From: India
About me: About me? Well.. Recluse, dysphoric, morose, inane, insane, caffeine-addict, misread, ascetic, platitudinal, dreamer, volatile, scathing, auspicate, deviant, disparate, iridescent, chatoyant, irate, morbid, colors, canvas, creation, hue, saturation, redemption, vehement, profound, intense, abysm, aphoristic, bound? Creative, encumbered, blasphemous, extant, sentient, opiate? Absurd, moronic, loony, preposterous, harebrained? Plastic blue conversations, paradoxes, anomalies, threnodies, acousmas, delusions, illusions, soliloquies?
Wednesday, February 29, 2012,4:34 AM
What does making a memory feel like?
Listening to the sound of thunder crashing down your roof, as I sit miles away.
You reliving the first time we met.
That harrowing cough and the red that stained the wash basin.
The relief, the anguish, the tears, the pain, the love... always the love...
Our eyes meeting as you walked in that door.
And in another life...
Your coal black eyes. Eyes that I have not seen in years. Eyes that might never gaze unsettlingly into mine again.
Taxis lit by neon and the promise of a safe, albeit whiskey-soaked journey home.
Sitting by a windswept curb with bitter tears and a notebook full of unsent letters.
That first nicotine-drenched kiss.
A tin box. And my life wrapped in a white sheet.
This is what making a memory feels like. And strangely enough, while making each one of them, I've realised that they will stay with me till the end of my days.
These memories will warm me when my body begins to turn cold.
Listening to the sound of thunder crashing down your roof, as I sit miles away.
You reliving the first time we met.
That harrowing cough and the red that stained the wash basin.
The relief, the anguish, the tears, the pain, the love... always the love...
Our eyes meeting as you walked in that door.
And in another life...
Your coal black eyes. Eyes that I have not seen in years. Eyes that might never gaze unsettlingly into mine again.
Taxis lit by neon and the promise of a safe, albeit whiskey-soaked journey home.
Sitting by a windswept curb with bitter tears and a notebook full of unsent letters.
That first nicotine-drenched kiss.
A tin box. And my life wrapped in a white sheet.
This is what making a memory feels like. And strangely enough, while making each one of them, I've realised that they will stay with me till the end of my days.
These memories will warm me when my body begins to turn cold.
I turn off the light.
Switch on a starry night.
My window flies open.
My bedroom fills with falling snow.
,4:32 AM
The joy on your face at the promise of first rain...
Sitting here, miles away,
I can almost feel the cold streaks running down my face.
The aroma of freshly-moistened earth overwhelms me and,
For a minute, everything glistens green
I taste rain again.
I taste of rain again.
Sitting here, miles away,
I can almost feel the cold streaks running down my face.
The aroma of freshly-moistened earth overwhelms me and,
For a minute, everything glistens green
I taste rain again.
I taste of rain again.
Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but don't I know you?
There's just something about you. Haven't we met before?
We've been in love forever.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012,8:33 PM
Every street is you.
Every cobblestone reeks of you.
Your shadow lurks in the nook behind the signal.
Your footsteps echo in the narrow lane curving before me.
I turn, and I can almost hear your laughter, bubbling over a dank drain.
Another corner, another street lamp. I see a dark shape, patting the head of a sleeping dog.
My pace quickens, but never quite matches the tempo of the tune you're whistling.
I skim these neon streets, following your flippant whistle.
Something floats to the ground. My fingers curl around a fading melody.
Every song is you.
Your shadow lurks in the nook behind the signal.
Your footsteps echo in the narrow lane curving before me.
I turn, and I can almost hear your laughter, bubbling over a dank drain.
Another corner, another street lamp. I see a dark shape, patting the head of a sleeping dog.
My pace quickens, but never quite matches the tempo of the tune you're whistling.
I skim these neon streets, following your flippant whistle.
Something floats to the ground. My fingers curl around a fading melody.
Every song is you.
We're over a forest.There's millions of snowflakes.We're dancing.The world is so loud.Keep falling and I'll find you.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net