Look What I Found.

I sat one night.
I sat under the sky.
Under the black sheet of paper.
Paper peppered with dots.
Dots coloured white and red.
People called them stars.
I didn't believe.
They looked like pretty faces.
Glowing in the black papery sky.
A million portraits on the same canvas.
A million faces on the same earth.
One of them always is special.
One of the million.
A particular bright red one.
Four point two thousand light years away.
It's a big number.
It's a big distance.
It's a long time.
Maybe I'll get there.
Untill now.
I'll let the faint irridescance.
The sheer beauty keep me awake.
Insomnic madness.
But we all are a bit mad, no?

It's Over.

One twenty one in the morning. I'm going now. You'll never see me again. Not that you care. Not that you ever cared. All I asked of you is to see sense. What did you do? You let your anger take a hold. You were blind. Maybe now you'll see. Maybe.

My Solitude was my Valentine.

The night went on. Almost as if it forgot. It forgot to stop. The sky cried starry tears and the moon grumbled about it's imperfections. Tears of broken glass streamed down her face. Her eyes were a frightening shade of grey, but they reflected a million psychadelic rainbows. Her thin, long eyelashes danced when she blinked. Her cherry red lips quivered when she spoke, but she was afraid to tell the world. Her thin, bony fingers gave life to whatever they touched. Her tall, slender frame was perfect beyond doubt, but she hid from the world. She said she was too ugly. She radiated warmth and love, she looked like she was going to freeze to death. She was something else. Human, yes, but something else. And I love her. She just doesn't know. She thinks she is alone, but all she needs to look behind her.

Oh I've Tried Before To Tell Her.
All The Feelings I Have For, In My Heart.
But Everytime That I Come Near Her.
I Just Lose My Resolve As I've Done.
From The Start.

Figures.

People come, people go. The entirety of my life seems to be full of elevator relationships. They end at the lobby. I think I have a friend, and woosh. They're gone. I'm gone as well. There's a certain sadness you are bound to feel, but after a while, you learn to get used to it. You get used to spasmodic pain and you think about all the things that went well in that short elevator ride. My only foulweather friend has been my solitude. All I see around me is the sky. But I like the sky. The sky reminds me of every good thing that happens. The small drops of dew that I live for. I went on a school trip to Bangalore for a week and two days. Everyone else in class was happy and laughing and enjoying themselves. Me? I just sat on the side and wrote poetry in a cheap ten rupee notebook. Pulp fiction, if you please. It's enlightening. I read a book the other day called the The Short History Of Nearly Everything. It made me feel small. It made me feel powerful. My existence is an oxymoron. People tell me I'm dramatic. People tell me I try too hard. That's precisely why I've given up on them. I have nothing left here but twenty pages in the notebook. I read a story about a couple who travelled the world, came home, and shot themselves. They left a note saying "we've had our fun, why wait?". It reminds me of Mary by Kings of Leon. Don't ask me why. There's a lot of pent up emotion in my head that I need to let out. Wouldn't it be fun?

Strawberry Swing

Have you heard it? No? Then you should. It makes me nostalgic for love. It's a weird feeling. I like it though. It's difficult to live in a world where there's just so much noise, so much anger, so much violence, so much sadness. It's difficult, but we always do.

Nostalgic for love isn't something I came up with. This beautiful, wonderful person I know came up with it. It's an emotion I associate with, but interestingly enough, I don't know what it means. I just think it sounds right, but if you like someone as much as I like her, it wouldn't everything she says sound right? That's the beauty of it isn't it?

Nostalgic for Love.

We make Paisa, not Cents.

We're Indian, aren't we? My friend is a genius. A comic genius. I tell her I'm depressed. She gives me her hypothesis. I say it makes sense. She says "We're Indian re. We make paisa, not cents."

We are all either totally 'forever alone' or we're the undiscovered absolution of human evolution. I'll stick to the latter. Makes me feel better. 

C'est La Vie

This really killed me. A friend of mine found this on Tumblr, and she showed it to me, and it just killed me. You are like a limb, and organ, or blood. I'm going to be cliched as hell about this, but hey! They don't call French the language of love for nothing do they? Oh and I love typewriters. I've used one of them, and they're much more fun to use than keyboards. Try to if you get a chance.