The moment I think I’ve fallen out of love with you, BAMM!!! You gotta dream-visit me. How typically you! Can’t see me happy, can you? As soon as I’m somewhat over you, you get the tip-off and come back into my life, through a 45seconds long phone-call, or a beautiful happily-ever-after dream. I wonder who works for you. Who pretends to be my friend but still keeps a close watch enough to tell you when he thinks I might be moving on, so that you can come back barely for a minute and disrupt it all. I’m not pissed at you; I’m pissed at him. Or her. Whatever. I’m so fucked up!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
1. For always being a jealous bitch. And letting that jealousy get in front of all my relationships.
2. For breaking promises. Re-making them. Re-breaking them.
3. For being so goddamn hypocritic.
4. For being such a cheapo.
5. For always complaining.
6. For feeling suicidal.
7. For wishing I was alone.
8. For betraying your trust.
9. For being so goddamn weak.
10. For not caring for anyone other than myself.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
So that’s why I’m never gonna let “it” cool down. I’m gonna rage and storm and boil and steam it up to such a temperature that all the piss, all the hurt, all the pain just vaporizes and goes poof into the air. Forever. Never to come back again.
Yes. That’s a good plan.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
For a while now I have been trying my hand at some really lame pieces of (what I call, but no other sane person on this earth would be agreeing) poetry. But other than coming up with barely a few lines that can be passed off as mediocre stuff I have been a bleeding disappointment to myself. Is this what I have been dreaming of leaving my would-be job, career, cosmopolitan life, for? Nothing too far-fetched; but right now I think I need a good hefty dose of some self-imposed introspection.
Firstly I think I lack what other and actual writers call, INSPIRATION. I cannot look at a dirty brown stone and come up with romantic bullshit. Maybe that’s the problem. I still take it all too lightly so maybe the lit-God is pissed with me. I should probably have orgasms every time you say Shakespeare or William Darcy. Anyway cutting out with the whole digressing thingy, I think I still need to fulfill few criterions. (Really silly and an unnecessary complication I think calling too many criterias “criterions”; I would personally prefer criterias)
I direly need an inspiration. I need Monalisa. I need Mt.Everest. But all I get in place of that is few seconds of pseudo-inspiration, which ultimately leads me to cheap plagiarism. I need to feel that awakening within me without any part of it sounding cheesy or a direct lift-off, which I’m hell-bound to say, is a quite a big issue for me.Another question: I want to be a writer right? So what basically defines a writer? Is it someone who expresses what they feel without giving a shit about appreciations and what not? Or is it someone who writes to please, like J.K.Rowling. Fame comes only with the latter one. Do I want fame? Hell yes I do! Who doesn’t? Again it’s not the question of who else agrees or disagrees with me, but what agrees or disagrees with me. And with 100% honesty I accept the fact that fame is something that I want singularly, with my own individuality that calls out for attention. I would love the crowd to chant my name. So I have to give them something in return. I have to weave some magic for them. Like Harry Potter or Edward Cullen or Anne from the green gables maybe. But I basically am not that kind of person who can weave out plots n mysteries. Even if I could I wouldn’t be able to put it all down in black and white. I would mess it all up unbelievably. Specially the grammar. It wouldn’t wrong I’m pretty certain but it would be too lame to get the unputdownable quality that is so essential for anything that u want others to read, might be an article in the newspaper, or your recent blog update, or a new book. I’m not so sure I’m prepared or talented enough for that kind of achievement. I wish my mind was a magnet and my thoughts were tiny iron fillings. That ways, they would stick to my mind long enough to be let loose smoothly.