Hurled to the center of the Earth, again.

After much toying around with the idea, I finally made my account on formspring. Let's see how long it lasts. That also depends on the questions coming in, if any of them do. I got the formspring box added to the top right side of the blog, so you can just enter your question there. That simple it is. And you can check your answers on http://www.formspring.me/meher2811. Easy?


On awesome lyrics:


Have you heard The Shins? Its an american indie pop band. The genre, I love, they sing. And I absolutely love their songs. But most of all their lyrics, fancy this:

Born on a desert floor, you've the deepest thirst,

And you came to my sweet shore to indulge it,

With the wan and dreaming eyes of an orphan,

But there is not enough,

There is not enough.

Out of a gunnysack for red rabbits,

Into the crucible to be rendered an emulsion,

And we can't allow a chance they'd restore themselves,

So we can't make it easy on you.

Or this:

So affections fade away,

And do adults just learn to play

The most ridiculous, repulsive games?

On the faith of ruddy sons,

And the double-barreled guns,

You better hurry,

Rabbit, run, run, run.

'Cause meeting you was fun,

And there's a lot of hungry howlers in this one cell.

We're taking it over,

Their brittle, thorny stems,

They break before they bend,

And neither one of us is one of them.

It's poetry at its perfect play.  Of late, have been seriously addicted to their song, red rabbits, give it a hear. You're sure to fall in love with the lyricist. 

I spilled the ink across the page, trying to spell your name.

You don't need anybody to tell you who you are or what you are. You are what you are!
-The John Lennon


I am what I am. As much as I'm as open to judgement and criticism as everyone else around me is, it's not something that makes me very comfortable. Being judged. Criticism, I can take. Judged, I am, many a times. Do I like it? Nobody's asking me.
I'm ugly, I know. Smart, yes, very, thank you very much. Intelligent, yes, I'd like to believe so. A decent writer, maybe. Not half as good as she wants to be but improving. Sensitive, only regarding a few important things. Possessive, of the very same things. Egoistic, not the least. Confident, yes, a bit too much, maybe. Arrogant, sometimes in anger. Cranky, in loneliness. Happy, when alone, too. High self-esteem. Peaceful, serene, and sometimes, mysterious.  


Have been thinking since quite some time to get a form spring for this blog. But then again, is there anything you guys would want to ask me, or is there anybody out there even remotely interested to know anything about me, or talk to me? Maybe, yes, maybe not. I don't know. It's an idea that's toying in my head and I might put it to action, or might not. Is there anything that I can be decisive about right now? I don't know that either.

Far away, the thoughts serenade,

in quick, random movements,

they dance, sometimes in fury, sometimes in urgency,

sometimes, in induced calmness.

But how am I responsible for the same?

You can fall for pretty strangers, and the promises they hold.

Do you see? The silent smiles,

the barely there blushes,

the sneak peeks,

the whispering words of love, do you hear any?

When you strum your guitar, 

and sing her favourite song,

"Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry.

You said, "I love you like the stars above, I'll love you 'til I die"

The way she'd gush, as if it were for her.

The way she searches for your cues,

with her prying eyes, now on the loose.

Only for you,

her ears, for your music.

her hands for your touch.

Her soul, for yours.

Do you see?

Suspiro ergo sum:Updated

[Read: I sigh, therefore I am]

Sighing is God-me.

Yes.

Sigh your way through a lousy joke, sigh your way through an irritating conversation, sigh your way across in anger, leave people around you confused, they will be led to believe that you are a dejected soul, and you can sigh your way through your hatred for them- again me.

[If you do not love Charlie Brown, boo you.

If you don't know him, go die.]

I seem to have lost my satire, somewhere in the lameness around me. Some deceitful idiot, must have stolen it from me. The irony of me life is in-spite of all the irony around, I'm still incapable to write anything ironic. Sigh! [again].

Some lyrics : 

With your hand on my shoulders, a meaningless movement... a moviescript ending, 

And the patrons are leaving, leaving. 

Now we all know the words were true in the sappiest songs (yes, yes). 

I'll put them to bed, but they won't sleep, they're just shuffling the sheets, they toss and turn,

(you can't begin to get it back). 

Death Cab For Cutie, Oh!

For thee song-writer,

I bow in respect.

Yep.

Some quotes: 

I like maxims that don't encourage behaviour modifictaion- Calvin.

Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.- Calvin

In my opinion, we don't devote nearly enough scientific research to finding a cure for jerks.-Calvin

Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like...love! -Homer

Homer no function beer well without.-homer

Some priceless lines by your's truly: [the muse being : everything]

Come next to me, 

let us go climb a tree.

The tree which is all green,

You and me, all serene.

The sky all blue,

Oh look! there's a loo.

With this stupid rhyming scheme,

let's go eat some cream.

That is all white and creamy,

isn't this getting a bit too filmy?

So let's stop this nonsense,

Give some rest to the pretense.

The poem ends now,

have you ever seen a cow?

*Claps in appreciation for her own rhyming poem*

UPDATE: Its funny how people misinterpret my emotions sometimes. Maybe, its not their fault. Quite a few comments signaled to me being quite messed up while writing this post. Funnily,it was otherwise. I was very happy while writing this. Hence, put down the lyrics of one of my most favourite songs,  assembled few of my favourite quotes, and wrote a crappy poem [funny, though], something I haven't done in a long time. You see, most of the poems I write are quite stark, and never funny. Thought I'd be a bit this time. 
Its a happy world for now. 

Some change.

So, its Holi [THE festival of colours, where super excited people throw colours on each other, for people who do not know], and the world seems super excited about playing with colours, only not me. And it's not like every other year, when there was a next year. It's not like that anymore. I've missed loads of holi-s, due to board exams and shit [have been a very serious geek like that during exams], but there was always another year, that I could look forward to. But this time, it's different. Something inside has literally withered. And I don't see it coming back ever. Socializing is at an all time low. And the few people I would have wanted to talk to are not responsive.
Isn't it weird, when you grow up, not wanting to do things that you so badly wanted to at one point of time? When you look back, the older you is no longer identifiable. The newer you is going through so many changes, that sometimes you lose your basic essence. I don't know if I'm making much sense. And these days, my blog is going through a depressive phase. I'm just 18, and yes, to my credit, I'm quite mature. But, am I expected to understand everything? Like this whole self-searching phase can be really depressing. What you feel for someone, and what you don't. How you hate someone whom you once loved, and some mutual people clearly taking offence to that. How being alone, makes a hell lot of sense. When evening means, going out for a walk alone with your earphones plugged in. When running into acquaintances on the street makes you sigh, and not happy? Since when have I become this way, I might ask. But I've been too busy changing.

With a myriad of emotions,

sundry thoughts cribbing all time,

unusually silent.

The head all occupied,

with some opinions,

or maybe loads of them,

Kings of Leon lyrics,

and some more.

Some silent sobs,

that were let out all alone.

Did I care? Or did you?

Or did anybody else?

I guess, no.

That's why the silent sobs,

the quiet disagreements.

All alone.

Never a hug,

or a friendly confirmation, 

of love, if any.

She walks, like in query,

of friendship, also love, if any.

The music plays on,

and so does she,

guised by the soulless smile.

Do you notice anything?

Neither do I.

Let her walk alone.

She seems better off that way, 

unloved.

Of change and other blurred emotions

You look back, at some of the nice moments you've had. They make you nostalgic and acutely uncomfortable considering that you can never go back to them, that you can never live them again. They are done with, and that makes you sad.


Life changes, so do things around you. Like they say, Change is the only constant. Who they? Maybe the Gods. Or maybe some stupid old man who lived in the house next to your father/mother when he/she was a kid. He passed on this completely useless piece of information to them, who in turn passed it on to you. Taking into account the intense stupidity behind the line, I think it must be the Gods.
Is change genuinely that important enough to be constant? I'd say no. 

Life is like blurred vision. One of those days, when your crossing the street and you black out, unable to sense anything around you, yep, that's life. Things happen, most of them revolving around you, but you're not able to sense their cause, or the meaning behind the happening. Nor can you stop the things from happening. You get very uncomfortable and there is this urgent need to run away to somewhere, but you can't. So you stay, and are clueless, and ultimately, you cry yourself to sleep.  

You do realize that you are not protected anymore. It's not easy to risk venturing into an un-guaranteed field, like a swing. Cause if you fall, nobody would care to pick you up. Not me, not him, not her. Yes, you're left to witness everything change, including yourself. 

Trivial things matter more. Important ones, are allowed to pass under the table.

Precocious, scared, neglected, clueless. We are all left to wither and change, into people we do not want to be. Silently hoping to be someone else, that you never can be. The paradigm is nothing short of stupid. But then, you're living the paradigm, aren't you? No, it's just that you don't have much choice.

Sometimes, don't you witness immense rage building up inside of you? Rage, for people, you cannot harm. Even if you wanted to. You wish you were a ninja then, or a disguised robot, who could effortlessly kill the very same people. You silently hope that they'd die, taking their cynicism, stupidity, hypocrisy and lameness to hell. 

The opposite of creativity is cynicism- Esa Saarinen.

The books that the world calles immoral, are the books that show the world its own shame-Oscar Wilde

World, like seriously, how about some sense?

The silent allurement.

She walks, like mist in the night. She's almost invisible. The way the mountains are when it's very foggy in the winters. In fact, she was like the fog, very much there, still out of grasp.
She's a keen observer. She takes in the stares, the smells, the screams, the whispers. She barely speaks, or maybe she's plain incoherent. She, has a language of her own. 
Restless, young, wild, rebellious, uncertain.
She was on fire. 

And we watched the plumes paint the sky gray

And she laughed and danced through the field of graves

There I knew it would be alright

That everything would be alright

Alienated, deprived, silent.

Beautiful.

He said so. And when he said, you believed. Why? Cause you and I love him? Maybe. He was the dream, that every girl had in the nights. 

And for him, she seemed beautiful.

If not for him, you and I would barely have noticed her.

Does she like him too?

I don't know, neither you. Like I said, she, has a language of her own.

And she was on fire.

Intractable, obstinate.

"And they only knew it was a matter of time"

It was the night, that our parents warned us about. Some begged us to stay at home. The others' simply forced.

But she was factious. Threatening, unruly, warring.

She went out.

And so did he. Why? Cause he found her beautiful.

The firemen worked in double shifts,

With prayers for rain on their lips

And they knew it was only a matter of time. 

They didn't talk much. Or so we heard. They just walked, close. Towards completion, realization.

Devoured, were they.

What did I and you do then? We just smiled. At the chemistry, at the silent love.

But I couldn't think of anywhere I would have rather been

To watch it all burn away.

To burn away.

They are still together. Sometimes, she smiles. She still has a language of her own. But now, he knows it too. They, have a language of their own.

The dark woman.

She keeps her deepest darkest secrets in her heart. To me, to you, and to all of us sane people, she seems one of us. Little did we know.

She was a devil inside. Capable of murder. 

The self-lover.

Her mind talks to itself, oh, so many times. It's funny really, how you can be a self-talker, if a phrase like that exists? It should. Cause, I just made it, didn't I? It croons to itself too, the mind...

Spinning, laughing, dancing to

her favorite song

A little girl with nothing wrong

Is all alone

Eyes wide open

Always hoping for the sun

And she'll sing her song to anyone

that comes along

She makes love to Norah Jones' voice. She croons. To herself. She is a self-crooner. 

Her life is the artsy kind. Loads of colour. Less of it, the drama. Sorted. Smooth. Some music. A bit of Norah Jones, some jazz, some carnatic. Her music lacks the drama too. But she begs to differ. She says, it has soul. Who she? Maybe me, maybe you, maybe some weird girl in the crowd who is a self-talker. Self-crooner. Self-empathize-r.

She does not value me, or you, or anybody. She is only a self-valuer. 

She values what? The things, some of them. She talks to the silence around her, plays with it, teases it, croons to it, and to herself. She flirts with her own self. She looks in the mirror, teases her own beauty. She's a self-teaser. 

Her fingers wrap themselves sensuously around whatever that she holds. She teases things, the materialistic ones. She talks to them too, and to herself, of course. Self-talker, and a thing-talker at that.

She walks in the crowd, oblivious of it, oblivious to the lecherous stares coming her way, that eye the outline of her hips, that sway sensuously. The people make way for her in the crowd, such is her beauty. She is oblivious to that too. Oblivious-er is she.

She lives in her own world, that resonates the past, nibbles through the present.

She laughs at the tiny shoes that her feet have outgrown long ago, but she dare not throw them away.

She is in awe of the roller coaster at the fair, that she's never been able to intimidate. 

She's nostalgic of the staircase that her feet were pally with, as a child.

She's a self-crooner..

Abhi nahi aana sajana
Mohe thoda marne de,
Intezaar karne de
Abhi nahi aana re

Her anklets make silent, tinkling sounds, as she falls in love all over again, with herself, with her voice. She's a self-lover.

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P.S. This post is dedicated to that mysterious edge in all women, that rarely has a man been able to demystify.

P.P.S. When I'm embroiled in my mysterious world, all my senses want to do is listen to the mentioned songs, and some more. But you can listen to these two here and here.

Why so stuck-up?

Why are you loosing yourself in the crowd? Why do you crave for anonymity?
Are looks the only thing that matter?
Don't you respect your identity as an individual?
In the past few days, have come across so many blogs, which seem to cry out for serious help. Please love yourself for what you are, You might have numerous faults, so do I. But there is nothing that can't be overcome. You must be having something, that's better than so many else. Do recognize it and respect it. Remember, loosing weight and wearing the best of clothes are not the only thing that matter. All of you would have someone to love and respect you for your individuality. Rather strive to make yourself an amazing person. Search for the drive, the ambition that would make you independent and strong. Don't loose yourself, please.

Todo's letter.

Todo,
Do you miss me? Do you yearn for my existence? When you're surrounded by people who, perhaps, do not realize who you are, do you wish I was a little more closer than I am? Do you yearn for the touch of my fingers, that would perhaps make you understand how emotionally bound we are?
We walk in the distance, without feeling the weight of the idiosyncrasy that has surrounded us all this time. We might chose to talk, or we might chose to stay silent. Would either matter? You know, it wouldn't. The mutual acumen we have, does not require whole sentences. Are we friends? The best of them. Identical twins? Yes, them too. Can we talk everything under the sun? Oh, yes, we can. Can we stay silent and still feel the love? Undoubtedly.
Will you like the name I just gave you? I guess you will. It means "everything" in Spanish. Considering that I did not know of this when I christened you thus, don't you see this is meant to be?

We are little children in the sands of time.
For each,
the other exists.
The rest, is but, an oblivion.


Isn't it nice when all we can do is sit next to each other, carrying on with our usual work, silently thankful for the other's presence in life. All we need is the physical presence, isn't it? The rest of it, is there. The love, very much.
Todo, do you really exist, or are you just a figment of my imagination, that has sketched you out, considering you're the kind of person, I've always wanted? The person who'd understand the innocence deeply rooted in a heart, that has been termed brash, long ago. Do you understand how fervently my mind is trying to register all those signs that  indicate to your presence in my life? Todo, are you for real?

P.S. My attempt at understanding how a young girl would feel for the guy she dreams of. =)

P.P.S Todo is a cute name, na? I have its copyright, yep. Will use it, if ever. =P

Le monde

Don't you feel for those times when you seem to be cut off from the rest of the world?

You're in your corner of you're room while the others are busy and at pace.

Do you feel left out like me? Considering it was you who chose to be left out. Its a complicated paradigm.

Do you have layers beneath you? Layers that you've hidden from the rest of the world. A Facade known to none but you. Have you met people like yourself? Your identical twin? Are they supposed to exist for everybody? Will I find mine too?

[Translation]
World, you are not fair to me, but I love you for some of the pretty things.

There are quite a few pretty things around you that I believe you should appreciate.

-Lights. Take a walk at midnight, notice the silence and the lights. They fit in, don't they?

-Pictures in sepia mode. They seem vintage.

 -Some colour. Don't you like it when a dash of colour brightens up an otherwise dull day. The kind of day that the psychic you had predicted that it will suck for sure. And then there is colour, and the day is so vibrant.

-Honest appreciation, that might make you feel nice about what you are.

Criticism reminds me that I had to point out that an honest critic will always point out the good and the not so good points, the bad and the not so bad points. I do not write this blog to please anybody. But I believe that I might be touching some of you in some way with the words I chose. That thought is enough to brighten my day up.

Change

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton Season 2 edition 18; the eighteenth 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.

The leaves change to a daunting hue of red. The sun ceases to appear. There is a dull, sullen feeling in the atmosphere, as if it were grieving for Aiesha's grief. The clouds spread like a shroud over Aiesha's dead spirit, the fighting spirit, that her nana referred to as. Well, nana was dead long back. From the pampered, over protective child that Aiesha had been, her life changed, so starkly, it left her abandoned, with nowhere to go. The family didn't stick around, not anymore. The last she heard about them, was when, she learnt about nana's death, a fortnight after she eloped with Steve. But that was 5 years ago. Nana was dead, so was papa, and Steve, has eloped, again.
Aiesha did not like the automn in Montreal [Mo-ray-aal like her French teacher would say]. It was a dull, deploring sight. Everywhere she went, the grey clouds would follow her, until they'd dampen her very spirit. People seemed more morose then usual, all in their raincoats, and hushed voices. Rain made Aiesha very unpleasant. It reminded her of the tears, the tears she shed when nana had locked her in the house refusing to allow her meet Steve, the tears her mum might have shed when she eloped, the tears she shed when she heard of papa's death, and then nana's subsequently, the tears that dried inside her, when Steve had eloped, again.


--------------------------------------------------------


The chill had begun to set in by November. Aiesha hated the winters, the snow. It was white everywhere, and Aiesha hated white. It reminded her of the white shroud that covered papa's and nana's bodies. The freeze in the air made her feel alone, made her conscious of the absence of Steve's strong arms. Aiesha 's house didn't have good heating and all those days when she'd lie on bed, all covered in a ball, even the tears would freeze. Marie, her neighbour had said long ago that Steve wasn't coming back any time again. But she wouldn't understand, Aiesha was Indian. It wouldn't be the same again for her, taking the kid in the crib back to the house. And she held a lot of esteem to accept her defeat that way. She couldn't go, not anywhere.


---------------------------------------------------------


Spring was such an ideal name for the season of the same name. There was literally a spring in the air. Little kids running around, crowded gardens, the clear blue skies. But Aiesha didn't like the spring. It made her conscious of everybody's happiness, and her impending grief. Her loneliness. Her desperation. For Aiesha wasn't a regular Montreal [Mo-ray-aal] mother who could take her daughter for spring games. Her daughter lay in the crib, since the last 2 years. For Aiesha spring was when her daughter's cheerful gurgle filled the air. That would choke her, make her want to lift the baby in the air, jolt her to the skies, but what if she broke? The baby was so sensitive, that Aiesha couldn't risk picking her up. The kid had to lie, in waiting, for her father, for her limbs, for a sudden death.


-----------------------------------------------------------


People had started feeling the heat, like Marie would say year after year, "Il fait très chaud, si cela continue, je fondrai" [It's so hot, if this continues, I will melt]. But well, there was no Marie to say this to her this year, she left, forever to her son. Aiesha didn't like the summers, there was so much of the heat, it made her uncomfortable. The baby wouldn't stop crying, to top it all. Aiesha had to work for longer hours, and managing the baby, would cost her many a odd jobs. Aiesha was in need of change.


The world was changing. Seasons fused into each other. Marie had moved out. Buildings had come up in place of swamps. But Aiesha was stuck. In that one moment, when Steve had eloped with someone else, leaving her a very brittle and sensitive child to look after. All the sacrifices had seemed wasted, in that one defining moment. Aiesha hated all of them, seasons. Aiesha hated the sadness, the happiness of others. Everything around her reminded her of her grief, of her frozen tears. Aiesha was stuck in time, while the world kept changing.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Guest post. Yep.

So, this blog has been around for two and a half years now. Never mind the period, it got hacked around September,2009, and got all it's blog posts deleted, and the fact that it was shamefully ignored during my boards. But, This blog has been one lonely space for this long. It's had too much of me, and it wouldn't mind sharing me with someone for this one time.
So, I have invited a friend of mine, actually a junior from college, who has amazing writing abilities, to contribute a piece to this blog. He is Antonio Mathias a.k.a Keith. So, his post-

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The Shadow 

I've tried and succeeded to achieve whatever it is that my mind wishes. I know that I am, better. Better than my adversaries. After my triumphs, I rest, basking in its glory.

But as I rest, a terrible, cold dread suddenly envelopes me...

I feel a sense of danger, racing towards my triumphs.

Immediately I look up at my victories and I see that they are blanketed by a Shadow. A shadow so deep, a shadow so dark, a shadow so strong that I fail to conquer it. I fail to establish my own existence, I fail to assert my dominance over it, I fail to say, truly, that I am what I am, and that I hold my own ground.

I turn my back towards the shadow. I try to act as if I am not affected by it. But then the darkness of the shadow consumes me, mocks me, reminds me that my spread is nothing, nothing compared to its reach.

I fall, wounded by its words, and I watch as the shadow extends towards the horizon. I watch as the shadow, smiling its malicious smile, devours all my triumphs, all my achievements, all my glory.

But it doesn't leave. It stays and dares me to achieve more, to triumph more. It waits patiently, for it believes that there is nothing I can do to eclipse it.

And I lie in the dust, covering under the power of the shadow, fearing to dare, fearing to try, fearing to triumph.
I lie in fear of the shadow.

Is the shadow too strong or am I too weak?

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How would you interpret this piece? It's open to numerous thoughts, you know. As you proceed to read it, I'm sure, you have a thought that flutters through your head. It is open to so many ideas, so many experiences of succeeding, yet being miserable. Which is your shadow?

Quickie!

Don't you find Hugh Grant as the ultimate hotness? I mean, here is this guy, so good looking, and with officially the sexiest Brit accent ever,  and an amazing singer [Read: Meaningless kiss is Music&Lyrics] , he has to be totally irresistible.

Yes, women, he's that hot.

Did you guys check out the Oscars? No Jesse Eisenberg for the Social Network. Wtf! I was rooting for him so bad. I mean, Colin Firth was all good in The King's speech, and was rightfully appreciated, but Jesse just slips into the character of Mark Zuckerberg . In fact, he seems more a real Mark Zuckerberg than the real Mark Zuckerberg himself. He almost seems like he was born to play him. Oh, and Halle Berry looked stunning on the red carpet, she was so beautiful in her nude crystal gown.

Don't you think?

 Okay, tata. Quickie over.