It begins with a purple muffler. Tendrils of a familiar scent creep upwards into your nostril. An attempt to gift wrap happiness in a song, a color or a thought. Can it be done?

Can goldfish have dreams? A lack of light sources in a dark room. A careful choice of words. A lack, hence the darkness. But what if the non-abundance was planned and the darkness intended.

Can goldfish have dreams?

Dreams that dissolve in the aquamarine truth of a captive life. Dreams that do not break into jagged shards. Dreams that do not echo with the tune of an Aerosmith song.

What is it that separates the Goldfish from a dream.

Splish, Splash.

End it.

Pitter Patter.
Splitter Splatter.
I am not enjoying this, one bit.
Not even a tiny weenie bit.
End it.
Just choke it.
Splitter Splatter.
Blip.
End.

Dropping unused condoms into moth-eaten, rust-eaten, weather-eaten and generally chomped upon trunk of broken and dejected fords.
Yup, go figure.

***

That car was highly cool? And old ford, that once must have rumbled and growled with intense ferocity. It probably must have seen a thousand people who touched the plush interiors and the smooth finishing of the dashboard with awe-struck fingertips.

It must have disdainfully overtaken so many cars, the thousand ugly duckling 800's and the potbellied ambassadors? It might even have crashed into a couple, scraping the paint here and there.

Paint, that brings me to my next querry. Wait, not querry, not thought? What then, can this simultaneous moment of grammatically incongruous prosaic spontaneity continue without the right word.

That's when Kaya drops from somewhere behind the mass of purple nerves on the left hand side top corner of the cranium ( ;) )

Kaya: You fool just go along with it? What color was the car? And don't give me bullshit about ruining your moment, the article sucks. And you know it? It's too floral! It's too vague. Just answer the god damned question, what color was the car?

Er, it was white.

Kaya: Er?

Too rusty to tell?
It probably was white, I can't be too sure though. I will ask Ylva, she knows these things...

But the point is, it was a wonderful car.
At least that's what people keep saying.
Was this? What that? Was it? Was what?

What's with the was-es ladies and gentlemen. The car is still there, in all it's moth-eaten, uni-wipered, ripped-tired glory.
And no, I am not being sarcastic. The car IS wonderful. How many cars do you know that have in addition to old, torn Tommy Hilfiger underwear, a sack of what is hopefully sand, a single unused condom in it's gaping trunk. It's all vrrooom. So bugger off!

And I did not even get to the cool cobwebs inside, let alone the funkadellic glass front headlight thingy.

I love that car, I love the way it has etched itself a nice little place in my head. Somewhere near Kaya's chocolate house.

Funkadellic.

Beep Beep.
Gtalk? Roadrunner?
Acnce accidents. Surprises..It's funny how people don't realize when somebody talks about them. They read it and at times they comment on it, saying the exact same thing you want to tell them. It's all so bizzare at times.
There is ColorPlus packet hanging from the door. I like the picture on it? Pants I think, nice digitally enhanced image.
Things have changed so much, it's bizarre. Simply because people keep seeking change, and they see change in things that haven't changed. And things which change are ignored unceremoniously. I feel like reading MIL now? Probably the thought of ceremony reminded me of Ambai?
Fire and Hunger? Sex and Food?
Bones wreathed in pain.

Beep Beep.
The roadrunner and the coyote.
I liked the coyote. I always thought he would catch the Roadrunner and gobble her down before she could do something. I mean that's why I kept watching it.
And talking of cartoons, A cartoon I love now and disliked earlier- The Adams Family. I love 'em. Mortitia with her cold icy face. Which was so perfect, the black of her dress and the black of her eyes that melted into the night. And the aquamarine Lurch. And how could I forget - Cousin It and Uncle Fester.
I love now.
Insane butterflies I tell you, jagged wings dipped in bloody elbow-sauce. Cartilage chunks as dressing. Gross at times, horribly morbid. But strangely despite appearances, never forced.
Strange writings, forced poetry, sacrificing emotion in favor of crystal showpieces. They all lie shattered now, at the roadrunners feet.
No tears as she goes. beep. beep.
Don't you feel like watching Kill Bill. I remember how Ann kept on repeating and reiterating the eyeball squished beneath someone's feet. But what I like the most about Kill Bill is the song. Bang Bang by Nancy Sinatra.

I wish I had known guy who lived in those hills and listened to billy joel all night long, sharing his own drink of loneliness.

Bang Bang..My baby shot me down

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.