Twins

There’s always someone whose existence seems richer than my own. Someone else I’m dying to write about, whose every thought I ache to exploit, whose every tear will quench my relentless thirst, whose simple joys I drown my words in, forcing them under.

Their stories flash across my eyes, each one wrapped in a single photograph, like a slide show, every second, there’s no time to look, quickly, click, quickly, click, quickly, an old man, bandaged feet, a pedestrian crossing, click, quickly, a teenage girl, a school uniform, a foggy classroom window, click, a windy day, a lady, a white sari, the edge of a roof, quickly, quickly, a starved boy, jaded eyes, a cameraman, click, click, this is the pace my heart beats at, each click a person’s life, each beat betrays their tales.

To all the Almosts, and yet the Not Quites

There have been more guys than one that I think may have got away, because I’ve never made up my mind or known what I want. I think that proves why I let them go, yet I feel so deeply about them and grow so confused at times that I imagine there to exist more feeling than is necessarily true. I can’t be sure and I know no one ever is, but the least I’d like to expect of myself is to not be confused. That would be something if not everything. The incident in question was quite bland actually, nowhere near as dramatic as this; I think I could make a paper bag look gloomy. I’ve pimped and embellished because I can.

I hesitated before hitting the little red button on my Nokia. But there wasn’t any point; the line was already dead. The deepness of his voice echoes in my heart.

Let’s Give Them Something to Wonder About

I love how our blogs make us look cooler than we are in real life. At times these spaces on the Internet seem more real than the people we meet. Face to face, we are all just people without placards stripped of our glamour.

People pass me by and I wonder if these ordinary people have a blog, where they rave and rant and talk that way and walk that way. I wonder if I have ever read their words, comments, nodding my head, or wanting to bitchslap them, or laughing out loud.

I wonder if when I pass them by, something in the air will change. I wonder if that turn of the head and look in my direction means something.

When I stand at the back of a crowded room, I see the edges of webs connecting us. Laughing faces in gathered groups, a sparkling red line crackling through the air all the way to the other corner, to the other laughing face in the other gathered group. And I think to myself, “They would never even know it”.

Perhpas if they did, they would remain in those disconnected corners.

A Protest Prose

This is a protest prose, sticking it to the pigs who whore us out to 15 minutes of fame, in any shape or form. They really really piss me off.

None of us are waiting to be discovered, you hear me? Look at me when I’m talking to you.
Just because you see us; just because you see us, now, suddenly, it doesn’t mean our warm breath never used to make fog on a cold glass surface.

We are not your discovery to make coz they ain’t no such thing. We already exist discovered far more within ourselves than you could ever know.

Start the clock.