifying a major character flaw I've been carrying around like a half eaten sandwich in your backpack that went unnoticed for weeks until the stench got so bad that nobody wanted to sit next to you anymore, not even the weird kid who still eats paste and only has self drawn chalk-figures for friends. Yeah, not even her. (See, train of thought successfully lost)
I think about them a lot. I replay and rewind everything in my mind a thousand times, retrace my steps to find where I lost them. I wish I could talk to them. I don't want them to belong to someone else, even if they are more deserving of them. I want them back.
I wish there was a sort of Lost & Found box for people. Where you could just saunter on in, look at the array of metaphorical equivalents of single earrings, pick and choose who you want back and leave the rest for the Salvation Army. Because these are things I'll never say out loud - a) I'm sorry b) I miss you c) I want you back and d) you hurt me when you left.
For future reference, when I say 'Leave, see if I care' I mean 'I want you to stay, I'm sorry, you'll hurt me if you go and I'll miss you sorely'.
I don't know whether it's sheer carelessness on my part, disregard for their feelings, my self admitted apathy and fear of confrontation, the fact that I have the attention span of a gnat or maybe just me, being a bad person. As much as I detest this conclusion, I've ruled out the possibility of a It's-Not-Me-It's-You scenario. This has happened far too often. I know this is harping on the selfishness thang I had going a few posts ago, but hey, forgive me if I'm identifying a major character flaw I've been carrying around like a half eaten sandwich in your backpack that went unnoticed for weeks until the stench got so bad that nobody wanted to sit next to you anymore, not even the weird kid who still eats paste and only has self drawn chalk-figures for friends. Yeah, not even her. (See, train of thought successfully lost)
I think about them a lot. I replay and rewind everything in my mind a thousand times, retrace my steps to find where I lost them. I wish I could talk to them. I don't want them to belong to someone else, even if they are more deserving of them. I want them back.
I wish there was a sort of Lost & Found box for people. Where you could just saunter on in, look at the array of metaphorical equivalents of single earrings, pick and choose who you want back and leave the rest for the Salvation Army. Because these are things I'll never say out loud - a) I'm sorry b) I miss you c) I want you back and d) you hurt me when you left.
For future reference, when I say 'Leave, see if I care' I mean 'I want you to stay, I'm sorry, you'll hurt me if you go and I'll miss you sorely'.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Ode to a Sandwich
Welcome to November. It's the fourth, and I am very proud to announce that I have just finished making the most unsuccessful sandwich in living memory. I should win a prize. It's a shame I didn't take a photo of it before it departed this world...
I was desperate for some food, and so drifted over to the fridge in search of sustenance. We have:
- A marmalade jar, empty save a smearing of transparent orange/yellow goo.
- Two cheese spread cartons, empty-ish and turning slightly brown at the edges
- A bottle of salsa, now much more pungent that the Mexicans originally intended, I'm willing to bet.
- Some margarine, now far too yellow to possibly benefit your cholesterol levels.
- Many miscellaneous items encased in various brands of plastic Tupperware.
- Fresh brown bread- a bloody miracle.
- A pack of butter, hardened to the consistency of cheese by the excessive arctic conditions at the very back of said refrigerator.
- Very little else.
Why do people choose to place empty items back into the fridge?! I cannot envisage the circumstances under which I would ever be in dire need of a slightly chilled jar of no marmalade.
Desperate for some form of gastronomic satisfaction, I opted for the simple fresh-brown-bread and hard-butter combo. Have you ever tried spreading hard butter onto soft bread? Oh wait. That's right. You can't.
Folklore dictates that hard butter can be made soft by employing that cunning scientific discipline known as 'mashing': the butter is gradually warmed against the side of its carton through repeated knife-manipulation. However, there is a glaring flaw in my situation: butter sits in a flimsy paper/foil crap pack. So butter is placed cold and hard onto bread, refusing to lie down like morning glory. A feeling of utter inadequacy embraces you as these lumps of fat mock your dismal sandwich making abilities. Last effort is a vigorous chopping technique. Gaping holes appear in bread- not exactly what I had in mind- butter hasn't budged. Bread is thrust across the kitchen in a hissy fit.
I am still hungry.
My favourite songs are those that I keep returning to. I never consciously played them over and over on repeat, they just crept stealthily up my Top 25 without my specific knowledge. It's those songs that subconsciously put a reluctant smile on my face when they come on shuffle, despite the fact that I'm probably barely listening to the music because I'm probably writing a super-important, super-over due essay.
In that way, my favourite songs are like my best friends. I can press skip, I can say "Sorry dude, I'm just not in the mood today" without excuses and guilt. My best friends aren't always necessarily the people I have the most fun with, or hang out with the most. It's the people that are quietly comforting, the people that make me laugh despite myself. I don't have to sing along obnoxiously for everyone to know I like this song, contentment is written all over my face when it plays.
In that way, my favourite songs are like my best friends. I can press skip, I can say "Sorry dude, I'm just not in the mood today" without excuses and guilt. My best friends aren't always necessarily the people I have the most fun with, or hang out with the most. It's the people that are quietly comforting, the people that make me laugh despite myself. I don't have to sing along obnoxiously for everyone to know I like this song, contentment is written all over my face when it plays.
Then there are friends you make because of a certain situation you're in. They sit in front of you everyday at school, they're on the same bus, they're your neighbours. Circumstantial friends, or atleast those that start off that way. Haven't you had songs that you like because the reflect what you happen to be feeling at that moment? Break up songs that seamed beautiful when you were still crying over that boy. Songs about summer that didn't seem so great in the grey of December.
There's songs and friends you refuse to let go of, even though you know things are not what they used to be. I can't bring myself to make that decided and committed click when the flashing blue on the screen asks if I'm sure I want to delete. I thought I was sure you didn't belong in my music library, in my life. But all those good times we had. What's the harm in leaving Barbie Girl there...
On the contrary, there are those songs you've known and loved forever. The people that populate your nursery class photographs, ugly middle school pictures of hanging out in malls and now, your Facebook profile pictures. I've always loved you, Aaron Carter. No shame.
Of course, there's the boyfriends and girlfriends. You're obsessed for a while, and there can be nothing better. Or so you think. Yeah, these are the Ke$has. Because your love is my drug, but I gotta get sober some time.
A lot more Meredith Grey than you know
I'd like to think I'm a selfless, giving person. I'd also like to think that this tub of ice cream I'm eating isn't going to go straight to my thighs. But sometimes, the truth is much too real to ignore.
It's all about me today. Maybe tomorrow I'll change for you. Maybe tomorrow I'll try and change for you. Because I fear, my dear, I'm already too far gone.
I'll never put myself out there for you, but I expect your TrueFeelingsAndBleedingBrokenHeart at my doorstep asap, thanks.
I don't want to love someone, I just want to be wanted.
This smile doesn't say I Like You, it says Do You Like Me?
This smile doesn't say I Like You, it says Do You Like Me?
I don't want your drama, I don't want there to be 'our' drama.
My freedom and a few spilt kisses for your complications and compromise doesn't seem like a fair exchange to me.
I really care about you...but I apologise, I don't do EmotionalAttachment.
And you know the worst part? I'm happy this way.
And that's why there will never be a we. Because I'm selfish enough to want these things, but not selfish enough to ask them of you.
It's all about me today. Maybe tomorrow I'll change for you. Maybe tomorrow I'll try and change for you. Because I fear, my dear, I'm already too far gone.
Sitting in a sand pit, life is a short trip
I don't know if I'm growing up, or growing old but I know that I'm growing tired of having my beliefs, my trust and my innocence so cruelly eroded by life. Perhaps I wouldn't be so bitter if it were huge waves of tragedy that were washing away the sand castles in my mind and replacing them with perfectly logical and perfectly ugly two-story houses painted beige, rather than the ceaseless monotony of everyday livin'.
I miss being young - when a cardboard box wasn't something I forgot to throw away, it was a race car, it was a treasure chest, it was barbie's new Malibu mansion.
When happy meals were really happy.
When I could fly, when I jumped off the toppest stair with two feathers and not a clue.
When bruises didn't hurt as long as they were colourful enough.
When broken toys were our greatest anguish, and there was no such thing as a broken home.
When family road trips were about Are We There Yet and not Can We Got Home Yet.
When boys had cooties.
When Full House taught you all the life lessons you needed to know.
When the most gut wrenching deaths you'd known were Goldy the goldfish and Squig the worm.
When you thought the sandpit in school could put the Sahara to shame. How else could you always have so much sand in your shoes and eyes and underwear every day when you got home?
When Fred and Daphane were the most dysfunctional couple you knew.
When you knew that if you tunnel straight down you'd get to China...eventually.
When Breezers were hardcore.
When the most important decision you had to make was which Crayola colour to use.
When long-distance meant his house wasn't close enough to walk to.
When your biggest fashion crisis involved sneakers with lights at the back.
When Aaron Carter rocked your socks.
When you always seemed to be the token mid-blink person in every class photo even though you took extra care to open your eyes REALLY wide every year. (Maybe that one was just me)
I miss my sandcastles. So I've decided that we're going to be the ones that have it all and do it all. We'll do the wrong things that feel right, we'll kiss more frogs than princes and we'll never regret a thing. We'll ride off into our delusional sunsets. We'll be forever young.
I miss being young - when a cardboard box wasn't something I forgot to throw away, it was a race car, it was a treasure chest, it was barbie's new Malibu mansion.
When happy meals were really happy.
When I could fly, when I jumped off the toppest stair with two feathers and not a clue.
When bruises didn't hurt as long as they were colourful enough.
When broken toys were our greatest anguish, and there was no such thing as a broken home.
When family road trips were about Are We There Yet and not Can We Got Home Yet.
When boys had cooties.
When Full House taught you all the life lessons you needed to know.
When the most gut wrenching deaths you'd known were Goldy the goldfish and Squig the worm.
When you thought the sandpit in school could put the Sahara to shame. How else could you always have so much sand in your shoes and eyes and underwear every day when you got home?
When Fred and Daphane were the most dysfunctional couple you knew.
When you knew that if you tunnel straight down you'd get to China...eventually.
When Breezers were hardcore.
When the most important decision you had to make was which Crayola colour to use.
When long-distance meant his house wasn't close enough to walk to.
When your biggest fashion crisis involved sneakers with lights at the back.
When Aaron Carter rocked your socks.
When you always seemed to be the token mid-blink person in every class photo even though you took extra care to open your eyes REALLY wide every year. (Maybe that one was just me)
I miss my sandcastles. So I've decided that we're going to be the ones that have it all and do it all. We'll do the wrong things that feel right, we'll kiss more frogs than princes and we'll never regret a thing. We'll ride off into our delusional sunsets. We'll be forever young.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Same Old, Same Old
Routine is comforting.
Fall asleep on the right side of the bed, white sheets, blue blanket, alarm rings at 8.30, snooze it three times, wake up at 8.57 on the left side of the bed, get out of bed at 9, Colgate toothpaste, Pears soap, kajal and sleep on the eyes, toast, college, home, read, coffee, tv, dinner, fall asleep on the right side of the bed. Rinse and repeat.
But more often than not, routine is dangerous; or the need to break out of it is. Sometimes I get this unshakeable feeling that every day I'm inching closer and closer to the end of an ordinary life, while I'd much rather be hurtling towards the end of an extraordinary one. Which, though dramatic, is true. And it makes me do small stupid things, this big not-so-stupid feeling. Drive a little faster than is good, be a little more flirtatious than I should, drink more than I can hold and stay out longer than is respectable. And that's what makes life livable. But I'm scared that one day I'll be so frustrated and bored that those small rebellions won't be enough for me. That because I'm scared that I'll end up a traffic jam, I'll go faster and faster till I'm a full blown car accident. You know, fuck the metaphors. I'm just scared I'll do BIG stupid things instead of little stupid things. And my mature and understanding exterior will belie the rash and unreasonable person inside.
Now I don't know if I'm right, and this isn't an epiphany or anything close. It's just what I've been feeling a lot lately, and it's 2 am and I just want to tell everyone on the internet that I've been feeling it a lot lately.
Fall asleep on the right side of the bed, white sheets, blue blanket, alarm rings at 8.30, snooze it three times, wake up at 8.57 on the left side of the bed, get out of bed at 9, Colgate toothpaste, Pears soap, kajal and sleep on the eyes, toast, college, home, read, coffee, tv, dinner, fall asleep on the right side of the bed. Rinse and repeat.
But more often than not, routine is dangerous; or the need to break out of it is. Sometimes I get this unshakeable feeling that every day I'm inching closer and closer to the end of an ordinary life, while I'd much rather be hurtling towards the end of an extraordinary one. Which, though dramatic, is true. And it makes me do small stupid things, this big not-so-stupid feeling. Drive a little faster than is good, be a little more flirtatious than I should, drink more than I can hold and stay out longer than is respectable. And that's what makes life livable. But I'm scared that one day I'll be so frustrated and bored that those small rebellions won't be enough for me. That because I'm scared that I'll end up a traffic jam, I'll go faster and faster till I'm a full blown car accident. You know, fuck the metaphors. I'm just scared I'll do BIG stupid things instead of little stupid things. And my mature and understanding exterior will belie the rash and unreasonable person inside.
Now I don't know if I'm right, and this isn't an epiphany or anything close. It's just what I've been feeling a lot lately, and it's 2 am and I just want to tell everyone on the internet that I've been feeling it a lot lately.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
You are the music in me
"You know that Simple Plan song, Addicted? I'm feeling like that song."
"Listen to maneater."
"But I'm not a maneater."
"But you could feel like one."
"But I'd be deceiving myself. I'm not a Maneater, I'm a Addicted."
"You could be a Single Lady."
"But they're supposed to Put A Ring On It"
"They haven't yet. Be a Touch My Body."
I'm more Umbrella than Touch My Body if we're going in that direction, I feel."
"So you're a Hate That I Love You."
"Yeah, totally. With a bit of Where Is Your Heart."
"But you must be a Shut Up And Let Me Go, I somehow feel."
"Perhaps."
"Listen to maneater."
"But I'm not a maneater."
"But you could feel like one."
"But I'd be deceiving myself. I'm not a Maneater, I'm a Addicted."
"You could be a Single Lady."
"But they're supposed to Put A Ring On It"
"They haven't yet. Be a Touch My Body."
I'm more Umbrella than Touch My Body if we're going in that direction, I feel."
"So you're a Hate That I Love You."
"Yeah, totally. With a bit of Where Is Your Heart."
"But you must be a Shut Up And Let Me Go, I somehow feel."
"Perhaps."
Saturday, December 13, 2008
My girl, talkin' 'bout my girl
My mother is a tall, elegant, gracious lady.
I, am a small, vicious girl who falls over a lot.
She's a shoe size 9.
I'm a dress size 1.
She always keeps her dignity.
I can never keep my temper.
She always comes out smelling of roses.
I'm always in shit.
Still, we manage to make it work somehow. = )
I, am a small, vicious girl who falls over a lot.
She's a shoe size 9.
I'm a dress size 1.
She always keeps her dignity.
I can never keep my temper.
She always comes out smelling of roses.
I'm always in shit.
Still, we manage to make it work somehow. = )
Sunday, November 23, 2008
18
THEY put the Computer Science practical board exam the day before my birthday. How inconsiderate.
If the calendar was a giant cafeteria, my birthday would be on the cool table. And the board exam...well, it would most certainly would not. See, but THEY don't get this. They're putting a nerd on the cool table. You can't just do that, y'know.
So now I can't have a party.
I mean, I could have one all the way in April, after the board exams, but then it won't feel like a birthday party anymore. Not my birthday party, anyway. I mean, my birthday's always been in February. Obviously. But in February, it's cold and a little rainy and most people would wear black. But if I have it after the boards, it'd be all sunny and people'd wear bright colours. Like yellow. Or even, God forbid, orange. But I can't have that, see. Because my birthday is not an April-May birthday. It's a February birthday.
If the calendar was a giant cafeteria, my birthday would be on the cool table. And the board exam...well, it would most certainly would not. See, but THEY don't get this. They're putting a nerd on the cool table. You can't just do that, y'know.
So now I can't have a party.
I mean, I could have one all the way in April, after the board exams, but then it won't feel like a birthday party anymore. Not my birthday party, anyway. I mean, my birthday's always been in February. Obviously. But in February, it's cold and a little rainy and most people would wear black. But if I have it after the boards, it'd be all sunny and people'd wear bright colours. Like yellow. Or even, God forbid, orange. But I can't have that, see. Because my birthday is not an April-May birthday. It's a February birthday.
Monday, August 18, 2008
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