I am

Therapeutic insurgence of well worded taunts by parents and siblings and friends who find comfort in my pain is most of what comprises communication these days.

You are a recluse, they say. A monk. Hibernating, isolated, an island. Alone, bereft, sullen. The expletives descend like monsoon showers, relentless, probing, threatening of imminent flooding of resentment and chagrin in my mind. My patience finds itself stretched to the limit of indifferent ignorance; my threshold of composed, head-bowed, pursed lower lip compliance is on the verge of being breached. I can almost feel their concern rip through my defenses to settle heavy like the truth on my conscience.

The picture they paint is colored in sorrow. The brushes they use are made of apprehensions. And still the picture is blurry, distant, obscure. Someone else’s life, someone else’s sorrow.

I feel like yelling. I feel like grabbing them by the shoulders to shake them so violently that the need to preach the accepted ways of existence as god’s decree lurches out of their constipated perceptions and gets trampled beneath the rampaging onslaught of clarity.

I’m not fucked in the head. I feel like telling them. I’m not sad or forlorn or anything even remotely relatable to being scarred by love. Shit happens. I get it. I got it long before you people did. I got it long before you even begun to understand the true nature of my purported masochism. I’m happy when I’m sad. Don’t expect me to be able to explain it. Don’t expect me to justify it. Don’t expect me to give in to your demands of acting right, of laughing and consorting and being a socially viable commodity. I’ve never been a butterfly, I never will be. Yes I’m sullen, and morose, and anti-social, narcissistic, aloof, indifferent, vindictive, corrosive… But I AM.

I am.

the end, begins.

“Happy birthday”

“Thanks.”

Wish as hollow as the receipt of wish.

And both equally pregnant with long fermented venom.

Uttered with clenched teeth.

Responded to with a smile sketched in the red and red of hate and anger.

This is the aftermath of romance.

Of love that was too strong to be forgotten but not strong enough to bear the baptism of contradiction.

This is Pompeii after Vesuvius has purged its fiery wrath.

This is the Chernobyl of toxic dreams.

This is the ashen remains of hearts that burnt down in their own passion.

This is the surrender of two spirits torn up by turmoil and circumstance.

Lie to me, she said… tell me you’re perfect. This is what I want to know.

I’ll never lie to you, he said. I’m not perfect, and I want you to know this.

And so she never believed him, and he never lied, and in the end, the both came to believe in one truth. That their time had run out. That exacerbated pain at each other’s unwillingness to relent in the fervor of their own love has led them to the edge of the cliff which feelings must now jump off.

And claim on the way down the eternal rest of martyrs who survive beyond breath and reason; beyond life and death; beyond beginnings and endings.

bloggy b'day

Aaah this blog is an year old today.
103 posts old.
Several new freinds old.
Another meaningless anniversary old.

We've come a long way, but i'm not too sure where we are.
One thing seems to be ravaging my mind right now and what good is a blog if we can't record our dementia without fear of repercussion on it. So here it is, Ghalib once again, summing up my sentiments better than i ever could:

Ghalib, hamain na chher
kay phir josh-e-ashq say
Bethain hain hum tahai-ya-e
toofan kiye huay.