2010. Yeah, well..

Scoring awesome. Breaking stereotypes. Being a college-dropout.

Discovering music. Unleashing your inner cravings. Coming to terms with your fantasies. A new relationship.

Letting go of old ones. Old friends, now no more. New friends, here and there.

Best friend, uhmm, not anymore. Turning 18. New bestfriend, the one you love.

 Vodka. Poetry, again. New blog. Career oriented. Planning. Day-dreaming. Blushing. Loving. Hating.

More impatient. More ruthless. More loving.

A loner. Being things you never were. Sitting idle, for an unimaginable long time.

Randomnes. Writing impulsively. Going crazy. Hair grows real long. I make it short, again.

Talking to random people. Loving the conversations. Finding the like-minded. Craving for more love.

 More tolerant. More emotional. Laughed more. Cried even more. Settling.

Waiting to fly.

That was my 2010. A myriad of emotions, thousands of words, but still at a loss for expressing.  Weird, is the word.

Because, she was awesome.

Aren't The Beatles awesome? They invoke stories in your head. Like this one. Go, read. =]

P.S. Screw dumbheads. =]

Beautiful pain.

Sitting in stoned silence,
wiping away tears of solitude.
heaving with claustrophobia,
she seemed beautiful, nonetheless.
A picture of pain..
deeply etched, in firm secrecy.
She would not cry.
Silently ignoring the stares,
she seemed oblivious to it all.
Beautiful, nonetheless.
I ached to know her,
to feel her silent agony.
Suddenly she shivers,
It seems as if she has woken up at last,

from the dreamy abeyance that had captured her this long

She slowly slips away,

as unassuming as she was.

She was beautiful, nonetheless.



Randomness before crashing. =P

Dosen't it feel weird, how you go on to say the most embarrassing thing about yourself to a person. When I'm saying it, there's this little voice inside me which wants me to shut up. But then little voices are meant to be ignored anyway. :P

So many times, S has called me the biggest kamina in the world.

But, its all in our random silly, cute way, ofcourse. But he's not all kidding. I'm a kamina, a big one at that. =]

I know, I'm perhaps not as good as how I was, say, three years back. Now, I'm more in control of myself, my emotions, my opinions. Now, I know of the time I should shut up, and of the perfect moment when I can let my angst out.

I think I'm going to cut my hair real short. =]

I like writing random things about myself, makes me feel useless, and jobless.

I think I'm going to look for a job.

I think I'm going to go, die on my bed.

And before I die, I'l leave you with this pic. Go, laugh.

lol.

Because Calvin=me. True. Story.

I have a thing for short stories. Especially those written by Somerset Maugham. Had he been alive, I might have taken him out on an exquisite french date. And, I'm not kidding. His stories, have a witty sense of humour, something that I could relate to, from my school days.

Thinking of school days, I just can't believe I'm 18 now. I mean, I vividly remember kicking my best friend black and blue when I lost to him in football (which I always did).I couldn't have turned 18 so soon.

Coming back to short stories, the wittiest short stories have to be of Somerset Maugham. Roald Dahl's were really cute. They were the ones I always got back to when I'd go nostalgic about school. Literature in school was so much fun.

As for the title of the post, well,  its true. Calvin is me. I am calvin.

letting go.

"You know, how much it matters, when you're friends give you away?"

"Ofcourse, I do. I care."

"like fuck, you do."

"I swear, Meher, I'm sorry. I had reasons."

"Fuck your reasons, and fuck you. I"ve don't want any of it."

Its weird how we set yardsticks for people. We expect them to be either this or that. Its weirder, when we do that for people we love. We just cannot imagine ignorance on their part. Everybody has a chosen few, the ones closest to them, and we do not and cannot expect them to give us away, and ignore our feelings. As friends,we do take each other for granted, but there's a limit for everything, and if on one of those days, when you expect a little too much from them, and nothing turns out the way you'd want it too, it creates a void.
I had a best friend. He meant so much, until he decided to spoil things himself. We're friends, yes. I could never stop talking to him. Never. Its hard to imagine. But like I said, certain things create a void. And that is something you cannot let go. As much as you get back to how close you were, things would never be the same.
S thinks,that I'm a good friend. He knows, coz we're great friends. Actually, he's my best friend, coz there's nothing hidden there.There isn't room for misunderstandings, coz everything's out in the open, bare. I can always talk to him, about the craziest shit in the world. Its so buddy like,when we make fun of each other. Sometimes, the mush can wait.

I love THIS song. Like,I'm sure, most of you do. Check it out.

Likeness.

I've been getting a tad too serious on my personal blog,ain't I?
I saw Aisha yesterday.Very girly,totally unrelatable but it was was fun.It was slightly stupid,but what the heck,it had Sonam Kapoor.Enough temptation,that.I love her.She has to be the most gorgeous thing on the screen and I could turn lesbian for her.Lol,no,just kiddin'.But she's gorgeous.
And its got Abhay Deol,who for me is the most *drool-worthy* guy on the screen after Aamir Khan.I love him so.And the movie's got awesome clothes.Some of which,I'd like to own myself.
And the music is so good.Amit Trivedi is THE man. \m/
Have been watching a lot of movies lately.Its fun.But I can't wait to get occupied,like totally occupied again.
More on that front,later.

The Mystery

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 17; the seventeenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

His father had been a really busy man.He had been watching him,all those years of his childhood,his pubescence,his adulthood.His father,hobnobbing around,caught up in his own weird antics,constantly mumbling in a language he couldn't fathom.He was not like the other fathers.He didn't go to work.While his mother toiled hard to provide for the three of them,his father seldom cared.One of the days,he'd be so silent,you could hardly feel his presence.It felt like he shrunk into nothingness.And the other days,he'd shout,break things.If he'd cross his father's path by mistake,he'd hit him hard.He'd pull his mum by her hair,thrash her and scream,"You stole my colour,you stole it".If things got out of hand,his mum would call uncle Griffen for help,and they'd tie him up to a chair.As a kid,he'd witnessed this scene a lot of times,in silent amusement.Once or twice,he'd go to his mother and ask her why they didn't have a normal father,who'd take them out for picnics.She seldom answered.
His father's room was out of bounds for everyone in the house.Even the maid who came for cleaning every week,wouldn't dare to go anywhere close to it.Once he tried sneaking into it,unsuccesfully.
His father,his very own,always remained a mystery to him.Someone who was physically near,but emotionally,as far as one could imagine.

the unfolding of the mystery...
Now as he stared at his father's coffin,he was reminded of all those years,when his mother took silent agony,when he grew from being indifferent to this man to even hating him.when his mother died,the rollicking laughter of his father that filled the room.Now that his father was dead,he could move from this house,from all those painful memories and finally relinquish his dream of writing in new york.He wanted to smile,but he didn't.The promise he had made to his mother of looking after the man who was now dead,was over.But there was one thing still missing.The room.The child inside him made him want to see the room,which so captivated this emotionless man.He opened the door to be welcomed by a strong scent of paint,as he looked around and switched on the light,there lay hundreds of paintings,all exquisite in their own right,each drastically different from the others,almost seeming like they've been painted by different people.some were painted with his father's name,and others with names he'd never heard of.The mystery dawned on him after all.His father wasn't the villain,he was the victim,of the numerous selves that rested inside him.He was a victim of their moods and outbursts.If only he had supported him in his adulthood,understood his anguish.The tears came out slowly..

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