the story of my life.
blech..

I do not love you except because I love you

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda


more of my muse..

an ode to the almost there
the almost together
to the people who slipped and slid their way through whatever they had the patience to see in my head
writing to all of them,whilst i stand at the very brink of what could be a new way at looking at life.

this one's for that feeling you have at times with those particular people. somewhere at the back of your head, you have convinced yourself about their being somehow crucial to every day living,that little bunch of people you'd actually get out of bed for,take the call of,stop in your tracks for,shift over a mood for,the people you can count out on your fingers every time you're shuffling through all the contacts in your phonebook,i mean.. this is for all the times you've pushed the limit so far that they can only gape at you from the distances you've placed them at unquestioning.you've also pushed the limit because you know you can.it's the age old story.why is it then that when they try to play the game (and this is usually after weeks of silent hurting),you snap?
.
.
oh hell,i can't pin this ghost down yet.
later then,you.

'The Last Resort',Maradu,Cochin,Kerala.

from home then...

plafond plafond plancher

'she lay on the cot.ceiling ceiling ceiling.she turned over.floor floor floor.she got up and,like a vacuum cleaner with insomnia,roamed the room some more.for three days,she did such things.perhaps she was coming to terms with the space,although surely she realised that space is merely a device to prevent everything from being in the same spot.'

Tom Robbins,'Still Life with Woodpecker'.

this post and all posts following are meant to weaken the tongue which can now seemingly not speak or write anything which doesn't sound more than just a little melancholic.

down with all of it.enough.
if i have to spit it out,regurgitate and spit it out all out again,i want to be done with it. and then i won't spit. i won't let it collect anymore,see?


this is for the god out there,who saw me through eight months of silence.
i will never forget the sound of that particular quality of silence.
or the sun beams passing past the colonial arches those englishmen left behind,even in that little town in kerala. me and my blessed books sprawled in the corridors in the scratchy sun patches. on the floor of abandoned convents.
i will never forget the squeal of the pigs at the monastery as they were led back every evening.
or the sickly sweet flowers strewn on the floor of the pathway behind the monastery.they'll always remind me of papers to be written.a sense of urgency.of guilt.numbers.escape.