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.