Error 404 – An Ode to f**kboys

I need a man
Not a disappointment.
I need a man who, for starters, reads
I need someone who listens
I need a man who understands
Who is looking for something beyond superficial connections
a bit of humbleness
a bit of modesty
a bit of depth
a bit of stability
I need a man
who is thankful
I need a man
I can be thankful for
I need a man
who is not stupid
I need a man who thinks
Or at least someone who has a high probability of thinking
I need a man
Who speaks what he means
Who means what he speaks
I need a man
Not another humanoid pendulum
Or an ill-researched thesis on his ex
Or a tasteless stew of delusion and arrogance
I need a man
Not a leaking faucet of insecurity
Or a stale cocktail of toxic narcissism
I need a man
And multiple orgasms
And someone who’s capable of giving those
someone who’s more functional than my two fingers
I need a man
And a bit of love
And a chance to give that love back
I need a man
Who respects
Not someone who suspects
I need a man
Not a predator
Not a ghost
I need someone who really exists.

Error 404. Your request can’t be found.

Things that I don’t understand – II

  1. Fluid mechanics. Office politics. And heart.
  2. Black holes. Black-heads. What existed before big bang. And heart.

So, what’s the most popular topic available in the market for us average folks? Politics? Partly. Sports? Partly. Game of Thrones? Yes, definitely. Shit, this post should have been about that. But, okay I settled for the second best thing – Opposite gender! Of course! The most common thing that we don’t understand yet! Yeah, yeah, yeah as mainstream as it is, this is indeed going to be about him. About that guy.  “What guy?” you might ask. Good question. He is the guy you mostly hate but secretly love. The guy you secretly love and that’s why you mostly hate yourself. He is the one who has technically departed from the circle of relevance of your life. But, oh, he is there alright. The guy you are almost tempted to text when drunk. But self-control matters and you don’t really want to climb down the ladder of self-esteem anymore. So, you don’t. But still you are “tempted”. Point to be noted, your highness! The guy you might have met just once but then that was enough. The guy who never bought you any flowers or took you on a “formal” date (or let you do the vice versa) but even the lack of these things was enough. Enough for what? Enough for your obvious inference that you need to stay away. But you didn’t. Because how could you simply do things that you shouldn’t and make your life a hell lot simpler? The guy who offends you, who disrespects you in the most obvious ways and yet he matters. The guy who is not interested in you even a bit and hence all your interest comes pouring down on him. Yes, that guy. You don’t like him. Or rather you don’t want to like him. You wish for indifference. You wish that the fact that he has a satisfactory life without you doesn’t bother you. He is that guy whose proximity might be something you yearn for. But you wish both for his presence and absence. He is toxic. So, you stay away. He is toxic. So, you search for an antidote so that you could stay with him. You don’t wish to acknowledge his impact on your life and usually you don’t. But for how long would you deny?  You can’t hide the truth from your own self. Your self knows about the way he is there in your thoughts – lurking, hovering and always peeking through the curtain. “Why? Why that guy?” You ask everyone present in your body. And oh so cutely they all nod their heads with innocence dripping through their faces and they will tell you – “On ne sait pas! (We don’t know!)” You don’t know. I don’t know. God doesn’t know. Science doesn’t know. So, who knows! Damn. That guy. “Come on! You could do better surely,” you tell yourself. But then why must you belittle yourself and him both by such line of thought! You could do better. He could do better. Who knows who could do better? He is not worth it. He doesn’t deserve you. But you don’t know that. Maybe it’s not you who deserves better maybe it’s him who deserves better. Maybe his negative projections in your brain are merely one of your futile efforts to get him out of your head. For what it’s worth maybe he is indeed amazing. Too good for you. Maybe not, who knows? Can we really have an unbiased opinion about this? But do we really need that opinion? So, why insult ourselves (and him) by this pointless debate? Pause. Let’s acknowledge that our paths intersected for a reason. Pause. Let’s acknowledge that nothing lasts forever. Pause. Let’s recall that there are many people who once meant the world to you but are nothing more than a name in your Facebook friend list now. Things like that happen all the time and with everybody. Pause. Yes, you both shouldn’t be together. And thankfully that’s not even going to happen. But can somebody tell you that it’s okay to think about him? Pause. He had been amazing and you are grateful. Pause. This is a phase and it will pass. You learn and move on. That’s life. Stop. Okay?

Okay. But that guy, that person – ‘Why exactly’ is what I don’t understand.

*

The door, among other things

If I were to listen to my witless alter ego residing inside my head, you would find me standing with my ears pressed against this door just as they once had been pressed against your chest listening to your beating heart. I admit there are no octaves in the heartbeats but I had discovered a song anyway. I have long gone forgotten the lyrics. I can’t recall its music composition either. But somehow, I still remember how symphonic it sounded. What weird criterion does the mind follow to retain memories? Anyway, that symphony is nothing but an autistic part of the past now but still I am listening to it standing here – sans words, sans notes. Why should I be thinking about those moments? Why should I even be speculating about eavesdropping through this door? There is nothing good I can hope to hear. You don’t live beyond this wooden thing. And this wooden thing has no possibility of being swung open—paving way for our chance encounter. Yet that doesn’t stop me from enjoying this cold wind beautifully complementing the hot day it has been. I, leaning on the wall with some meaningless thoughts concerning you and a non-existent tattoo on my wrist and imaginary flickering light on the ceiling along with a fictitious cigarette between my fingers that I am shamelessly flicking onto to the stairs. Not that I enjoy smoking. Not that I smoke. Not that I have any intention of getting a tattoo. Not that I desire to listen to your voice. Not that I anticipate your unnecessary presence either. And yet, here I am, staring at this cheap wood polish, the old fashioned door lock and resisting my temptation to ring the doorbell. You won’t open the door anyway. Oh no, you would actually, had you been there. And what kind of encounter would that have been other than an awkward exchange of brief salutations? After all, it’s not easy to put a comprehensible vocality to all of my thoughts that have revolved around you. But there’s a reason for this incompetency of mine – In my imagination, you are perfect! Of course, I am aware that the reality is different and it has all its right to be so. However, don’t I have the liberty to enjoy fiction too? It may be factually incorrect. It may be too dreamy. It may be an absolute wastage of time. But why should I refrain myself from this easy source of amusement? For despite my repeated denials, I do secretly admit that it’s a pleasure to think about you, to think about different versions of you which are not actually yours but MY projections of your heavily edited photographs. It’s entertaining creating numerous scenes of a forgettable play where we both can be the protagonists. The play that has perfect set of dialogues. Whenever we perform it in my head, it’s always a standing ovation. House-full auditorium. Critical acclaim. On stage, you are spot on! On stage, you are amazing! Just look at you saying each and every word with such spontaneity and accuracy! In reality, however, these are just some banal sets of conversations penned down by me in the air. Unfortunately, our literacy is just limited to pens and papers. How can one understand the stories flung open in the air? How does one read the unwritten? How does one hear the unsaid? Your incapability makes sense. My unreal expectation doesn’t. You are not the character of my story. You aren’t really the actor of my play. You are just a bad casting, you are just a misunderstood being. But then again, it’s a pleasure standing here. The fact that you won’t come out that door is a relief and your absence is ironically beautiful. And though you might find me shuffling through your memories and contemplating about various possibilities that could have occurred on the other side of this door, paradoxically this very act bars me from entering the past again, from crossing the line, from eventually being an unwanted guest, from taking the misleading detour on the way to my home and from forgetting that our broken connection is beyond repair. This door is not a reminder of you. This door is not a reminder of any closeness. This door is a reminder of the closure. Our closure.

***