"I was thinking about how I feel about you. And I came to the conclusion that you're a part of me, except that doesn't make sense when it's written like that. So imagine two people making a horcrux of themselves, and the object on which it is created is the other person.

Do you see what I mean?" 

Mumbling #23

As I sit down to write these few words, my headphones introduce a familiar song to me: a song with which I associate a distinct memory from my past, a song, which I hope, will help me write what I wish to. I was gifted my first iPod when I was in tenth grade. Before that I used my mother’s old phone which was pretty useless otherwise, except for its radio. I would carry that phone around with me everywhere. Sweet song playlists were peppered with lovers who spoke of their heartaches at three o’ clock in the morning; lovers who had turned insomniacs.  

On some days when my head is too full of thoughts, a memory puts out its hand and a song fits in perfectly like a glove. Maybe it changes something of the memory- alters its accuracy, makes it more savory. I'd like to remember the way I want to. It's mine, after all. 

Complicated.

I hate that word. Mostly because people often use it as a pitiable excuse to shove things under a carpet. Sent my way, it sounds like someone just hurled a giant ball of knotted wool at me when all I had asked was for something to keep me warm. As I sit to loosen the knots one by one, I begin to question everything. Maybe I wan't even so cold in the first place. Maybe I should freeze to death instead of dealing with your nonsense.

You're like a party somebody threw me.
You taste like birthday.
And look like New Years.

THE JANITOR’S BOY

Oh I'm in love with the janitor's boy,

And the janitor's boy loves me;
He's going to hunt for a desert isle
In our geography.

A desert isle with spicy trees
Somewhere near Sheepshead Bay;
A right nice place, just fit for two
Where we can live alway.

Oh I'm in love with the janitor's boy,
He's busy as he can be;
And down in the cellar he's making a raft
Out of an old settee.

He'll carry me off, I know that he will,
For his hair is exceedingly red;
And the only thing that occurs to me
Is to dutifully shiver in bed.

The day that we sail, I shall leave this brief note,

For my parents I hate to annoy:

"I have flown away to an isle in the bay

With the janitor's red-haired boy."

-NATHALIA CRANE (1913 – 1998)

After Ameya has retired to bed and closed his eyes, just one minute before he falls asleep, his brain works the fastest. He processes one thought after another at light speed, his eyes dart about in an attempt to collect everything he felt through the day, and he tries t I don’t usually have a brilliant flash at the end of this one minute, and anyway it would need a mammoth-sized inspiration to stop oneself from falling asleep, so I don’t spring out of my bed to write down whatever I can recall. On other days when I do, I have a dream-less sleep. I think my fast running brain prepares a base for a dream. When I was younger, I would constantly try to guide my mind to make me experience a particular kind of dream, with particular people in it. Or I would wake up in the middle of the night after a dream took the wrong direction and then coax it in the direction I wished to take it. I succeeded often. I think most of us capable of doing that. I don't think dreams are involuntary.


The above revelation has come to me in a brilliant flash.