today i woke up in the morning with a strange feeling of loss.
i got up and checked to see if the milk was alright,...if the paper had come in.the milk was alright,the paper hadn't come in.i put on some coffee to boil. and then stopped in the living room and looked at the floor.what had happened ?was there something i was missing?had i lost something,was there something i was supposed to be worried about that i'd forgotten about?then it came back.i'd let you go.there was no you. the music was out.
that's all.

for the pirates around here who've come to my notice of late

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you could take my words,but isn't it time to start worrying about the lack of yours,me hearties?

the film lives on in your head because it reached its end.
my fairy godfather once told me films are unlike people,you can hold on to them ,see?
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i float in and from one film to another.michel poiccard breathes for me.
sometimes i walk out of films if i'm enjoying it too much.the film has already ended in the mind.i pick at my lot of sensations and take my time to savor them before they start fading into the background with the other sounds.michel poiccard breathes.he has in him what i foresaw in all those who past through my life.i was just waiting for the michel who decided to stop the running,because i had decided to stop a long time ago too.
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.. the michels in my life?,........they figured it too late. the film had ended.i believe one doesn't really leave the people one loves. and when one does,the love has changed into something else.it is energy. if it doesn't change into something else and stays at the same intensity,flickering uncertainly in the corridors between two rooms,there's no way anyone else gets any of it. when love doesn't go to the place it wants to go to it starts decaying the body it lives in.life looks bleak. nothing is pretty.i make films because i love life.i am 25 and have only just found respect for my toes.there is much to see.
they were just too late.

khepa

I don’t believe the idea is about making everyone see the same light. I got that some time back,.. there is no cumulative,absolute truth. there is just my truth and the truth I choose to see of the people around me . I needn’t try to convince anyone about the rich colour and brilliant texture of my truth. I must just sit and observe the truth in other people.

i'd just finished one month of scriptwriting.it involved weeks of writing,long hours of writhing in agony,of being an absolute vegetable,of not being able to quite communicate at all.just because i'd decided to take an absurd set of rules seriously. now i'd spent a lifetime questioning rules,see?and i think i was just waiting for someone to present me with a mad set of them so i could allow myself to accept them as law.just to see how far i could let myself loose in their constraints.the more absurd they got,the more i relished my discomfort.i was my only enemy.i hurled myself in headlong.i trusted completely.there's no fear when you get like that,it's a lot like being in love.
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by the end of the first week i was left with only sensations.basic stimuli. i was aware of feeling.i knew i could see,i knew i felt. there was no more use of the read word. it was the edge.this was the moment,no pillars to hide behind,this is where i got to see how the juice flowed for me.time to check the inclination of the slope,which way would the water flow ?would the water rise up, would i float?i figured,either i’d manage to get things across or i’d forever go down quiet,bubbling out of sight into ambiguity.isn't it what we do in real life as well?try striking a balance between a world of silence to that of words and fro again. i knew if I didn’t let my character grope its way out into the white tubelit room and onto that white table top,it wouldn’t have gotten the closure it needed. You see,it had been trying for quite some time.I'd just not known.

this is an ode to film.to what it has come to be in my life.to the fluidity it has granted to so much i had no words for earlier.it lives and breathes for me. it is unlike the piano i used to play,the guitar that nibbled at my fingers,it was nothing i had to pick up,it just wafted into my being.just like that.i was a believer.my life is a roll of married print.

when i leave you,i write.
i must then be writing when i have killed all hope.
when i have hope i stand still,i don't twitch,i breathe it in,i bite into the wine,i leave it out to breathe.
our dialogue is space,the playground has no horizons.
run.run faster.
because i am.

my hair has grown longer since you have been around.

we sat and wondered at the cycles in our lives again,she wondered why the story took the same turns,no matter which the face was.i echoed it in my head,and then it was clear,it was something till yet unlearnt in ourselves we were searching for. i scoured for the answer in the spirit of the other,and maybe was wrong in doing so.the search must be just within.
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i knew this at one time long ago.i'd forgotten again.
damn.





in the meantime i will laugh.just like i used to.

nausea

life seems to be passing by like tonight.
me coming back tired,breathing slightly heavy,a light sheath of sweat,the street a haze,a dog in the corner,i sing softly,walking back to a house i know is the only thing waiting just a short distance away.
petals for the pools of water tonight.just them.