no, nothing too special about the song, nothing remarkable.
but when you hear it after you have spent the worst week of your life, when the ikka-dukka people who were there at your lowest (who are immune to all your tantrums,cusses and love) also manage to not turn up, it reads itself as God's-book-of-unattainable.
We oft repeat mistakes. The fickleness of the human mind and the ability of repair over time make an ass out of us, repeating the same things over and over again, thinking things will magically work themselves out this time around.
But given the starfish’s memory that most of us have, one also forgets that when a sequence is repeated the end will be the same as it was the first time over.
But no, we still go out in the rain, wet our jeans, splurge in the mud and then swear to god I am not, never, EVER, going out in the rains again. But then, when it rains again, the sweet smell of the earth hypnotises you to go back in there.
No…why am I even trying the words will not rhyme. Wasn’t I told before that there is no music left?
There is so much that I have to tell. It is not about a broken heart, it has been broken for eons now. It is like that unknown, unwanted part of me that invariably sticks to me all the time. I cannot put my finger on to it as of now. I can’t at all. But there is something that has been harrowing onto me.
I don’t have sleepless nights anymore I keep busy all the time. I want to shy away, get away run away. It is not about things that bother me. it is me.
There is this part of me that hates me. I hate the eyes, the skin the smile. I hate it more because it is pretty. I don’t like pretty anymore.
I see no purpose of pretty. There is putrid black in it. Like a mask that I invariably, inexplicably keep wearing.
My only hint of salvaging me from the darkness from total, ineffable stupor, is something that I have let go off.
*I took the cure for happiness* where do I go from here?
Mornings turn into nights and make complete days that turn into weeks and months. There is total mayhem, total anarchy during the days. I am a completely different person; probably that is why I should steer clear of the nights. It is the darkness and the distant noise that reminisces of the chaos of the day, in which I come face to face with something that looks foreign to me, something that was a part of me for longer than I can imagine. I have in front of me, a mirage of me from a not too distant past, looking out of the window with mist laden eyes but a smile on her face. Where to? Why to? When and how? I have a thousand questions but I cannot frame them. I cannot live with someone else’s diktat governing it.
A thousand syllables make my entire day, the night falls amid silence. A thread that entwined the melody of a hopeful future now lies knotted inside a case.
There are a thousand rants and a thousand odes to that likeness of mine. I am so busy feeling sorry and sighing that I have lost track of the hurt. I have built it up so much in the system that I wake up every morning with that exact same thought.
No I don’t need help I can help myself. I am not asking for anything.
I am asking for a hug, I am asking for human emotion, I am asking for a human touch.
I am asking for reality, someplace where I don’t have to fake, where there is no room for lies.
I have no reason to be sorry, and that makes me feel all the more sorry for me. I am not sad, neither depressed. Anyone who knows me in real life cannot make heads and toes of the whole rant and I hate that. I hate that I can fake and convincingly so. I hate that you cannot look into my eyes and say what I am feeling. I wish I wore my emotions on my sleeve so that I did not have to hide behind the wall.
Who do you call when you have no one else to go to?
When you are looking, feeling like shit and need to cry your lungs out?
Who do you call when you want to get real?
You just know don’t you?
And yes he is there. Right there standing to hold you tight, so tight that it hurts when he holds, so that the hurt goes away.
He is not someone you love; he is the person who is the witness.
The witness to your pitfalls, the witness to how you threw up when you got drunk, and the person who knows just how your nose gets all choked when you cry and who just knows how easy it is to make you smile when you your eyes burn with all the crying.
He is not someone you love.
He is someone who has been there always. Someone who has known you for real
He is with someone else. He is happy with her. You are not jealous.
You tell him about all other men, he does not get jealous.
You don’t love him. But, he is the only place you go to when you have nowhere else to go to.
You don’t love him, but he is the only place you think of when you awake through the night and you can’t sleep and you want to.
He is not someone you love. But he is the only place you go to, the only place you remember to find when you are lost.