low is high

Feeling low gives me a high like nothing else.
Especially when there is no reason,
Maybe you just woke up later than usual,
So late, that the image of yourself
sprawled or crouched
semidressed in a hot room
while the world is already in the middle of accomplishing what it set out to do,
is beautifully repulsive.
Maybe you just happen to be sitting around as usual,
When you feel the moment has turned into a glass pane
Which is slowly being washed by rain drops
Through which you look at everything and everyone around, slowly dissolving
Maybe the words you wanted to say/write
Are lying scattered around you, like autumn leaves,
So dry that you feel thirsty.

overrate this

I am great with goodbyes. I do just what is expected. I cry.
For a very long time I preferred not to sit on the window that faced towards the place I was leaving, in the vehicle I travelled in. (Mostly trains, because trains can/should be romanticised). I told myself it is because if disown is what I must, I should go ahead and hurry. And I would rather feel the wind in my face, blowing from the place I was going to. Now, I feel it is just a theory I loved to have, but didnt actually mean.
At the risk of exposing the unhappening nature of my life, I must admit, I havent left many cities/homes behind. I havent had to start all over again many times.
But each time I left anything, it was in a shade of grey (early morning journeys). It was liquid and blurry (not only because most journeys are badly planned). When I left Ahmedabad, it was azaan time. Calling me to close my eyes.

smoked thoughts

I have been meaning to blog on the art of smoking for a long time now. Art, I say, because I think that the act of smoking transforms the man or woman who is indulging in it, into a piece of art.
It is the most beautiful you can look, wrapped in mist and lost in thought (or maybe not, but usually the expression gives one the look of being lost in thought). The person who is smoking seems to be dissipating into air, and somehow it seems like how art is meant to be. No permanent, bold lines or curves, just an amorphous way of life.

Nightlife

When the pages for the next day's newspaper are being made, all is chaos. People running around, short tempers, last minute corrections, and phone calls.
The few minutes after all the pages are sent passes in an embarrassed silence. Embarrassed, because suddenly after those moments of feeling tremendously important, there is absolutely nothing to do. Except, pack up and go.
And wait to feel important again.
It is beautiful.