The Perks of being an Asshole.

Here walked an Asshole.

He probably didn't look like one, but he sure as hell felt like one every now and then. Like a gust of wind, a memory that had been suppressed would flash by making him wince. Of the time, he went incommunicado to a very nice lady after they had gone out for a while. The simple reason being he didn't feel the spark and he didn't want to be around when he told her so. He hoped she was happy wherever it is that she is now.

Or, the times he couldn't help bully the guy living next door for the sheer reason that as per him that guy just didn't know what to take out of life, had his priorities wrong, was too "arrogant" towards other certain individuals that were looked down upon. But, mainly for the simple reason that he could bully this guy and get away with it.

As he increased his pace, and slowly moved to a trot, he could feel a slight stiffness in his knees. It'd been a while since his last trot. Asshole knees. It helped though, to rid the cob-webs, in his joints, in his mind. Someday, maybe even his soul.

He was still an Asshole. A sigh. Another flash. Another sigh. The Asshole continued to trot.

He remembers how he sometimes took others hearts for granted or rather, under-estimated the genuineness of their affections. Much like how his had been taken for granted and/ or under-estimated by the few others.

Made him chuckle that. That thought was ironic and funny. But, he had to focus. Focus on his breathing as he increased his pace. The crunch of each foot on the gravel formed a rhythmic beat that he tried to gain some semblance of routine and normalcy from.

It was a while before he had another thought worth digging deeper.

But, that feeling remained. And, he continued to run even as the nicotine tar in his lungs burned and his alcohol riddled liver screamed. He ran, for this was the purging of an Asshole.

At least, it wouldn't be long before he got distracted. Distracted until the next flash.

*wince*

Strange Love

Strange Love

“Run!” She said.  

“Run like you haven’t run before. Run till your lungs clench your heart and your heart swallows the water from your mouth. Run and don’t stop till your limbs are not yours rather, individual states fighting for independence from the tyranny within and outside their kingdom of anarchy.”

He had stopped trying to make sense of what she said, these days. Literal meaning was never her modus operandi and the more he tried to make sense of it, the closer he seemed to reside within his palace of temporary pleasures and comfort zones. Her presence had always been known to him but acknowledgement of her conversational presence was relatively young. He still remembered the series of first timid steps towards her which snow-balled to colorful missteps of adventures, uncomfortable predicaments pinched with a wonderful sense of rambling bliss.

That. That, he figured was what scared him often. Often enough to run behind the curtains of restricted consciousness at the slightest hint of trouble. This was how he had also handled life for a long time that is, until he met his first band of gypsies. But that’s a story for another day.

These were the kind of private conversations he afforded himself when he felt she was off discovering her secrets around the corner. However, he knew he was not alone, even for those fleeting moments she was always there, encouraging, urging, protesting, rejoicing, exclaiming the sweet release of everything he held sacred and all, which he abhorred.

Chaos.
In my face.
Around my being.
All over my senses.
Infusing, Imbibing, Mutating.
Chaos.

Childhood comprised of corners laced with portals to a multitude of worlds. As he was tantalizingly hooked on the printed words oblivious to the ‘life’ unfolding around him. His Parents always worried that he would ruin his eye-sight, if he read so much under the dim lamp, not that it mattered much to him. There were stories to be told and adventures to be had and he wanted to experience them all. They were however quite glad that this kept him out of trouble and considered him to be so well-behaved with the small but significant exception. These exceptions which were accompanied with earth-shattering tantrums towards the privilege of devouring the birthday cake irrespective of whose it was. But these were aberrations and in this culture of ours, a silent child is a good child. They still looked back at that phase in time with a smile and a teary lump.

She was back. Bounding and skipping with cart-wheels of explosive colors, ideas and wonderful epiphanies. These epiphanies never ceased to excite her irrespective of its scope, depth or implications on life. A life they were not entirely sure as to which shade of grey, it belonged to. It never occurred to her rather, she chose to ignore the fact that she may not have been the first to stumble upon such ideas, or that this was all a process of life. It didn’t matter one jot and he loved this about her, loved that no matter where they were or what they were doing, this was living, this was the world and this was the universe in all its glories and black-holes.

He often wondered of the exact moment when he became aware of her presence. The exact moment when he made that step to acknowledge her; what led him to that? Was he sad, happy, non-committal, bored, apathetic? All he could recollect was her presence. He felt she had always known and had bid her time waiting for the moment, for the opportunity, always believing that while his consciousness ignored, his subconscious knew.

Melancholy.
Cloudy Shiny Rain.
On my once-dusty parka boots,
Puddles of forgotten childhood abandon.
Slip in a hole, a friend to the flood.
Melancholy.

She was a myriad of colour, a kaleidoscope of orgasmic emotions. She was his darkest demon and his guardian angel. She was the music in between the breaks of the story that she whispered and the dance they danced knowing they were one and yet separate.

Life wasn’t always easy with her though. Their hushed conversations, while loud enough to shake the foundations of every belief, tended to spill out catching an unsuspecting passenger off-guard. He could always side-step the awkwardness of that raised eye-brow with a laugh and slapping his forehead followed by a joke of early-stage Schizophrenia or an invisible friend that failed to move on with age. More often than not, it worked and the stranger appeased whilst they laughed in hysterics.

He loved her. He’d had a few bed-warmers in years gone by and there were a few relationships that had completely bewitched him and made him believe of a heaven in this life. All the while, she had rejoiced with him and cried with him as they eventually returned to the soil like a garden of lilies. But, she was there and in time, they knew they would be okay. For, his loss was her loss and her epiphany was his epiphany.

She was his best friend and she was the other side to his coin. She was him and he was her, he had always loved how he could see the other person’s point of view and while it made it difficult to have a point of view at times, it was never considered too big a barrier.

He loved his imagination and it was only appropriate that she grew from residing in a part of his head to metamorphosing into his entire being and loving him back. She would always be there until the moment he breathed his last and smiled that one last smile while they shared a cynically ironic joke that they were convinced, no one had ever thought of before.

Shanti.
The rising sun.
Orgasm of color and splendor.
Everything will be okay,
with New dreams and Old hopes.
Shanti.

But for now, he must ‘Run!’

---

This is the story of a young man not too unlike myself who lived in the clouds, printed words and his imagination. It is the story of a shy young man, who eventually realizes the existence of his greatest gift, how it metamorphoses into an entity (she) and his acceptance that while he may be alone, he'll never be lonely. 

The Words That Never Were..

"There is a method to my madness. A science to my sophistication. Basking in the glorious sunshine brings a guaranteed smile to my face! Long may it blossom!" - N

This quote came accompanied with a glorious landscape cum self-portrait photograph on my news-feed in a popular social-networking site. It came and vanished without my noticing it albeit, not until much later. Unsurprisingly, and even more importantly thankfully, it had been spotted by a number of individuals one of whom was my fellow gypsy bonded and hounded by love, blood and experiences. The Top Kind.

From within, began a conversation between them of mutual respect towards the gift of words. It continued the cultivation of a once-asked request pertaining to us sharing our platform with N, so as to allow her to impart her words, her views, her angst and her rambles.  The gypsy responded highlighting his desire and our excitement to having her on-board while mentioning the general theme of this outlet revolved around our inspiration and marvel towards life, love, the soul and the sky. I could not have put it across any better and I am glad it was he who sowed the seeds.

Things however, didn't entirely go to plan. A week later, as we slumbered out of our beds, some with a glaring hang-over, others with an impending gloom over a long day ahead ore general boredom; trickled in news that N had crossed over. The reason behind or the means to this are irrelevant. All that mattered at this moment was that it had happened and she had passed on.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross theorized that there are 5 stages to grief and while some of us knew her intimately, and others had just come across in a brief moment, the impact was there for all to feel and deal with however best possible. Some skipped through the stages in a hurry while others lingered irrespective, of who well they may have known N. But, I can fairly ascertain an impact was felt everywhere.

I do not know N intimately enough to wax lyrically about her being, her persona, her dreams, aspirations, fears or the unknown quotient. Yet, it saddened me greatly of the opportunity missed to have shared more laughs, reprehensible ideas, maybe an adventure or just a longer peek into the psyche of another rambler. It is a loss. For all.

It also brought along with it the ever-familiar cloud of mortality which I am all so keen to sweep under the carpet and the dread of not realizing the promise of whatsoever potential. It soon however, gave way to a fantastic euphoria of being alive and still be able to marvel at the ever-present miracles around and within. It helped let go of many restraints and a few regrets which may come back in a darker and more vulnerable moment but for now, it helped. 

This is the one positive I can take out from this entirely dark period and I guess the more I say, lesser the justice to a fellow writer, thinker and provocateur.

"I live each day thinking it could be my last, I so enjoy the blue sky, grey sky, the sun, the rain. I'm still passionate about making a difference someday, small and big. Life moves on and you embrace it." - N

Safe travels, fellow Gypsy. The only solace herein, is that hopefully your soul has found a better universe for your energy to flow.

The Cold Hole of Regret.

I sit here in a cold bed of wet sweat,
I sit here by the terrace wondering a dead beat.
I pace the halls lost in my thoughts,
I race down that endless tunnel in a sea of drought.

Maybe, if he had not lost his patience.
Maybe, if she had kept that belief.
Maybe, if he had seen through the words of doubt.
Maybe, if she had thought just once before putting them in black and white.

The party has died and everyone's gone home.
Empty glasses and torn wrapping paper lie in ruined Rome.
Sunlight peeps through the drawn shades,
Of the promise and reality from which hope seems to fade.

Everything brings back a memory.
Everything brings back a story.
Nothing makes it feel better.
Nothing comes to him like that unwritten letter.

Therein lies the half-eaten cake icing,
with a photo of him smiling in better times a-coming.
He remembers the oncoming "I told you so's ".
He also remembers the feelings of inconsolable loss.

I wish, I could put my arms around a memory,
But that, my dear friend is not a likely possibility.
I wish, I could put my arms around her.
I wish, I could kiss away all that fear.

As I sit here in front of the screen at the break of dawn. Surrounded by awesomeness and love passed out in various forms. The hole is ever more glaring. Not just because of the physical absence, but the possibility of a vanished hope.

"Happy Birthday.!!" the crows caw, as he lights another one for the next decade..

Faith of a Leaping Kind.

He could hear the gravel crunch under the soles of his favorite sneakers, as he fooled himself into believing he was obtaining a foot-hold. He could hear the wind whistling through the naked emptiness of the surroundings as it chimed a tune. Somewhere far away, he could hear the presence of nothing. But, he couldn't feel it yet.

Off came the favorite sneakers and there they lay discarded like yesterday's skin. Off came the dirty unwashed socks that peeled off with a surety. He swore he heard a Pink-Floyd tribute band drum up the rhythm to one of his favorite tunes. The one about a Diamond and a Crazy Man, the one that shined through bright enough to have a master-piece made for him. Yes, he liked to romanticize himself and his predicaments.

He felt the cool sand seep in, in between his quickly drying feet. The tiny droplet of sweat seemed to trickle down the side of his temple, a cool relief to the irritation of fear. He could feel the abyss ahead. He did not know what lay beyond but folk-lore decreed that you either swam or you sank. In this case, an infinite fall to a not-so-pleasant ending. Morbidity always tickled him, how ironic. 

The fog seemed to envelope the vastness that was his surroundings. He couldn't see the end of the current cliff or the start of the valley but, he knew from within, that it was there. A state of mind had to be achieved and the rest would sort itself out, one way or the other. A state of mind. That is all there is to it..

That is all..

The first step was tentative, the next, not so much, by the third, he had lost all fear as with traction came higher momentum. The weight of the world seemed to slip off his shoulders and the fear of crashing and burning seemed to get lost in the chaos. There was no guarantee of what was going to happen, but, there was the belief. The belief of freedom even if it meant an Icarus like plunge. That must be it. That must be freedom, knowing it was all you. You and nothing else.

The prize was too good to not try. The prize which promise a heaven on earth even at the cost of mortality. The prize was that sneaky smile and that look behind the care-free bangs.  The prize. Yes, that prize, he was ready no matter what or how long.

He couldn't see it, though he knew it was near. Could feel it in his bone-marrow, in his pounding heart, his squinting eyes, every single pore on his skin and every single strand of hair on the back of his neck. It was coming near with each thud of a step, it was coming near and all that was left was that faith, the leaping kind.

It was here. It was now. You are fast. You are focused. You cannot see the end but you know it is there.

now..

Now..

Now.

NOW.!!

and he flew, leaving behind a dust trail and a pair of favorite sneakers for them to hopefully write about someday. Someday. 

Distractions.

'Here we are. Again.' he thought, as he lay on the sofa. Chocolate brown in it's shade merging with his naked cocoa brown form but for the black boxers.

These boxers. The one she got him, 'cause nothing makes a man look sexier than a black 'package-hugger'. This amused him. She amused him. He missed nonsensical conversations revolving around sex and times galore. It had been 52 days, 12 hours and 27 minutes since he last saw her walking away slightly embarassed by the sudden out-pouring of what was and what could have been, had the fates conspired otherwise. If only..

Middle of the day and he longed for some companionship. Any companionship especially since the kind he longed for could not be found or rather he was too tired to look for. It always took an eternity for him to accept one and once accepted it took a millenium to stop accepting it. 'What a Catch 22', he laughed suddenly hoping for a distractant.

It had been a while and the distractants had been doing a wonderful job. A job worthy of commendation.

The sun shines brightly now and a breeze tickles as it makes its mind on which direction and answers to take with it. I wish I could put this down in words, he mused. Create a myriad of colors aptly described by words that would make a grown man simper down in tears and a timid man feel so powerful. His ego knew no bounds and his need to be scandalous addictive yet, he was too shy to open that door.

A lady with a voice of purple silk crooned and a lonely cup of tea lay beside a half-smoked cancer-stick. The purpose of either not known but the victims of a whim they all were and, just like everything it was a purpose that had been duly forgotten.

People were expected home and all he wanted before the noise engulfed them all was a lifetime of solitude under a searing water-flow. Even if he hated the rains, he loved being immersed in water. A purging of the soul and an eternal damnation of the highs.

What. A. Rush. he thought, as he reached for the tepid cup of tea and a huge intake of nicotine..

Portraits of a Dream.

I dreamt the other night.
It was a dream of a night,
of dust and angels.
The details were relaxed.

Running on water,
I had the leap of a thousand fold.
The background changed often enough.
I don’t think I covered any distance though.

I heard them call us for prayers,
The songs were of an unknown tongue.
Now, I noticed.
I was running on a road of faces.

Each face brought a story.
Each story was a dream.
It’s a good thing I had my dream-catcher.
I would need reading material for later.

The Road to Heaven was of regret and pain.
Ironic, she said as I hopped on her shoulders.
Hold on, she said as we skipped over the fences.
Go find your dreams, I wish I’d said to her.

They came from nowhere.
She was now gone.
I didn’t know the reason or mood.
She left me with a rhyme and a tune.

Waking up in a sweat,
A dream within a nightmare.
I was running scared,
With my heels left brittle and bare.

Yet, there was a smile on the face.

And, a glint in those eyes.

The subconscious knew.

While the conscious ignored.