A Very Mundane Picture Post

Of all the ridiculous pictures I have taken of myself, I like these two best.

Prime Time

It’s morning. I know because on the window sill two crows are anxiously cawing about life. I open my eyes and the first thing I think of is you. I shut them again. I turn over and bury my face in the pillow. And I feel you. I let out a soft squeal in pain and turn over again to lie on my back and after a moment, wipe my moist eyes. When I touch my face I don’t feel my skin. I feel you. It aches. Your touch. I sit up and face the mirror. Misery drowns me anew when I look at what stares back at me. You have left me scarred. You have left my face unrecognisable. I am not sad. All I feel is anger. Overwhelming anger. I don’t want you, I never did. I have tried everything to remove you from my life but every day you make your presence felt like never before. You are a million volcanoes, constantly erupting and making a wreck of me. You are unwelcome. I don’t love you. Just wait till I find the perfect anti-blemish cream.

The early summer outbreak of Pimples stimulates a variety of emotions.

Debauchery

(1)

'I just overheard, Moumita Ghosh of 8B knows what 'fuck' means!'

'What?!'

'Believe me! Mother Father Red Cross!'

'Oh no! What will happen now? Don't tell Pallavi, she always tells everyone everything!'

'Arrey I wont but Moumita Ghosh knows! She SAID right in front of me that she knows! We have to stop talking to her! We cant talk to her anymore!'

'Okay, but first let's go and ask her what it means.'

(2)

'Now that your life sucks, Soumashree, I hope you will write a poem or two.'

'...'

The conversations (1) and (2) took place between the same two people with a gap of six years in between.

Please dont sing.

I live my life in cool abandonment. In laconic pleasure. In severe concern for all who don’t.

I love you and the way you carry yourself. The way you know the perfect pitch for saying, “What?” after I speak to you, the way you walk, the way you never manage to get crumbs of biscuit on your clothes when you bite into it. I love how you repeatedly throw all your creativity towards the sky with the hope that people will catch parts of it as they fall. I love how outspoken you are. I love how you never seem to run into quarrels with auto drivers. I love how you turn down offers to strike up conversations from people you know little. I love how you never get harassed. I love the tick of tension you put inside me as soon as you greet. I love the relief after a conversation with you ends. I love watching you.

But most of all, I love the fact that I am not you. You irritate me.

Limerick (1)

There once was a woman in Joo,

Who wanted to make it too,

So she wrote a wee verse,

Which made things worse,

And all her life she wrote literary review.

Ode (1)

You are a chair,

Unaware, lying there,

With no design,

Except to seat

Diners who dine

While resting feet.

There is a Vincent on my bed!