Sellophane

At times I feel so utterly helpless. No, not helpless. Never helpless.

Ugh, Linkin Park. Late night, tunes that seem drenched in Nicotine. Beats that I am sure were thought off in some dark room. Not unlike my own. The light of a lonely computer falling onto someone, wet hair falling across his face. Half covering his head. Eyes blurred with the effort of fighting back sleep, eyes clinched so tight that tears come out at times. Paekhana, it means shit. How would someone know that it doesn’t? I could lie?

It’s all so strangely relatives. At times I just want to compress my thoughts, especially the ones that want me to chose to manipulate, and then put it in a pill and then just throw it into some caustic concoction. Maybe I would watch the fumes come out? Maybe they would be different colors?

One like rum in winters, one like the blood leaking out of a corpse’s mouth. Or maybe the color of someone’s hair. How would it make a difference though. They would be fumes?

Proof of annihilation? Unimportant?

What do you do when you want someone this much?

Could you kill for her?

Yes

Could you in a fit frenzied frustration rip a dagger out of your robes and kill someone?

Probably

Wouldn’t it matter if the other one gets hurt?

In those seconds of blinded rage, unfettered anger? No. I feel free, or is it the complete opposite? Which one is it?

Don’t you seek violence Kaya asked me once?

And my answer was- Of course? Why shouldn’t I?

Why not?

I deserve the pain; I deserve to inflict the pain. The more the better.

What’s the deal with a fair fight anyway? Blood invisible, non existent thing?

Saala Chutiya! It’s such crap. A fight that is fought fair is not a fight. It’s just a random pre-arranged pseudo sparring session.

Why do you want to fight?

And if the answer is because I want to inflict pain, then does it really matter whether it’s fair or not?
Does it?

I keep asking myself?

All I know is if someone’s coming to hurt me or hurt her? I shall not fight fair, fair isn’t even the question. Don’t get me wrong, she can take care of herself. Better than me in fact, but I will. I shall rip, I shall tear, I shall lacerate, I shall wound, I shall hurt. I will. Fuck the shalls, all of them I will.

Linkin Park stops droning, what track is this any way. Instrumental Remixes? Sound like trance or house I like.

Change of Music, random Christina Aguilera song.

I need to stop objectifying people. They matter, who am I to think of them as incapable of thought, action or whatever it is?

Who am I? What’s so great about me any way? Fine, I could fib through your teeth and get off work early or get attendance, or even get so and so to fall in love with me, put out and blah. Does all this matter, fine you think you can write? What’s there to be so cocky about? You hardly know what’s going on in your own head? How the hell do you expect to write? Fine people love you?
But really think about it?

Do you deserve it.

I know you won’t answer that question.

Ugh, you know you won’t.

Stop talking in third person you fucker, Kaya whispers.

Me, all me.
Always me.

Too scared to let someone else precede that.

Ever.

Bang Bang.

It’s over.

One gun shot.

One bullet.

One small hole, preferably in the skull, bang in the centre.

A round red hole? Like a bindi or a setting sun.

Blood leaking out, slowly like honey dripping off the edge of the round dabur jar? Or will spew out in lazy spurts?

And of course, the smile.

The creepy smile. The one with horny eyes, and my tongue flickering over my lips.

Except that it’s different now, the eyes lay glassy and glazed. Dead is the word. The smile is frigid in it’s intensity. And warm blood is leaking out of my mouth. Coming out of the space between my teeth.

Slowly, slowly.
Drip drip. Bang bang.

It’s over.

The car has stopped.

The kind of wicked rage that is fuelled inside of you, the kind that you do not know

about. You try and control the direction, but you can't. Simply because you can not

detect the source of it.
One swollen lip, could be anything. An allergy, medication, eddie murphie jeans. It

doesn't matter, I want to bite it. Feel the warm blood. Taste it.
Wet keys on a dusty keyboard, all in all a rather muddy affair. They type out words far

truer than you thought you would ever let your eyes see.
Reveling, gleaming, grinning almost in your own weakness. The weakness within you

that does not let you trust things. It's a weakness you see in yourself, so you assume it in others.
Don't trust. Since when did you trust. Trust, use it like a knife...one decorated with stones

dripping in the blood of the owner. Use it to stab it and sheath it with human flesh.
The blood, always the blood, warm, pulsating, alive.
Now here...and now.

Emotion, pent up. Collected in the empty jars of my mind, slowly pickle. Until they ferment and explode. Each one of them, mingling with the acidic hues of thought. They coagulate into little bubbles of explosives.
Each one seethes underneath the surface of my skin. Each one flows, into the next.
my body reacts, violently. Obviously. Arms flail around with the characteristic energy of purposeless abandon. My feet writhe as I lay collapsed on the tiny bed in my room. My head jerks violently. Bangs against the hard wooden edge.
The bubbles burst.
Muscles still taut, I lie subdued on the bed. Subdued maybe, but not passive.
Never.

Central Park, not Perk. Central Park in a very no-i-am-not-obsessed with friends way.
It's evening, the kind of evening where the sky moults into colors that are somewhere between molten chocolate and alcoholic pinks and purples. You know, the colors that most people see in narcotic hues.

Well, anyway it was evening. Slight, cool Wind. Bare feet and callouses, all of them caressing the matted grass. Slightly overgrown, and cool. Relief.

One lies down on the grass, and looks up. Ice cream in the meanwhile is dutifully dropped into your mouth and then you see a bat, one bat, two bats, now three and now more.
Yes it's going to be night.

The sky seems to have welded of the previous happy colors, the hendrixian pinks and the purples have now been replaced with a more Sinatran darkness. Beautiful in it's ambiguity. One moment gray, one moment a cool midnight blue, another minute the rosy shade of blood spilled in the dark.

It's night time. Had it not been Delhi, I could probably have seen more stars. Maybe half a dozen behind the cloud that looked like a lizard lazing in the sun. Maybe another behind the one that looked like a half-eaten pizza.

It doesn't matter though. It's night time, and what counts is that I can see stars. Maybe only a couple, but I see stars.

As I lie on the matted grass that grew unceremoniously on the slope, I laugh at the sky as the stars shine down.

And I roll.