"Three dots of suspension..."

(alternative title #1: A year spent in tears)
(alternative title #2: Palmistry)
(alternative title #3: All that ends well)

"Some experiences are so big, they change your DNA."

Dexter Morgan couldn't have been more viciously accurate about that.

In 2010, I went to a Green Day concert in Singapore on 14th January. It was a dream come true for me: To sing along to every word I'd been holding on to for so long; ones I was so attached to. The year had surely started on a very, very high note.

And yet, at the end of that year, I found myself writing a note to myself saying never, ever to lose myself again – to never be lost in the blankets, wrapped in tears.

Maybe we could research patterns and fractals, because 2013 began on a high note as well. With warm wishes of Happy New Years to whom I wanted to wish with all of my heart. Eyes to my first job ever, at, I won't lie, a nice place. And a new car. Who doesn't like that?

But here I am, writing this. Just like 2010. The difference here is that I haven't shared 2010's note with you. Or the lines on my palm. Or the lack of them.

People left me in 2013. Things left me in 2013. I don't want to cry about anything. I do however, want to hold on to the memories, no matter how obsessive compulsive it is. Because, honestly, that's all that I have to look back at. If they won't live in my memories, how is anything in this world supposed to exist for me?

Like a ghost, you come back even today. When someone says some things the way you used to. When I look at your ties. When I see someone in glasses like yours. When I try to look for you in others.

"The keenest sorrow is to recognise ourselves as the sole cause of our adversities."

Sophocles couldn't have been more viciously accurate about that.

It's a shame. Didn't I promise myself to not wrap myself in tears?
I'm sorry to you, whom I've hurt, perhaps. I'm sorry to me, whom I've hurt, perhaps. I also promised myself to make good use of the internet for specific purposes. But then, I pretty much quit everything everywhere. I'm not going to reason against it. Because every other time I feel like I've made a mistake in my past, I cannot understand what the crazy hell was wrong with me. This time, I know I was all in my senses, and I vividly remember every bit about why.

And even if it took all of my day today to pull in my spanner and fix the bolts, I'm trusting tomorrow to be my resting pillow.

Because tomorrow is what you might as well call the "International Day of New Beginnings." 

I don't know why anyone would need a date marker to do things differently. It's a shame, because I don't know why I need that date marked on the calendar as well. Perhaps it's an excuse to revel in my old self for a few more buffer days. Or maybe the it's time I've told myself I will give myself to pick myself again – "Dear Abhas, you have this amount of time now. Take it, cry the shit out of it, then start walking again."

Or since you're hearing about both ways out from me, maybe it's both.

Change. Regret. New beginnings. Endings. Wishes to end everything. Over-emotional? Even my excellent orthodontist seems to think so. Emotionally destroyed? Should I just remove the question mark there? Safe to say love no longer means what it once meant to me? Neither do wishes. Or to some extent, even dreams. Anhedonia? Perhaps. Perhaps this is what they term "growing up."

I don't think I'm my old self anymore.
And yet, take a look back and read this again. Here I am. Just the same as ever.

Do things ever change? Is it the journey that is supposed to matter? I still think it's the smiles.

So, I wish you well. Have a Happy, happy new year.

...

Dear future,

Let's do good, now?

Yours truly.

Yesterday (Moments, IV; People, III; A blog post, II)

People. Persons. The things they do. The change they bring in you. In however long a camera flash lasts, or the snap of a finger – whatever's shorter, yes. 

Shorter than the wavelength of violet light? Perhaps. 

In a deadlock, amidst a sandstorm. When you're stuck in a pool of black tar, or in quicksand. Or whether in rains, when you're standing at the edge of your door. People, or persons. That is the therapy. The key to the deadlocks that you thought couldn't ever be cleaned up. The vacuum cleaner machinery in the aftermath of a sandstorm. That branch from a nearby tree that will pull you out of the quicksand. The person who'll push you out and jump into the rain with you. 

Do things ever get okay? Who knows; the journey is supposed to matter, right? I don't know. I think it's the smiles that matter. The ones you share, the ones you spread. The ones you pull onto your face, those when you see them on someone else's. 

So, maybe some flowers are bright. And the grass is pretty lush in its greenness. I know that some leaves are particularly delicious to some. It's sunny, and it's warm in the cold that'd usually make you curl up. Sunflowers know that for sure. Even those indoors, if I may add. 

Happiness is not just a nine letter word. It is rarer than precious metals when you're seeking to dig them from the ground. Harder to find than a comet if you're looking at the night sky tonight. It's there when, well, it's there. And, dear God, I may not have described it well enough for the millionth time, but some moments will surely go lengths to tell you what I couldn't.

Oh by the way, could you divide that into two equal parts and then get it packed and ready to go?

:)

"Wuthering Heights"

"...haha! You're awesome, man!"

"You betcha."

"You're class ki jaan types"

"Ooooh! Really? That good?"

"haha! You betcha!"

***

"You're not the same anymore..."

"What?! Why!? What's wrong? What are you, like, getting negative vibes?"

"It's not negative..it's just..you're not -- you used to be this lively, cheerful guy. Where is -"

"- what? I'm just..it's me. I'm doing the same things, no?"

"It's different. You've changed. You've..I feel like you've become an old guy now."

"..yeah..that way, maybe. Things did change for me."

"Why?! What made this change, man?!"

Candidly

When I face the things and paths I once wanted to do and be on, after I rebuttal, I get.
Scared.

Famous last words

"...So how is the Fabia in the small car segment?"

We have first times, and we're aware of that. We may even prepare for instances such. But there are last times, just as much. It's hard to prepare for those, not only because it neighbors impossible in successful prediction, but also because even if you do predict it, you can't prepare and dress up for goodbyes.

"So why don't you join our undergraduate program?"

Some people matter in greatness what they withhold. You're played by words and you never know what happens next. But you remember them, because they say things without giveaway of what they've already inscribed for you. You'll remember their words. Especially when you don't know if you'll see them again.

"I'll miss you. Just forgive me. I may have to be brave."

What is important is that you must know that the greatest gift you can give to someone is your time. And the worst punishment is your silence. Sometimes you don't choose what gifts to give. Entropy decides paths. And clocks.

"Stay in touch."

Even with a Masters degree in the art of Goodbyes, there is no one way to choose paths.  Some decisions are taken for better, and some for worse, by measuring and quantifying one source or profit over the other. And with that, you'll know you meet new people every day, some of whom you'll never see again.

But some last words, you'll remember.
 

I never knew I'd say this much about this

The nights.

There are. A few. Kinds. Of love.

That. I lay awake in.

One. Where. You are loved. 

In absence of the sleep. That refused to come to me.

But God knows why, you refuse it.

Pauses. Synapses.

The second. Where. You love.

An orchestrated disharmony involuntary.

But God knows why. You are refused.

In auto-writing.

And the third.

Maybe.

Where it's both.

The best love stories are the ones.

But the outcome is of either.

That never are.

And there's one more.
Of where fairytales come from.
 

Blurt log, II

Time is funny.

Or, frankly, it's too serious, maybe. Serious about not sticking around.

***

I can't constantly message you to tell you that you're missed. I don't know if you like to see that on your screen. If you do, I wouldn't mind. But God only knows if that's what happens.

***

Hopes.

Are they good things?

If they're not intended to be false, but you get the feeling that they'll end up as false hopes since whatever they're leading to may not materialize -- what then? Are they good things?

***

"What's the most romantic thing you've ever done?"

"Waited."

That kinda paused time for me, for a second, there. That...

***

Time is funny.

Ozymandias

Nothing beside remains, round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands
Stretch far away.

The feels

Advertising can be nice, too, then, I guess.

 

A blog post

Both sides of the grass are just green. The moon will be crescent and it seems fine. The clouds are somewhere between being simply cirrus and heavily cumulonimbus. And Rayleigh Scattering is at work putting in the blue, there.

The flowers look fine. Some of the cars kinda shine. There's a slight fog, and it's nice. It's almost winter, when I was expecting it to be much colder. But that's fine.

The food tastes fine. It's all good. The plates are circular and they're clean and that's great. There's lighting at home, and somewhere it's subtle, and that's neat. The TV's fine. The closet is fine.

My shirt is..teal? I think it's teal. That's great. And I have a tie that's grey. One that's purple. One that's blue. One that's black. And they're all good. They're all fine.

Roses are red. And that's how they look. And that's fine. Nothing needs to be overtly pink. And the colors don't need to be overly saturated. Ideal tint, tone and shade are maintained. And that's how it is. Rain doesn't need to carry memories; just water, mainly. And that feels just as good.

Really. You don't need to be in love for everything to feel lovely. It's all good. It's all great. It's all fine.

Everything just is. And that's fine.

Deservation

I think everyone deserves enough to get to know who their one true love is.

You may brush shoulders for a brief moment whilst walking in opposite directions in a queue, or share a quick, but lengthy glance, after the accidental way the person made you drop your phone. You may just have the epiphany over that brief encounter. Or you may be able to go in further, into a better world and hold hands for a longer walk.

You may be with them for a few seconds, or for your life; you may not know who they were, but you deserve to know that they were the one, regardless.

You deserve to hear their voice. You deserve to look into their eyes and you deserve to see how deep that color goes. To put your hand on their hand and compare sizes. You deserve to see them when they smile away, carelessly.

Maybe you're in the brief encounter category, but it's all still worth it.

But if you're in the brief encounter category, do you deserve to helplessly be unable to figure what to do now that nothing seems to turn your way? I can't be the one to judge whether you deserve that. But you can always tell yourself that true love isn't about ownership. Instead, it's about finding joy in what the other person finds joy in.

And trusting that, in at least one other parallel universe, you are walking the long walk.

And then looking at the night sky. Because I like stars. 

AMs

A...

...planet. Just recently struck by an asteroid of mountainous mass. 

Its high velocity provided it with the momentum suitable to obliterate planetary bodies, dousing the stone into flames. The atmosphere once glued by gravity has vaporised. The populous and vegetation that weren't just straight out pulverised have succumbed to immediate asphyxia. Then, rampant exposure to distant solar flares.

Rocks. Rocks that once formed the planet, now float without reason in a void called space. 

Shards of the world still glow like embers from the massive collision. And it seems that...

...that a planet was just recently struck by an asteroid of mountainous mass. 

Or...

...a country. War-torn. Militia that once seemed like they couldn't be a problem. They rose against authority that seemed to be functioning fine, actually. In search of communal power, perhaps.

And now, burnt tires and lakes of blood. Dried up bodies where flora once flourished. Open hands. Open wrists. Little or no movement. 

And a peculiar smell of tears and blood in the air.

Or just...

...a man. Waking up in the night. At hours not even known to exist. Waking up from the nightmare of a man in his image who picks out and throws his internal organs away into a half-filled bucket with a callous, grim nonchalance.

And then laying awake. Staring at the ceiling. Underneath a blanket. And then. Remembering.

Remembering things. 

Aren't...

...these just. All the same thing?

Blurt log

Bound by death and a hard place.

You know those times when a word, or phrase, gets stuck in your mind? Like, stuck to the point of auto-self-repetition? That's the phrase that's been coming to me. Over, and over, again. In my silence. In randomness. I don't know why.

***

Dear diary,

This portion is about the person. You know, that person. I feel like I'm holding my breath underwater so as long as it so happens that we don't talk. Sometimes it goes for days, sometimes for months. I wish I'd shut about it all. But I can't – because I don't want to. I don't know what's right. And "cheers to not knowing what's right, anymore."

She's a nice person. The definition of that.

And a great teacher.

I wish I'd stop hurting her by talking over and over. Am I being selfish? I guess so. How can I have clarity and be so confused at the same time?

Reminder: I have to watch that episode. The fifth.

***

I used to be on Facebook. As overactive as a child on a sugar-rush who has just discovered the joys of drumming on household objects. On my wall, there are pictures – memories reminiscent of the recent past that seems long gone. Pictures with people and the places I went to with them. All smiles. And one with her. How I adored her. My friend told me what I've observed as well – she's gone a little low following the breakup that the news haven't failed to cover. But she's a strong person. Just like her. 

Someone told me, lashing out in anger, that I pay more attention to the people whom I don't matter to. Maybe she doesn't remember me. But I know the others in the pictures do. They called me today.

Shouldn't detachment have a different feeling than this?

***

I'm really not a negative person. I can turn lots of things into song. It makes me happy to see that made you smile, whatever it was. I wish some things had taken a different turn.

How long am I going to keep wishing that had happened? I need to change everything. Top to bottom. Lose everything and start again.

***

I met some of my friends today. They offered good advice. They told me to not be sad about whatever it is I find myself stuck in, and proceed further. As I write this, I am reminded of Winston Churchill's words: "If you're going through hell, keep going."

Thing is, as I told them, too much of my time is being stolen. Some of it in me being fed up about the lack of time I manage to siphon out. It has to do with work. It has to do with transportation. It has to do with things. I turn out at wit's end. I need time to fix things. I just..

Bah. Excuses. All. 

***

Sometimes I wonder what good quality humor my potential girlfriend is missing out on. Seriously, woman, these are impromptu moments you need to be a part of. Granted, you exist, you just don't exist yet – or as Michael Bublé would put it – "I just haven't met you yet."

Or maybe I have.

It's just been a long time since I've heard a song properly. 

***

This post is beginning to get too long. My self-inflicted purgatory is beginning to show inconsistencies. I don't know why I'm posting this. I think it originated from me wanting to tell you things, but backing out because I don't want to be a bother. 

Yet, here I am – random spurts of information. 

***

Bound by death and a hard place.

It's just too strange, and sad a thing to come up with. 

Strange. That reminds me. I'm not a strange man, and I don't like to do strange things. Well, maybe I do. But if you meant it with a negative connotation, that's just not me. 

***

Bound by death and a hard place.

Goodbyes

I have come to realize that "goodbyes" aren't all that scary and bad as they've been made out to be by popular culture and mass media.

Really, take a look back and see – every time anyone has ever wished anyone a decently scary goodbye, it has come attached with a feeling of eventual reattachment. Every time you have said or heard that phrase, a little part of you has always known, or at least wanted for certain, that the moment just couldn't be the end. In fact, in most of the times you've managed to utter that phrase out loud, it is highly probable that you did it partly because you knew that the goodbye wouldn't stretch to forever. 

No one really says goodbye with the intent of having it all crumble down in one fell swoop. Why would anyone choose that, unless, of course, it's "good riddance," instead?

What you should really be scared of and worried about is normal, everyday conversation.

Those – the ones that don't come with a goodbye as a period – are the ones that can actually end things. Those – where you can't even see, or hear, the phrase  – are the ones that usually do. There's no telling where it might be hidden in plain sight. It comes without any warning or information about its permanence.

There's just no redemption.

Thieves don't always come dressed in black drapes, and murderers often dress the same way. Broken hearts cannot be plastered, and sad days don't come with background music. This is the real world, and here, goodbyes don't come written on invitation cards.

8+0.0383

"How long are you going to keep on being late?"

"As long as it keeps starting a conversation."

"Happy birthday, again."

8th

He turned around and affirmed his gaze long enough to make it clear he knew what he was getting into.

"Hey," he said as if it were the last thing he would say in a sentence.
"Hi," came a hesitant, but swift reply.
"It's been long, hasn't it?" he continued, with every word sounding as if it were to bring about the conclusion of the conversation.
"Yes. We've come far."
"Eight years - whatever that is in miles, it must be far, right?"
A polite nod ensued.
"I've been telling you everything, haven't I?" he paused for less than what would ask for a reply, and continued, "sometimes with words, other times with silence."
He stopped at what wasn't a question, but it implored to be replied to.
"Silence. Yes. But that's not telling me everything, then, is it?"
"I'll be honest-"
"-oh you are."
He took another deep stare, one that depicted the color of his eyes.
"You make me - nevermind." He shook himself midway, but continued. "I'll be honest, there were crazy times. It's not like I didn't want to tell you. But the days just kept passing me by. And I thought-"
"Thought I'd understand, right?"
He stood there, desperate to jump in and nod his head and release an affirmation in a mixture of relief and joy. But he stood there. With no giveaway.

But he was known well enough to have been read.

"I did. I understood. And I understand."

His gaze turned into a sigh of relief - a shimmer of joy and hesitation and grief and a song of longing for acceptance - as his tear ducts began to loosen up. But he was well known to hold them sealed as well.

But he must have left the duct tape home. Because a tear was almost shaping up to race forth.

"Happy birthday, dear."

He wiped it off before it even got a chance.

She didn't.

"Where's my gift?" she spoke as he turned her tears into laughter.

"Oh it'll be here any minute," he said with his lips inching into a smile. He raised his arm in a jolt to pull down the sleeve of his coat, and glanced into his watch.

"It'll be right here."

General uninterestedness

The ocean floor is hidden from your viewing lens

A depth perception languished in the night

All my life I've been sowing the wounds

But the seeds sprout a lachrymal cloud

Severance pay

I got some troubles
          but they won't last
  I'm gonna lay right down
     here in the grass
               And pretty soon 
     All my troubles will pass
     'cause I'm in shoo-shoo-shoo
 shoo-shoo-shoo
shoo-shoo-shoo-shoo
     Sugar town

keeplyingtoyourself.

Memo to self

Come to grips with yourself, man. It's all going to be okay.
No. I don't want to. And it's not going to be that way.
You know it will be. It has to be. It can't be like this forever.
You know, that's what scares me the most. Because I've seen that word. Forever. 4ever.
Sigh. Abhas. Don't do this.
You can't stop me.
But I don't want to stop trying.
Yeah. I didn't want to stop trying either.
Okay, let's take another look at the situation.
Okay.
Sigh. You're not even looking.
I don't want to talk to anyone.
Well I'm right here. And I'm not going. And I'll wait. Because it'll be worth it.
Thanks for being here.

The end of all hopes and the point of no return

Remember yesterday when I told you to press F9 because that's how things were? Well, such a lie. Sand. In your eyes. I threw it. Duped. And deceived you. It's not fine. It is so not fine.

I'll tell you what's fine. fcuisdfdv23edck goodbye.

Serpents of the morning

A great man once said

there's only two ways to live

one as though everything's a miracle

one as if that is negative

Today a serpent came to me

speaking and draped in orange;

either for the money, or to leave 

goodness at the door-hinge

A great man once left

with good words of advice

believe in the miracles

or just close your eyes

With hesitation and doubt

I pulled out the coin and later a bill

I surrendered reluctant but easy

there is nothing left to take still

What the great man said

should it not be put to test?

Let's stop living in the middle

I decide I'll surrender my rest

He crushed the note in his palm

and promised me panacea,

better living and fulfilled desires

with hints of utopia

A great man once said

there's only two ways to live

one as though everything's a miracle

one as if that is negative

I'll tell myself to believe

I was blessed by a serpent,

speaking and dressed in orange;

because hopes are money well-spent.

Every/No thing

What is it like to feel nothing at all, you ask?
The answer to that lies in an empty mask;
Flavorless hopes,
And in an unmotivated task.

A conquest without a goal;
A peak without a flag;
An empty tank suddenly at 120;
Alone with a lag.

To feel nothing at all is simple
And simple should be good
but this stems from complexity
Such as a person suddenly rude.

Shuffles of meaning at intervals
A minute here, another away,
Just tell me you're here
A little longer, for always to stay

What is it like to feel nothing at all, you ask?
To hear you're growing distant
To turn deaf at the mention of forever
Maybe then you'll be resistant.

Illustrations of numbers and symbols

Here, we have an illustration of the human heart. Not that well-done, I believe. I drew it, anyway, so don't you tell me what not to believe.

Many people believe the heart looks like a 'less than' symbol to the left of a numeric three, rotated 90º CCW. Maybe not in real life, but that's what they think it looks like graphically, at least.

But then, that sort of heart is for people in love, right? With their heart-goggles fitting perfectly over their heart-shaped pupils – or irides – tuned out and tuned into a better world.

"Better world" – seems like an oxymoron for a second there, doesn't it? But, then, those goggles do wonders. Everything seems beautiful; your unforced smile just takes care of things. And it's no secret that our perception; the way we're seeing things – with those goggles, now – makes that apparent beauty so...there.

And then there's this. A slash in the middle of < and 3. The reality check that no one asks for; the reality check no one needs. What good does this do? Where hearts of numbers and symbols helped climb mountains with feathery ease, this shocker of a realist approach has immediate consequences on the amount of strength and pain it takes to just wake up in the morning. No, they're not positive consequences. They are equivalent to the sudden disappearance of a dominant limb.

Just an invitation to phantom limb pain.

Then, when you look at the bigger picture, elements such as karma and sometimes even fate step in. Nothing happens just for the sake of happening, you know.

But who's going to take care of the continual shortness of breath that happens right now?

Fate, you lazy beast. Karma, you scrumptious little nugget; you blind little worker of order.

Surrender control and wait for things to untwine themselves into, oh would you believe, a better world?

Does that ever happen?

How would I know.

What goes around (Moments, III)

One month and ten days ago, the aftermath of a tragedy began to take grasp of a lot of breaths in places even much farther than the core of the incident. Having drowned in every detail for weeks and weeks to come, I was at a continuous loss of words at the horrifying imagery that would be projected in my mind. To add to it, two very sad things took place after the incident, as if the incident wasn't big enough in itself – her demise, and change that is still gradual.

I failed to understand how jokes (in that duration, at the very least), could make people laugh. What Christmas? What New Years? How could anything even go on? But it did, right?
Though I still wish we could've turned back the clocks on this.

I was at a lack of words, but I did what I could in a different medium, to show the change that Delhi was not only desperate for, but also deserves.

A lot is to be said about the restlessness, and the relentless want for change. However, I believe that this must be channelized correctly to hope for induction. Because waving words around when you don't know what they will result in accomplishes results by chance.
Or perhaps my lack of words stood tall because silence is, sometimes, just more powerful.

---

A lack of words is a strange phenomenon resulting from a strange emotional, and/or psychological experience to  list the least. It is strange because an experience of similar magnitude can result in contrast; an upsurge of words, even dripping off the chin.

Some moments induce a change in you. They give you things, and take things away from you. Moments like these, when you have the words ready to burst out and blurt through without control, you tie your tongue in a knot – because those are the words that put you in that moment.

Sometimes, you cross the line without intending to, or even knowing it, and that results in change. For better or for worse? That depends. You don't care for that yet. You just want a response. But you tread carefully now, for you cannot be reckless enough to bring in another such moment.

So you freeze without an answer.

Quite a while ago, I told someone, "...I may not have described it well enough, but some moments will tell you what I couldn't," but I wonder now, does that person of gold remember? Or is everything just coming back around?