Hysteria

She's an eccentric lover.
Laughing her way through salty rain drops making way from her eyes to her numb, cold, wanting lips.
Claustrophobic in an empty, barely furnished abode, nursing a fleeting slideshow of despair and guileless, pubescent love. Bursting out like victims of steadfastness from the jailed lock-horns of farce. Deep, senile love doing its frolic, in a smiling head, gleefully clapping her way through a room of dancing others. Diving aimlessly, head first, into a crevice knowing no bounds. And being upstaged by scorn.
Justlikethat.
An illusionary sorry figure transcends from hitherto a parallel gratifying scheme of events. Where love is nothing but a stream of bodies chalked out by the peripherals of their touch. Where love is happiness and grief alike surmounted onto an impenetrable wall of heroin addiction. And heroin being nothing but that, that beats in the blood of a fool, he being that. And two worlds create themselves, with a psychotic ease that nothing but addiction demanded.
While in one, every cry was met with an ignorant sigh, two naked bodies danced their way through a streaming flow of void, settling down, arms entwined, in the invisibility of the world set apart from the rest.
As she carelessly muttered helpless cries of a world that belonged to her head, he silently noted how big his thumb really was.
TchTch.
And her thought flow went on to have street bumps. That made little thought vehicles go plop! in the air. And the little yellow-knickered man cried for help. And he noticed how enormously black the sky inside really was. That there are no stars or moon in the head did not help him either.
And whilst his trivialization slowly killed the all-consuming despair, the yellow-knickered man jumped in awe at how close the sky really seemed to be coming in and how small the world inside really seemed to feel.
""If we could just escape into an all-seemingly delusional corner with our drapes enshrouding us from obscure views, it would be nice. I'd make love to you like there's no tomorrow, gasp with a feeling of self-worth and die in your arms, unable to put up with the ecstasy. And maybe, just perhaps, your sauntering kisses will spring me to life."
Do you like what I say?
No, you don't, you answer."
TchTch.

Hours.

Minutes seamlessly seep into hours and days. 

Yes, new internship takes up all my time, my social life is close to being dead, and blogging has taken a lazy backseat. But I'm not complaining, 'cause I love my work, not to mention my office and my colleagues friends. 

And music seems to be only and only about James Mercer.

The best part about working in a media house is the unlimited internet [read: facebook] access and music, all the time, through the headphones plopped in, every second.

I got my hand on the new shins album The Port of Morrow, and I plan to do a proper review for the same. 

I'm excited about it. It's been long I reviewed a band, and this time, it's more fun, 'cause I love The Shins, to an uncomprehending extent. So much that my love for James Mercer is unparalleled, and I might just tattoo the name of the band on me someday. You get the drift? 

Less Loving, the World.

The looks exchanged, were sealed with careful anonymity and tucked into the bosom, with a heaving heart.
And people parted, unaware that two hearts beat with sanctity that nudity commanded.

And then clouds merged, into one being with the thunder that scared normalcy enough to make them tuck into their covers and never peep out.
And two naked souls danced their passionate frolic, somewhere in the rains, the world seemed too busy to notice.
Too normal.
Too hateful.
Less loving.

"The choice is your's to be loved,
come away from it empty of but us"



  P. S. I clicked the above picture. And no, I didn't go to Paris.

The Mosquito God.

Of moon-lit mosquitoes,
leaving tiny bites,
on bare naked backs
not enamoured by the mystique of pleasure,
but clutching on to,
slippery bodies,
tight.
Stubborn hands,
letting go of
pleading fingers,
ready to appease,
dispassionate hearts.
And the enduring pain,
finding cracks,
permissible and aloof,
and neatly settling in,
almost welcomed.
Swamps alive,
buzzing with secrets,
of aching love.
And a vehicle drifts past,
not so discreetly,
afraid to put up with,
the grief,
that's oh so magnetic,
oh so difficult,
and ever present.
And thus, the night sets in,
just like that,
without much aplomb,
for the disillusioned lover.