About the Boss

Sometimes when he talks, I think he gets so turned on by the brilliance of his idea that he goes home and jacks off to it.

I’ve never been so intimately involved with myself before. It feels like I am slowly strangling me. I count to ten, sometimes twenty, and then let go, coming up for big gulps of air. Then start the cycle again. I am Ouroboros. Self destructive, self nourishing. Better to do this to myself than to some poor fellow, no?

Here's to You, Rachel Robinson

I was wondering about the book with which I associate growing up and I thought of Here’s to You, Rachel Robinson by Judy Blume. It was one of those books you only get to see in the school library but never borrow, just like Nancy Drew Case Files, in which Nancy’s boyfriend happened to make appearances more often. 

Anyway, this Judy Blume novel had a green cover and a teenage Rachel, with bitten, pink lips, looking directly at you. 

Each time I think of that book, I think of walks in parks on cold evenings, strawberry flavoured lip balm and kissing a boy for the first time.

Things I learnt about myself when I was at a party

1. I have somewhat learnt the art of socializing and in a sense become the exact reason why I used to detest parties till last year.

2. I make chirpy conversations with people I would/could otherwise never speak with.

3. I'm a mean drunk. 

Tiddi

You are my greatest companion. Without even trying. I've been heavy hearted all day and I thought maybe I should write so I started scribbling about companionship and before I knew it became about you and all my sadness went away.

Dear God, make me either empty or full. Don't make me half filled with this taunting silence I cannot understand completely. 

Ek Machhar...

I don't know where the fucker is hiding right now but I had to tell you that this is the first mosquito that has followed me into my slumber. And it upset a dream to the point that in my state of subconscious I was hurtling across a series of epiphanies to realize that one of the big barriers in my attaining my highest creative state so-to-speak is my father! Surprise!!!

He is also, now that I think about it, the sole trigger for any imagination in me in the first place, if one is to believe that poetry spurts from suppression.

The point of this post is I woke up at two in the morning and penned it all down. It got me to write. I thank the mosquito by slapping it dead on my diary's page. It has clearly left a mark.