food for thought, Poetry, random

Lonely Bunch of Fuckers

Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
Trying to hide from our own demons in each other’s company,
Trying to find our own selves in others,
How does that even work?
How does it even end?
Our eternal search for eternal connection – something or someone who could save us from destroying ourselves.
Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
Settling for company we don’t even like,
Listening to things that we sort of despise,
But better that than listening to our babbling brain –
The person will eventually shut up, the brain won’t.
Aren’t we all lonely bunch of fuckers?
We flee with numb solitude when we actually need companionship the most.
Such lonely misguided souls!
Wanting to lead, wanting to be led,
Searching for truth, searching for love,
And at the same time shit scared of both.

Aren’t we both such lonely pair of fuckers?
Cheers to yet another glass of whiskey!
Hope it melts the frozen insides,
And the frozen tongue,
So that the vocal words flow better than the thoughts.
There’s no need for love tonight, for love is scary and too fantastical to be true,
So let’s wait until the line between lust and love vanishes out of the blue.
I might agree to meet you next time,
and the next time next to that,
I might agree to see you, talk to you, laugh with you,
And hate you even more than I possibly can,
But that doesn’t matter as long as you drive my emptiness away,

Until it returns again.

*

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Poetry, random

Fuckboys

You are beautiful,
You are beautiful, almost,
When you forget to sync sound to your thoughts,
God I am soaking wet under your accented syllables (just the syllables?)
Sometimes they make sense,
Sometimes I forget to make sense out of them.
You are beautiful,
Really, in all your peculiarity,
The hair falling on your forehead,
The walk with your shoulders slightly converged,
Snigger, giggle, god if only you’d shut up,
I can paint your naked portrait in my head,
And maybe even worship it,
If only you’d shut up
And kiss
And touch
And what not.
Man, you could call me the one with weird choices,
Benefits of doubts, suppressed judgement and mostly I, trying to choose the right thing among infinite voices,
A mistake – I know it,
But trust me I have read the Terms & Conditions,
A mistake – I know it,
But what’s life without one?
So, hey weirdo!
I invite you to be among my favorite anecdotes,
I invite you to invite me into a situation that none of us has to care about,
Kiss me again, I know you would,
Lust wins after all,
I might just find meaning out of your babbles,
Once, twice, maybe a couple of more times,
As long as I keep experiencing paradise under your dexterous tongue,
Among other things.

*

humour, Inspiration, Narratives, philosophy, random

How’s life in England?

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone notifies me of yet another text bearing the same question I’ve heard daily since the past two months. And I am left wondering, yet again, how the hell do I answer this?

How’s life in England? Each day, I wake up with a slight hangover because somehow I have developed a habit of mistaking beer for water. The morning begins with me brewing a tasteless tea and slicing an apple, often along with my fingers. Then I connect my phone to the speakers as I eat my so-called breakfast and start preparing my lunch. Two months back, cooking was my least favorite task and now it is my top choice for procrastination. I chop vegetables while dancing to some 2000s rock. I still don’t know how I manage to pull that off. The day progresses as I finish cooking my lunch which is almost never completely consumed by me. I leave some curry for my flatmates. And by the evening, there’s no trace of it left. My utensils are cleaned and neatly placed back in my shelf. Cooking a little extra so that you don’t have to clean? I figure it’s a pretty good strategy to go by. But this is not what you want to know, do you?

How’s life in England? Well, mostly it’s the blue sky and chartreuse grass spread across remarkably vast stretches of land. Each day I discover a new breed of dog. Each day I come across those cars that I never thought I would see in three dimensions with my own eyes. Each day I meet different kinds of people. And almost each day, I write about them in a small cafe with a small blackboard placed at its gate happily flaunting the beautiful handwriting and the supposedly reasonable rates of different kinds of coffees. Hours pass by as I type random stuff on random things and before it gets too cold (and it’s not even Winter yet!) I return to my kitchen to enjoy a multi-cuisine dinner cooked by flatmates. My kitchen is not a particularly attractive one. The dining table is almost never cleaned. Sometimes, the refrigerators stink. Noone is ever able to find his/her plates or spoons or coffee cup on time. When one of us burns food accidentally, we don’t pray for our own safety. Instead we pray for the inefficiency of the smoke detector. I look at the small exhaust, the electric heat stove, the rarely used oven, the toaster that partially works and the silver platform that’s turning grey – This kitchen is as ordinary as it can be. I look at the people I am dining with. This kitchen is my favorite place. But this is not what you want to know either, is it?

How’s life in England? Whenever the sun shines outside my tiny window my heart swells with happiness and hope. And then I think of the pending work, my spinning head and my heart immediately sinks. My table is splashed with my clumsiness. I am running out of clean clothes to wear. The bedsheet of my bed is beginning to stink. The mattress has given me a permanent back ache but I love my tiny little corner. My cupboard is bare but surprisingly, I don’t hate my limited collection of clothes. I am slipping below the poverty line slowly but steadily. However, somehow I don’t hate my depleting financial state. I am not sure why I am here sometimes. To write life? To live life? Sometimes my room haunts me too – to make it more eerie, there are unexplained bruise marks on my limbs. My financial burden haunts me. My insecurity and uncertain future haunts me. My dreams haunt me. But I am here anyway, I guess, happily haunted.

Days in England – It was clear sky a second ago and it’s suddenly raining. And despite the unpredictable weather, I can safely predict that it would never rain when I do have an umbrella with me. The cloudy night sky is bit of a shame but at times when it is clear I can almost get lost among the diamonds shining above, along with the silhouettes of the trees caressing the edges of the river. And then there’s the moon. The same moon I wrote a letter to saying that I would do what I love to do and in some surreal way I am still keeping that promise. I like to picture myself looking at this satellite somewhere someday in the future and instead of the moon, I like to believe that I would be looking at my own present self. We would briefly acknowledge each other, smile and whisper, “It is going to be alright.” The moon is my imaginary time travelling machine. When I look at it now, I suddenly see myself searching for it through the clusters of buildings back in Vadodara or strolling under the moonlight through the peaceful beaches of Goa during my final undergraduate year or picturing nose or eyes on it during my kindergarten days.

How’s my life? Each day I am going older. Each day I am learning something new. Though I can’t specifically point out the change but I can still feel a certain kind of novelty running through my blood. Life in England – It’s the walks among the pretty homes in red bricks. It’s playing with the amber leaves lining the footpaths. It’s being marvelled by the sparrows with orange necks. It’s walking through the trails lining the river. It’s catching a brief experience of forest and making an escape from urban life during those walks. Living here is modern and ancient at the same time. I am simultaneously falling in love in Swedish beer and cutting masala chai found in the streets of India. I am simultaneously falling in love with butter croissant and Latte and also with freshly cooked potato paratha made by my mother back home. I am amazed by the quiet and peaceful locality but at the same time I sometimes miss the crowd and the cacophony as well.

It’s writing, so much writing, reading, scribbling, dancing, drinking and being terrified of the fact that these days are disappearing much faster than they should and also the fact that I would miss this more terribly than I can ever imagine. My life in England? Well, honestly, life seems to be chasing me instead of I chasing it for a change. At first it was overwhelmingly surreal. Now, it’s overwhelmingly busy. Like the gas compressed in a cylinder, it seems like a whole lifetime has been squeezed into a couple of months. Weeks are long but yet they fly by. And sometimes all I do is breathe and watch yet another sun explode into thousands of shades of Crimson and Magenta and all those hues that I can’t even name.

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone is still beeping with that whatsapp message.
“Good.” I text back.

Inspiration, Musings from the coffee shop, Poetry, random

A wasted vocabulary

Words give away, you know. The snitch. Ratting bastards. Force your detachment, a vehement denial or a secret acceptance for a fiction juxtaposed on a non-fiction and yet they would make the forbidden revelations anyway. Tell them not to and they would confess loudly and openly your hitherto secrets even before you could confess it to your own self.

Words give away, the treacherous cartographers! They would shamelessly plot a map of your vulnerability; leaving it for others to discover and explore. Don’t use them on drawing books. They’d sketch and re-sketch your nakedness in all its ugliness.

Words! Don’t know how to handle them! Such confused creatures! Make them too simple and they would convey your message as a cacophonous crow’s call. Coat them with luxurious vocabulary and instead of glorifying the beauty of your thoughts they would fashionably accentuate your dishonesty and pretentiousness.

Words give away! Oh dear! Don’t trust them! The ultimate occupational hazard! Once you let the valves open there is no emergency button to shut them down. Keep these deceptive creatures away – they have several pathways leading straight to your heart, welcoming everyone, sparing none.

Words give away, the misleaders, the irritating fuckers!  Once the chosen ones hit your head, no synonyms can help you. Replace them with all the fancy syllables you know and yet they would stay out of tune until you use that clichéd set of musical notes that you had meant to avoid all along. Words leave you at odd times! They wouldn’t appropriately describe that amazing moment you had so desperately wanted to capture. And yet they would perfectly document the embarrassment that you resolved to forget permanently.

Words give away, don’t trust these babies and if you can still runaway, RUN! But if you can’t. Then welcome comrade! How have you been? Lie back. What can we do? Let us write a poem together. Don’t let someone else read it though. If you do, we would forever be trapped in the act of differentiating between false appreciation and honest compliment. Nothing would ever be good enough. But nothing can be bad either. Nevertheless, stay here, don’t go! Let’s marvel at the innocence hidden behind their maliciousness instead. Let’s watch them catch our ugly truths with infinite gracefulness. Let’s bloom without wondering about the odd colour combination of our petals. Let’s watch them make way for our idiosyncrasy carefully peeking out from the blanket of our sentences. Let’s swoon to the awkwardness of the lyrics that we just penned down. Let’s dance to the sorrow it conveys. Let’s share the tears at the joy it expresses. Aren’t you amazed by these supernatural abilities? Words give away, the lovers. Once they connect with you, there’s no way to break that bond. Words give away, the interpreters, they would translate the message that can never be spoken or seen. Words give away, the saviors! Even with all their treachery, how do we learn to live without them?

~Musings from the coffee shop

P.S. You can find more posts on the musings from the coffee shop here .

 

 

 

food for thought, random

A brief note on valentine’s day

(And how that’s not what this really is)

Don’t really get what we want from relationships these days. On one hand, we want to skip the whole tiresome bullshit of “whether-he-likes-me-or-not” and we don’t want to go through the awkwardness of all those dates; the unnecessary questions intended to conceal the true intentions which by the way is known to both the parties! But still on the other hand, we would go through all the pretentiousness again, not trying to judge but judging anyway, agreeing and disagreeing and then agreeing to meet again and then spending hours (Mind you! Hours!) trying to ensure it’s the right kind of weirdness, the compatible kind, the cute kind, the appropriate cheesy kind, not the creepy kind, not the clingy kind, not the too desperate kind. Who wants all this bogus process? God! We want honesty! We want directness! We want truth and a certain kind of frankness. We want certainty, not the I-don’t-knows!
But of course, when we do get all these that we seem to want, a strict no beating around the bush things, we are offended! How dare he says stuff like that!
Weird, isn’t it? We can’t tolerate it. We don’t want the drama but we want the drama. We don’t want to be exhausted again but we want to be exhausted. Despite not wanting it, we want the formalities, the sanskaar and the skillful talking. We might not even want him but we want him to want us!  We want nothing but we want everything! Has this always been this complicated? Is that even worth all the energy and all the time? The frequent uselessness and the occasional usefulness of it is harrowing. Get what I am saying?

And it doesn’t stop there! Relationships! And boys! Hah—

He tells you that he loves you and you tell him that you don’t. You not being able to reciprocate is you being a serial friend-zoner of course.

Your willingness to meet him again and again, your pleasure reflected in your smile when you see him do not count. But you not sending the first texts makes you an attention-seeker of course.

The way he disappears in the midst of a conversation, the way he can be sweet and indifferent as he pleases, the way he treats you as a malleable entity do not count. But you not returning his calls makes you the heartless bitch of course.

It’s okay for him to like you but not like you enough to be anything beyond the friend who comes with certain kind of benefits but you doing the same makes you a slut. But also you being emotionally involved makes you desperate and needy of course.

When he likes seeing you but doesn’t like being seen with you and that just makes him “a bit concerned about the privacy” which is so okay but you doing the same makes you offensive of course.

Being a girl, they say, gives you an edge in the relationships. That’s right and it’s okay for him to push you off that edge but if you fall it’s just you being stupidly careless, of course—

So, I guess what you are trying to say is that girls and guys, all over the planet, are too confused and  too busy following the notions of patriarchy to be involved in meaningful relationships…

You think too much voice-in-my-head! I guess what I am trying to say is that if you are looking at the phone screen waiting for it to blink with a notification that’s going to make your heart flutter. Don’t. Drink a beer instead and have a very happy valentine’s day!

How original of you to post something like this on 14th February!

Thanks! Hope you know my originality springs from you, brain!

Touché.

food for thought, my life, Narratives, random

An unnecessarily guilty glance

I  am waiting outside the juice shop, thirsty and tired, putting an enormous amount of expectation on a tiny glass of sugarcane juice that is yet to be served. My face is smeared  in pink and yellow and some other weird combinations. My arms are still tingling from what could have been a regretful sunburn after a long celebratory drive back to our city, to this shop.Despite the brutal tanning and dehydration, I can’t help but feel elated. And why not? I am drenched in festivity! How I adore this festival of hues! This craziness!

I am at my usual lost-in-thought state when I feel a light tug on my elbow – ‘Behen O Behen! Le Lona’

Annoyed, I turn around. A little girl is trying to sell Gulal to me.

I look at the packets of colours in her hands and I know I shouldn’t buy them. Those are the kinds of colours that should be kept away from your skin at all cost unless you happen to like rashes.I am tempted anyway. It’s Holi after all! Everyone needs to celebrate today! But before I could know it, I have dropped the idea again – Nahi, bacche, nahi chahiye. No child, I don’t want it.

Lelona. Please? – She requests again.

You can call her a beautiful child if you look at her carefully; Her brown eyes, that goes with her brown complexion, her perfectly aligned teeth, her straight thin nose and the innocence in her voice.I have come down to my knees. My fingers are now fondling with colours inside the packet I have. No, I can’t buy the so-called Gulal from her and I won’t. It is against my easily adaptable principles. But I paint both her cheeks green and greet her a happy Holi.

She is surprised. A smile brightens up her face. Suddenly, she forgets why she is even here! I offer her my cheek. She dips her small fingers in my packet and slather the colour over my face. Now, I am heavily dusted in green as well. Her smile has broadened. No one has ever seemed so happy just with these small gestures before.

I am smiling too. I try to feed in the details of her happy face in my head.You,little girl,are such a delightful lovely poem that I can’t even pen you down. Maybe someday when I am worth and capable of putting your beauty in words, I will. But for now, I still can’t buy these packets of pity from you that you still hold in your hands, that you are still going to try to sell to other prospective buyers a few minutes from now. And though you are still smiling at me and you don’t even want my money anymore, I just find myself letting out an inaudible and invisible murmur  – ‘I am sorry’.I know that you are not asking for my apology. You don’t want it. Actually, it’s I who really needs it – as a futile attempt to pacify my own confused conscience. I am sorry because I don’t think you deserve this. I am sorry because I can’t help you escape the circumstances you have been born in. I can’t save you from your parents making you sell these packets. I can’t send you to school and I can’t teach you either. And neither can I ever take responsibility for your better childhood or better future. Not that there is no way for achieving any of this, it’s just that I am lazy and I am running short of efforts to uplift my own life. Looking at you, I raise those never-to-be-answered questions to my fate again. Why you? Why me? They aren’t answered of course. As usual, they turn their backs on me. And then I turn my back on you after one last cheerful, apologetic and perhaps an unnecessarily guilty glance.

food for thought, Narratives, philosophy, random

When you died and I seem to know you now

It’s puzzling to some extent to accept that I am this agitated by you. I can’t explain it because truth be told, I don’t really know you. So, the fact that you decided to elope with that beautiful handsome young man – death – shouldn’t be bothering me at all. Come on!  Someone somewhere is talking to his daughter for the last time. I can’t grieve over that. Someone somewhere is aiming his gun to kill the man he has been paid to kill. I can’t grieve over that. Someone somewhere knows finally that the chemotherapy didn’t work on her after all. I can’t grieve over her. Someone somewhere is closing her eyes to a blissful dream that she knows will never end. I can’t grieve over her.

And I don’t. I simply don’t have such emotional stamina.

But being strangers, in our case, doesn’t help. Don’t ask me why, I am not good with explanations. Just a while ago, you were breathing and you didn’t matter. Ironically now you lay so still, your eyes closed, your blood frozen – a decaying servant to gravity now, not your heart and I can’t stop thinking about you. Your death is baffling. Your could-have-been life brings those tears back again that I just wiped a few seconds ago. Maybe you are at a better place now – where people don’t get sick, where people have meaning, where they don’t expect, where they accept,  where they don’t deny, where they embrace, where there is hope, where there is joy, where there is life that truly is worth living. Maybe you are at that place. So, maybe I need not even be sad for you.

But what about the people you have left behind? People, whose lives you touched, whose lives which once were intricately weaved with yours but now are just some haphazardly tangled lumps of threads. What about your memories that are going to come back again and again at utterly random moments and haunt them? What about those things – your books, your pillow, your clothes that are going to lay there expecting you to touch them one more time and will never be touched by anyone else without the stab of your memories? I am sad for the circle you have drawn which can’t ever be broken or bended back into a straight line.

Maybe your absence will be a new doleful inspiration. Maybe your absence will grudgingly bring new possibilities. Maybe you are hopeful it might turn out that way eventually – all forgotten, forgiven – with a better beginning, with a better ending but there always be this dream, this never ending dream, cropping like weeds in an otherwise well maintained garden, a faint possibility, a faint projection of a future – that could have been led with you – what would that have been like?

And no matter how much you try to, you can’t save us from that. You can’t take away this pain. We have earned it. We might in a spur of rageful moment blame it on you. But we would never mean it. It was never your fault after all. We will blame it on gods because in the end we need someone to share the unbearable pain of not being able to save you.

And even then, you and the gods can’t stop us from wondering how come you are not here! You were there just a moment ago; breathing, existing, living, loving and now you are not. How come? How will you ever make us truly believe that you will never come back? You will. Won’t you?

Narratives, random

Green Eyes

Your eyes have a little of green in them. Actually, no. Your eyes have a lot of green in them. And to me it seems to be one of the seven wonders. Of course, that might have went a bit too far, I agree, but you should at least appreciate the rarity of that color combination, especially in the land of blacks and browns.

I am sure that I am not the only person upon whom your eyes have had such an impact. People must have told you. Maybe you are used to it but then again I would like you to know that the adjective – beautiful- is a sad understatement for your eyes. 

What I wanted to do when I saw you was linger a little longer. What I wanted to do was to catch one more glimpse of yours and one after that and maybe one more after that and guiltily one more after. But I couldn’t have done that without making you uncomfortable. So, I didn’t. As I looked at you, I realized that half of me was stunned by the sheer beauty of your eyes and other half, well the other half, was soaking wet with  jealousy – my materialistic brain doing the mistake of comparison again and shamelessly asking why my eyes couldn’t be like yours. Well, we can’t have all the good things, brain! Can we? And even if we do, we won’t appreciate it. At least the lack of it makes us notice its beauty and be amazed by it.

I was wondering about you and exclusively about you but bet you didn’t even unconsciously felt that I was passing by. And why would you? First, you were busy talking to your friend and second – How many of us remember the faces of people we see at the railway station? I wonder how you would have reacted if I had told you exactly what I felt. But a normal person wouldn’t have done that, right? I have been trained well for almost never expressing my thoughts truly. So, this thought of complimenting you never even crossed my head. I continued to walk. I turned back to catch one last glance but your friend was standing in my line of sight. Oh! How I wished she wasn’t! I turned and never looked back again. If I had the courage to go to you and praise you on your face, I would have told you  that they put a genius up there just to create your eyes. A bit of sap green in the palette, you mix a little of yellow in it. Not too much; don’t make it too bright or too light. Then you paint it throughout the circumference of your eyeball. You let it fade inwards into the brownish grey background of your hazel eyes. The green slowly diffuse into the grey. Use the thinnest strokes! Use the best paint brushes! The grey has a bit of brown in it, remember! Blend it well. And in the middle, there’s your pupil; jet black. Even if I try a million times I can’t paint it the perfect way despite the fact that the image of your eyes is pinned inside my head. That’s how beautiful, enigmatic, attractive, unusual, amazing your eyes are.

It’s been quite many days since I saw you and I think, I think it’s difficult even for me to believe that your eyes were indeed the way I saw it.

Exaggeration.

That’s what the other person in my mind says. You are exaggerating turquoise ink! You caught her glimpse. Just a glimpse that might not have even lasted a second! Could be that her eyes were not actually green at all! Maybe it was just the light in that angle playing with your eyes. Thought of that?

Why is it always so difficult to believe that something amazing (howsoever trivial it is) did touch our lives? Why is it so hard to accept that? I don’t face the same problem if something terrible happens. How is that fair? In our perception of our own selves, we are worth everything worse but not for anything that’s even minutely better. Interesting.

This random note on my cellphone is the only evidence that I did come across you. And I am glad that I captured you here.No brain, there is no exaggeration. My words are my camera. And this is an unedited photograph.

Right. And what a shame would it be if she was wearing contact lens the whole time.

Narratives, random

The one about the smoker 

​I wouldn’t be surprised if I forget you tomorrow but by continuing to write this I am contradicting the very first statement. Anyway, you know what – I am not a smoker but you might be the reason I might want to turn into one. Of course, you as a reason, aren’t strong enough but in this moment,  I can give you that at least. Not that I am falling in love; I ,  being stereotypical and secretly judgemental as hell as always need a ground breaking, sky falling reason to fall in love with any person and you! Well, you drive trucks for a living so… I am sorry that I am biased and I can’t respect you. I am sorry since you might not even be remotely close to the person I am assuming you to be but I can’t change my mind. Hence  all this – I disrespecting you and be amazed by you at the same time is quite puzzling. 

On a closer inspection though I realize that I don’t even remember your face or even the colour of your shirt ( Was it red?). I am not even curious. However, what preoccupies my head is –  those threads of smoke dancing in the air, carelessly gliding, flowing and bending through the curves of your lips. What preoccupies my head is how into the air they went, out of your mouth; soft mesmerizing disappearing bunch of white directionless trajectories.  You seemed like a sorcerer – blowing fog out of your mouth that incredible way! It was beautiful. Aren’t all dangerous things are? 

Good, that you are not aware that I am staring at you. Good that you would never know my name or be aware of my existence – we don’t need to acknowledge these mundane things after all. And to be brutally honest, I don’t care if you live or die – we are,after all, still strangers. But may I just interject that I think that you were born to smoke? I know it sounds stupid or maybe even offensive but you do it so beautifully! Effortlessly! There’s no performance! There’s no smugness! There’s no compulsion to appear cool. You don’t care if you are being watched at all! And as I watch you pass by, slowly and yet swiftly out of the frames of the window of my seat, I nail your images in the walls of my head shamelessly extolling the beauty of your shameless addiction even though you never asked for any of this. I have no clue why you caught the fancy of my head at all! But I had to capture you somewhere other than my feeble unreliable memory. I don’t get why it’s a necessity but my attention or admiration doesn’t seek any kind of qualifications – just a mild touch of oddity, that’s all. In that way, you are perfectly qualified.

You seem to be entangled in your own trail of thoughts. You are not looking anywhere or at anyone or anything. Your eyes are just pointed towards a direction of indifference.  It’s nothing extraordinary I guess but I am amazed since it makes you a perfect picture. And your mouth is a cryogen! As if a scientist made special arrangements in his lab just to place you there. As if an artist spent months just to paint that white cloud coming out of your mouth beautifully diffusing around your face.

I might never see you again by the way. I am grateful for that. And even if I do I wouldn’t recognize you at all or go speak to you – that being way out of my comfort zone. But then still, these few seconds of catching your glimpse are precious. How do I explain it? I don’t understand it myself. You, the smoke, the cryogenics, the magic, the cloud, the fog – all but a puff of beedi…!!

And there at a distance, a  crazy writer, is sitting in the bus, lauding your possibly  worst habit to incomprehensibly impossible heights. 

How do I explain this? I just know that I can’t deny the sad, remarkable, abnormal beauty of this perfect picture.Of your perfect picture. 

food for thought, random

Just a sucker for conversations

Conversations, we are having it over tea, maybe over a puff of Marlboro, maybe over coffee, maybe over that dinner which I am too busy to eat because I am listening to you. Conversations, maybe the reason why I accepted your friend request or swiped you right or went on all those dates or made that first remark about the weather piercing through our awkward silence.Conversations, the ones that happen over moons, over  rainy days, over crazy dreams, over out of the blue topics, over craziest ideas, over craziest people whom we might or might not even know. Conversations, when I have lent you my full attention even when you are talking about things that I do not really understand. Conversations, when you make no sense at all and yet I am amazed by your expressions and by the passionate way you try to explain. Conversations,when you leave me in awe with your knowledge of things that I never knew existed. Conversations, when you tell me those anecdotes that couldn’t have happened even in movies. Conversations, when you say something funny and I can’t stop laughing. Conversations, when it is a perfectly scary night to share horror stories. Conversations when you weave the words just the right way and I suddenly fall madly in love with you. Conversations, at odd hours when eventually I watch you fall asleep in my lap. Conversations, when we argue about trivial things and I am laughing inside at our stupidity. Conversations, about things that I will tell noone but you. Conversations, when I can look in your eyes and see no judgement attached whatsoever. Conversations, when you try to mend my broken heart. Conversations, when your words inspire me and give me hope to begin again. Conversations, when in the middle, out of nowhere, it hits me how special you are. Conversations, when in your idiosyncrasy, I find my own identity. Conversations, when in your weirdness, I find a connection that I can’t let go of.

Conversations, the ones I wish I never had. Conversations, where you twist the one right word the wrong way and I am drenched in fury. Conversations, overshadowed by expectations, those that are too heavy to rescue me from hatred and unnecessary pain. Conversations, appropriately clever ones, the ones that manipulate me into doing something wrong without I being aware of it (until it’s too late) Conversations, that reek of my lost self esteem. Conversations, when I am conned, when I am disgusted, when I resolve to never talk to you again. Conversations, where you seem so brilliant that I jump out of sanity and drown myself in jealousy. Conversations, the ones I have never had and I would regret that throughout my life. Conversations, the ones I should have but I am too stupid and young to realize that. Conversations, which are precious but I might never know. Conversations which are non existent and utterly useless and yet they have my head occupied. Conversations, which kill dreams and aspirations and I let them. Conversations, which I am dying to have but I can’t form the sentences right. Conversations that draw you so close to me and those that throw you thousands of miles away.

Conversations. Self destructive as it may be but I am just a sucker for conversations.