The Nonsense Rhyme.

If all art is useless,
Then French chefs cannot bake
Chocolate doesn't melt hearts
And Mr. Darcy is a rake!

If music cannot free your soul
And tempt you to a merry jig,
Women would shun diamonds for coal
And bald eagles proudly don a wig

If rhymes are lost and books not read,
Cinderella would have missed the ball
Goldilocks wouldn't sleep in another's bed
And an oasis could drown us all

If the myriad hues of a painted scene
Cannot a fine pair of eyes attract,
India would not the World Cup win
And Tendulkar could not hold a bat!

For life and art are meant to be
Together, till death do them part
These gateways to sheer ecstasy
Both start and stop in the heart.

Rage.

I’ve jumped through hoops

Of iron hot

They singed my skin

And let it rot

But now I know, no matter what I do

I’ll never  be good enough for you.

This pain in me

Of burning ache-

You pretend to care

But you think its fake.

So I tell myself, what they say is true

I’ll never be good enough for you.

There’ll come a day when you’ll finally see

I meant every word I said to you

You’ll be crawling back with an apology

But you know what? Screw you.

Writer's Block.

Maya pushed away her pen in annoyance. The roll of parchment before her lay stark and staring. She had been sitting at the table for the better part of an hour, willing the words to spill out like they did, but they never came.  An assortment of soiled tissues sprawled out around her as silent witnesses to the alarming quantity of coffee she had swallowed and spilled in equal measure.

But even the caffeine buzz had failed her today, leaving her restless and distracted. She drummed her fingers in a sporadic rhythm and stared ahead, her eyes glossed over, seeing nothing.  Somewhere in the distance a stale love ballad droned on, interspersed with the lifeless chatter of the dilapidated coffee shop.

Maya shook her head for the umpteenth hour and turned towards the frosted window. Outside, the empty winter landscape echoed the quiet desolation of her barren mind. Spring had slipped by stealthily that year, taking with it as a parting gift the final breath of her creative spirit. She had tried to reclaim what was rightfully hers but it was too little, too late. As the months rolled by, the world she knew and loved grew grey and insipid and execrably uninspiring. The flowers looked moldy, the songbirds were tone-deaf and the sky had lost its pallor. Growing desperate, she forced upon herself nights such as these when she would put pen to paper and wait for a miracle.

So far, it had proved to be an exercise in futility. The words never came; and even when they did, they were halting and jarred, like indecipherable human whispers across a disturbed telephone connection. For a while Maya put on a brave face, struggling to weave magic out of phrases that did not fit together, till she could no longer ignore the elaborate lie of her sorry prose, till it became physically nauseating to summon from within words that had been long since lost to her. Her imagination had locked her out and she was too dispirited to infiltrate its defences.

                                                                                                                                      

To be continued...

An Expert's Guide To Wasting A Holiday.

(To whomsoever it may concern: Ideas expressed in the post have been exaggerated for various reasons. Please don't send me to therapy.)

1. Tune in to a television show on a culinary competition conducted in another continent. Spend hours watching contestants whip up dishes you're never going to eat with ingredients you've never seen before. Focus your undivided attention on following their unfamiliar accent only to realize that they keep lapsing into a language you don't know. Salivate at the piece of art served on a plate. Feel the familiar stirring of hunger in the pit of your stomach. Remember that your refrigerator is empty and that you have the cooking skills of a handicapped panda anyway. Continue watching the show till the end of the day or till you starve, whichever comes first.

2. Go online and discover that a teen celebrity your age is engaged to be married. Remind yourself that the rich and famous live in an alternative reality so their lifestyle isn’t an appropriate parameter for your existence. Sink into a depression regardless and prod at old wounds as you ponder about what possibly went wrong. Didn’t you try hard enough or did you try too hard? Why is another 19 year old on the threshold of marriage when you haven’t even been in a real relationship yet? Are you romantically repulsive? Are you doomed to eternal spinsterhood? Are you the poster girl for the Forever Alone meme you saw on 9gag?

3. Talk to random strangers on the internet. Shyly concede when they compliment your flattering profile picture as you celebrate inwardly with an evil chuckle. Thank your camera flash for obliterating the jagged ends of your eyebrows and the monstrous pimple on your forehead. Secretly hope for a special connection with every individual who can hold a conversation for longer than 5 minutes in grammatically correct English and pretend that this doesn’t reek of desperation. Hide your disappointment when they disconnect without warning. Console yourself that perhaps they have an unstable internet connection, perhaps they forgot the chicken in the oven or maybe they were instant messaging in the middle of a meeting when their boss caught them and now they're sitting on a pavement somewhere with a box of office supplies and nowhere to go.

4. Roll over and play dead. Conveniently forget that you do the exact same thing every night for at least eight hours. Avoid coffee like the plague until you slip into a black hole of dreamless unconsciousness and suddenly, it won't matter anymore that you've accomplished a vat load of nothing all day.

After all, this is exactly what the holidays are for.

Our Story.

I still remember the first time I saw you.

You sat facing me in a crowded public bus.We were less than a feet apart, so close that I knew I could touch your beautiful face if I extended a trembling hand.
You were oblivious.You reclined on the seat with your earphones plugged in, your eyes shut in quiet contentment.I remember the way you drummed your fingers to the rhythm of music, how your eyes crinkled up as the sunlight hit their genial brown, the pair of miniature swords tattooed on your collar bone, peeking from under your Rolling Stones shirt.

I remember everything.

Starting Afresh.

I'm bringing this blog back from the dead.
I don't expect to post either at length or at a consistent frequency, but I will commit to salvaging an outlet of expression that meant something to me not too long ago.
All criticism will be highly appreciated.