Saturday, October 22, 2011



I wish that I could just stop worrying for once. I wish that I could just relax and not care about anything. But I’ve been thinking that maybe that’s just the way I am and there’s nothing I can do about it. You say that you like my worrying though. You say it’s cute. But I’m kind of sick of it. I want to be one of those characters in all your favorite movies. Interesting and different and doing something and not caring. I want to be someone new I guess.


Sunday, July 10, 2011

No, I'm not dead.

It has been a week of change. Trials and triumphs. But altogether overwhelming and I’m dizzy from the ride.
I’m not entirely sure that I’m ready for the magnitude of things to come.
Never one to welcome change, I now waver between dismay and delight.
I don’t want to be all grown up and make choices.  I don't want to let go of my quirks. I don't want to be vanilla.
I want to be a hippy and live by the sea. I want to be a mountain hermit and not talk to people. I want to travel like a gypsy. I want to work in a bookshop. I want to curl up and do nothing.

I don’t want to decide.


Friday, March 11, 2011

Don’t date a girl who reads.

A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much… because a girl who reads understands syntax. literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals.

A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. a girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses–the hesitation of breath–endemic to a lie. a girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that i am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. she can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. she feels them in her skin. the girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. but of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. she is comfortable with them. she has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. you with the joyce, you with the nabokov, you with the woolf. you there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the cafĂ©, you in the window of your room. you, who make my life so god damned difficult. the girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. she insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. you, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that i am not. but i am weak and i will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than i am. you will not accept the life that i told of at the beginning of this piece. you will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied.

— charles warnke, don’t date a girl who reads, 2011





P.S. Copied it off  Bayl-a-Wajah


Wednesday, February 16, 2011

True

If I make a false promise
and fail to keep it
does that make me
true to my word?



Sunday, January 23, 2011

I have discovered the reason..

 ..why falling asleep on amma on the couch is
a) so easy and b) always a so much better kind of sleep.

One thing is that the positioning is perfect. Just exactly right: my head, my leg, my arm fit seamlessly into her side. I think it's instinctive; I know how to attach myself against her without having to squirm or push or scoddle around. Click. Sit, snuggle, fit. Even my glasses don't poke her, 'tis so whipsy-smooth. The second thing is her breathing. In, out, in, out- it's a rhythmic, soothing metronome, something to latch a subconscious self on. Like waves on a beach, a dull roar you can send your breath back and forth upon. And then there're the obvious things: the way she smells, how she is just squishy enough, the sound her laugh makes inside her skin, how she doesn't ask a plethora of annoying questions when i don't feel like talking, how she lets me poke her and bite her and squeeze her arms hard enough for to prove to myself she is real and not leaving and also to sort of leave my print on her. MINE. Love is not a gentle little lullaby, love is a bite that leaves a purple tooth-mark and a slight ringingsinging somewhere behind your ribs. It's a good feeling to know I have someone I can impose myself upon forever- one person who will always be home for me, who will remember, who will let me bite and pull ugly faces and burrow into her, one person who will never tell me that she's too busy, that she doesn't have time, that she's in a hurry, that she isn't interested or doesn't care. I am always special, always loved, always safe. Amma is the one place where i can truly belong.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Dear, drama queen.

I don't hate you. I just want to slice your head open, very delicately. Mop away the blood with a perfumed tissue, pretty pink in color. I want to inspect your brain with a blade, stolen from a pencil sharpener. I want to dissect each grey curve, and see where you hid your brain cells. They must lie in a dusty recess of your skull, untouched, unused.

Oh drama queen, grow up before I sharpen my knives.


Tuesday, January 18, 2011

That miserable…

I was just reading through my posts and realized that to an absolute stranger who base their opinion of me solely on my blog, I would come across as one heck of a depressed soul. I’m not really that depressed. No really, I’m not. I just find anger, sadness and other negative emotions to be my best inspirations to write. But considering this is what will be left of me once I die, I think it’s time to make a conscious effort to write more cheerful posts. So I pledge to do just that, or to try to anyway.