Sunday, December 06, 2015


A book in quotes?

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

The Depressive Theory of Relativity

(2 December 2015, 4:12 pm.)

Time seems to slow the hell down when you're feeling like this. I just looked at the clock, thinking I must have already worked 10 hours today, and it's only 4:13 pm and I've worked 4 hours so far.

Obviously, realizing how out of sync your body is with reality only worsens matters for your head. It's like nature's own little spiral of fuck-you-i-can-always-make-it-worse.

It doesn't feel like an exaggeration to say that time and space both dilate painfully. Reaching 2 feet across a table to grab a piece of paper feels like someone thinks you're made of elastic and is stretching your arm from New York to California. Getting through 5 consecutive minutes of anything feels like someone made you hold your breath under water the whole time.

There's also a particular weight on your chest that is crushing, so maybe the relativity makes sense after all.

Friday, November 27, 2015


There is a forgotten art in the tradition of prostitution. It is called mujra and it is beautiful.

Mujra is the ability to dance with your eyebrows, emote through the raising of an eyelid, and have sex with the tap of a heel. The curvature of a palm is the difference between giving up your life and receiving someone else's, and the bend of a wrist between pain and pleasure. The space between a dangling earring and the cheek whose movement makes it dangle is where the sun sets and rises, and flick of a finger causes stars to implode. The jut of an elbow is a deep thrust and the imperceptible reaction of a hip the deepest breath.

Every human experience is expressible through the minimal motions of a single, sublime, soaring, subtle human body.

For a fairly unremarkable-looking creature, I have always had a disproportionate interest in jewellery, and I realize now that it's because the singular motion of a bangle on a forearm can capture more human emotion than words can convey.

And for that reason, I am done writing.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014


August 13, 2014, 8:01 am

It is not too often that I am stunned at what it takes for me to open a blank page, but this is one of those moments. I have been awake for 22 hours, and worked for 17 of them. I should be asleep but am loathe to let pass the chance of finally putting thoughts (and feelings) into words. I am also, of course, loathe to go through the process of articulation – measured articulation, perhaps, this time, and loathe to come back and read what I am certain will end up an inaccurate and inadequate attempt.

It is also not too often that I am relatively content with how I manage my feelings, but until about a week ago, I think I was. Age has lent a rationality that I could use to temper the decided madness with which I approach a lot of life, but I rarely do. This time was different. Context, perhaps, forced the mind, and as did, maybe, the strength of the curious desire that I will not admit to having.

It is, on the other hand, very often that I disappoint myself, and this is no exception. The rationality that was, for once, not theoretical, is becoming increasingly so. All the things that I understood a week ago, I no longer seem to, as the weight of my want swells upon my chest. This spectrum that I slip and slide on has its sweeter – perhaps bittersweeter – spots, such as when I found myself a few days ago stubbornly looking in an unsuited market for an object that would fit the conception I had settled upon, simply because it made me excited to think that the surprise might, just maybe might, make you smile. That moment as I walked into the tenth store when I realized what I was doing was scary and exciting and full of the hope that I could make you happy. My heart raced in the fear of what you’d think if you knew and the joy of wanting to do it anyway.

But on the whole, this spectrum tends to pull me to one side, and I cannot fathom how I could leave the rationality that allowed me to be happy, both with circumstance and with myself for being rational, and find my way to the madness that certainly feels – really just feels – more, but also sparks agony. I do not understand myself; then how can I expect you to?

I close my tired eyes to violent images, wishing that you’d want to hold and comfort me as I want to hold and comfort you.

8:46 am

Friday, March 28, 2014

City Scape

Grey, cloudy, chilly, drizzly. Your city sends me its weather, but does not send you.

Tuesday, March 04, 2014


There's the red plaid shorts that were once yours. There's the tank top without the bra underneath. There's the 5 inch long blade slicing the inside of my thigh because your hand isn't there. There are my hands hiding in the fetal position because your fingers are too good for me. There's all my exposed skin, burning like the devil's would when exposed to the cross because I am the devil and you're the only one who could convince me otherwise. You were my friend. You made me smile. You didn't just break my heart, you broke me.

There is the hollow space behind my back as I'm curled over and the space in between the cave I've created in front of my stomach and the vacuum in the crook of my neck because you won't hold me from behind and make the world disappear.

Friday, February 21, 2014


You know one of the two things better than Abhishek Bachchan in a beard? Ranbir Kapoor in a beard.

You know the only thing better than Ranbir Kapoor in a beard? You in a beard.

I miss your beard. I miss the way it feels against my fingers when I hold your face when I'm kissing you. I miss the roughness. I miss your eyes. I miss the way they look at me when we're in bed and you make me feel, for two seconds, like you can't see anything beyond me. I miss the way my eyes feel lit with fire when I return your gaze in those two seconds. I miss the raspy all-consuming quality of your voice when you look at me and ask me what you are supposed to do with me, naked, ten inches away from you, because you are legitimately not sure. I miss the way your voice gives me butterflies in my stomach and makes me want to merge our bodies. I miss the way I reach out to your face in those moments. I miss the way your beard feels against my fingers. I miss the way your beard turns me on. I miss your beard. I miss you.

Here I am, scratching the skin of my palms because my nails don't have your face to scratch, even though I know it largely annoys you when I do that.

You know what's better than remembering you and missing you?

Having you.