Friday, August 31, 2012

Here's the Thing (Part 5)

I'm now on the roof smoking. The same table where we sat before anything happened and I could look at you with a silly tipsiness in my eyes and a goofy smile on my as-yet-not-overreaching lips and you didn't suspect anything.

Ten vodkas down. I'm listening to the voice of my favourite male singer, and he died last year. Is his voice reaching across the abyss between life and death that none of us think we can cross?

I'm not stupid. I know his voice is reaching across nothing but the digital magic of an mp3.

But something about Death reaches across too. And I wonder, flaws and all, alcohol and nicotine and all, how deep in the abyss will I fall?

So here's the thing: Why don't you just tell me how it is, so I'm not imagining you watching me every moment, with lust or with disgust? Why don't you leave me alone, because alone I can do? Why don't you leave me not wondering what would've been different if I hadn't been myself that singular moment?

And here's the real thing: Thukraao ab ki pyaar karo, main nashe mein hoon.

Here's the Thing (Part 4)

8 vodkas down.

I'm not sure what I want to say anymore.

I'm sitting here on this couch where you undressed me in about 90 seconds. I'm sitting here under this fleece blanket that was stuck between the sections of this sectional in perhaps the most embarrassing moment of my life. I'm sitting here reliving the many moments of that stretch of unreality on the couch and on the floor, and I'm reaching for the little cut I got on my forehead when I was on the floor and hit my head on the bottom of the couch. I'm sitting here wishing I'd never let any of it happen.

That sucks a little bit. I don't like regretting things, although I do many. I was rather happy with myself for having once done what I wanted in the moment and kissed you. But all the rest of it, I'm not so sure anymore. I think I might've made it all worse. You probably think I'm needy and clingy. And me? Well, it's probably just harder to let go of it all because of all the rest.

Waking up every morning with you on my damaged mind is not what I wanted. I think I had an hour long dream about you last night / this morning, which I'm not thrilled about either.

There's a scene in this show called Gilmore Girls where this 20- or 21-year-old girl has a little too much punch, curls up into a ball on the floor in her mother's lap and says between sobs, "Why doesn't he like me? What did I do wrong? Why doesn't he like me?" I've been feeling like that the last few days. Like a blubbering teenager who wants to know why you don't like me. My 25-year-old sensibilities tell me that that is just an inane question, but I'm feeling all of 16 for now.

The last three weeks have brought about some change that I cannot interpret across the distance. Some change that I am not allowed, by any acceptable social standards, to inquire about.

Perhaps you will pass, like the rest of this disappointing life. Perhaps you will burn away, like one of the many untraceable cigarettes.

I think there is a part of me that still hopes that you don't. But I think there is no part of me that believes in hope anymore.

So, here's the thing: Why don't you vacate the recesses of my mind and find a spot in someone else's that you actually want? Maybe your tri-syllabic messages will hurt them less than they do me.

Thursday, August 30, 2012


There's New York, buildings, lights and the night sky. All that's missing is the possibility of you.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Here's the Thing (Part 3)

You can't even begin to imagine how drunk I had to get myself to write this.

As it turns out, I think that you think that I'm boring. Or you've met someone and want to be cautious and not lead me on.

In the first case, that really sucks. I think I am easily riled up, and occasionally irrational and impulsive, and selfish, and issue-riddled, all of which are very very annoying and all of which are great reasons to dislike me. But boring would be a new one.

In the second case, that's fucking awesome. Both that you met someone and that you're being cautious to not lead me on.

The point, really, is that I saw the pictures you uploaded on Facebook. And your smile, lopsided as it is, makes me smile a little. And that's more than I can say for most things in the last few years.

The point, also, is that there's nothing to lead me on to. So, really, just not reading into my messages and considering them a Hello from a/an friend/acquaintance would be just perfect.

And I'm just saying, being fully aware that I've met you all of maybe six times, that smile of yours, lopsided as it is, is quite the charmer. That quiet, calm voice of yours, averse to any real variation in decibel level, is quite the captivator. And here's also the thing: I am not easily charmed and I am not easily captivated.

There is a very fine line remaining between me recognizing your charm and captivation and me realizing my crassness and abrasiveness. I think it'd be better if I didn't cross that line.

So here's the thing: I wish the games would stop. I wish I could say this to you. I wish you would understand. I wish you would understand that awkwardness is not part of this equation, because there is nothing to be awkward about. I wish you would understand that you deserve the best, and even if you've only found better for now, you're on the right track. I wish you would think that you and I could be friends.

Aside: [[[ The disjointedness of this post should give you an idea of how intoxicated I need to be to find the words to say anything at all.

Words are where it all begins and ends. For the feelings in my flawed heart and all the thoughts in my tiny brain, I always thought words would be a sort of savior, preserving the meaninglessness they all defined. I am starting to realize even words fall short. Or, I should clarify, my words. [See the Aside in Here's the Thing [Part 1].

And if I don't have words, I don't have diddly squat. I mean I have some forsaken and some pretty true friends, a cute little puppy and a Tolstoy-ish family, but I have diddly squat. ]]]

So, at (almost) the end of it all, I wish you'd reply and treat me like any other human being you had no additional (naked) knowledge of. Because for some reason, I think you'd think more of me if you knew less of me. I am apologetic for ever letting you know or see more. I am a disappointment in those respects, I am well aware.

But here's the real thing: I think I like you. And it's really rather okay if you don't like me back. It would suck if you think I'm boring, but even so, I'd prefer if you told me. I'd find a particularly graceless way of backing off that would forever leave me entrenched in your memory as the type of person to avoid by miles for the rest of your life. At least you'd remember me for some reason.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Here's the Thing (Part 2)

Not consciously, but I think I deluded myself into expecting that by purging myself of my insane thoughts, I would somehow break free of them. But here's the thing: I just woke up and realized, it never really ends.

Here's the Thing

So here's the thing.

I only started that way because I've been planning to start that way. Yes, I've been planning. For, what, 3 days now? Because I planned to write it this Saturday or Sunday after I watched the game.

It's sad and telling that Glenlivet at 2:30 in the morning gives me the push to write this. It's also sad that I will never know if I would have written this when I actually planned to, after the game, and if I did, what it would sound like.

Let me try and start the way I wanted to start.

So here's the thing. I watched/followed the Arsenal game today.

Of course that isn't true since the game hasn't actually happened yet. The watched/followed would have depended on what I actually ended up doing. But that's how I planned to start.

The thing is: I'm not a club soccer person. But you already know this because I told you. Or maybe you don't know it because you forgot, but I mean, I've said it before. Not a newsflash.

The thing is: I'm not a club soccer person. But I actually checked up on when the second Arsenal game was (both Google and some schedule picture posted on your Facebook helped), because I know you like Arsenal.

And the thing also is: I can't remember the last time I started, without trying, to care about something just because someone else cared about it. I mean, I think I'm a naturally inquisitive person and all, so for most things (except reality television, for example), I'd take an interest in what someone talks about. I'd try to learn a little bit. I'd tell myself when they were talking that I'm going to go back and read more about it. But I never would. Because I'm lazy like that. And by "lazy" I mean that I have other issues, but that's far beyond the realm of what you care about.

But the thing (also also) is: I never told myself I'd look into this more when you told me you liked Arsenal. It just happened.

Anyway. I must have a point. I really must because otherwise I'm even more of a let down than I originally thought. I think the point I have is a long one.

It's been a very very long time since I've cared to check someone's social network activity on a daily basis. And -- this is hard to say -- wanted someone's attention. Not in a dote-on-me-and-forget-the-world kind of way. Just in a hey-just-thought-of-you-and-wanted-to-say-hi kind of way.

I think it's all very complicated by the tiny factoid of what happened with you and me. I think if it hadn't happened, there'd be a couple of things different. One, I would be less conscious in trying to keep in touch with you. Two, I would wonder less about whether I was so terrible that when, if ever, you remember it, you just want to move further away.

I'd like to focus on the first since the second is just a whirlpool of embarrassment in my gut that makes me want to pee and a vaccuum of humiliation in my lungs that makes it hard to breathe.

I hate playing games. I think everyone says that; it's such a cliche. But I mean, literally, I was way too young the last time I was involved in anything to even get games. I just fucking said what I wanted when I wanted. I probably pushed my sigfics (as the cool kids call them these days) very very away because of it, but that is, indeed, how I was. I would be cooing one second, and a tiny little switch would flip (such as being called "pretty" by someone I was in a relationship with) and I would start spitting fire, despite knowing he meant no insult by it. I just have a very strange interpretation of the word pretty.

I would like to state, for the record at this point, that you, honestly or dishonestly, called me pretty a couple of times. I took no offense. It's just an old incident from an even older past.

Point is, I hate playing games. But with you, I have played. Second point is, I suck at games, because I've never really played them, and when I inadvertently or unwillingly have, I've lost. Third point is, I think I'm losing now, but that's okay.

It's uncanny to and uncomfortable for me that I have to make sure I don't message too much or "scare you away" as the pros would say. Or that I don't say the wrong thing and "freak you out" as the pros would say. I'd just like to say what comes to mind. But I don't think it works that way.

So I'm trying to play. But I'm failing, because I'm not much of a player.

It kind of sucks that I'm failing. Like I said, it's been a long time since I've cared enough, so it kind of sucks that I'm failing. But, at the same time, I suppose it's nice to know that I could care enough again. Although really, I think this "nice to know" part is purely academic. Nice to know doesn't mean shit.

Instead of games, and watching when and what I message, what I'd really like is to be able to just be friends. But I've been told you can't just jump to a point in a friendship because you want it. I know this intellectually, but practically the concept is evading me at the moment.

Complete aside: [[[ Also, there's this other thing. I'm sure it sounds stalkerish and creepy, but you'll probably never read this, so what the hell. Oh, the thing I don't think is stalkerish and creepy. Just how I got to the thing might seem stalkerish and creepy. So, I see through social media your general flirting. Now, I know that sentence in itself probably triggered all kinds of alarms and guards and "what the fuck is wrong with her" brain waves, but, it's really just an observation. And when I say the next sentence, I wish you'd believe me. It doesn't really bother me. I think it's great. I think you need it after what you've been through. It makes me grin a little, and I imagine and hope it makes you grin as well!

Winding my way to the point. I read something this person on your twitter wrote. Or at least it was on her blog. It was fucking amazing. And I don't mean fucking amazing. I mean fucking amazing. I had goosebumps while reading it, not to mention smiles of disbelief at the unbelievable detail. I like to think that I can express myself through writing. But I think a (demoralizing) lesson I've learned recently has been that whatever I really like, there's a ton of people out there better than me at it, and at least a few of them I know. It tends to makes it hard to take pride in oneself. But it does make it apparent that there are certainly awesome people out there (yes, "awesome" like you) and I hope you find them. It looks like you already are, and maybe you'll find even better. ]]]

I don't know how to end this. I suppose I planned (how) to start it, but not (how) to end it. I guess it would be apropos to address the fact that I don't know if I'll watch/follow Arsenal tomorrow. I probably will. And that I don't know if I'll message you tomorrow. I probably will. But I really hope it isn't a big deal (to you) if I do.

I wish the games could stop. I wish I knew for certain that you wouldn't read into every time I messaged you. I wish you could just tell me what was going on with you, even if you didn't understand it entirely yourself. I wish you could just tell me if you thought you met someone that was cool, or met someone that was so inane that the speed of the electrical impulses in your brain actually decreased.

I wish I could say these things to you.

I suppose I tried to make many points. I don't know how many I made. So let me try and find the squeeze of it. (In case that isn't an actual English expression, I should clarify that in my head, I was thinking of the Hindi phrase, "is sab ka nichod yeh hai...")

The point is: I like you, I think. I know we've met all of six times. I know I may be wrong about liking you. But then, after all, there's the thing.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012


The speed at which loneliness strikes is astonishing.

Nothing has changed. Not the story I'm currently on in the book I'm reading. Not the wine I'm sipping. Not the music in my ears (Madhushaala is a long track). Not my view. Not the sun. Not the circumstances of life (he is still married, he is still probably headed quickly for marriage, he still hasn't replied to my email, he still hasn't messaged despite being awake for many hours). Nor, saliently, my sitting alone with book, wine, headphones, music, the view, the sun, the circumstances of life, and my solitude.

But in one quick motion, loneliness pounces out of solitude and I am struck to the ground with this predator staring into my eyes. My first reaction is to wait until I am swallowed up; then I realize it isn't that kind of predator. It doesn't constrict or rip or suck the life out of you. It just stares you down, with some proximity-induced paralyzing venom, so you can do nothing but stare back. You can feel the life force drain from you but you haven't the merest inkling where it's going.

Perhaps it's the wine. There's some magical threshold of activation energy reached by one blessed catalytic sip of wine. And then it's all in motion, and before you know it, it's all over, and you're supine, transfixed by the eyes of loneliness.

Perhaps not. Perhaps in some sort of Stockholm Syndrome, I am now lulled into making excuses for my captor.

Wednesday, August 08, 2012


When does the present become the past?

There's a very scary moment when you realize that what you think you are currently living actually ended a while ago, maybe 3 days ago. You realize that you won't stop replaying things in your head because you're afraid of losing the memory. As long as you keep it playing on an endless loop, you keep it alive. You are trying to cheat memory and time.

Come to think of it, it is in fact your call. You are welcome to try whatever you'd like. No one's coming up to you to tell you to stop. The problem is, you'll fail. You're welcome to try. But you'll fail. Because trying to keep a memory alive is like the Heisenberg principle. The more you try to remember it by replaying it over and over again, the more you morph what it actually was, until you've lost what you wanted anyway. And you're just tired from trying.