there's something about you.
it's not your eyes. they're plain brown. they're lovely, yes, but there's nothing khaas about them. they do have the right feelings when i need to see them, the right look when you stare bored, into nothingness. definitely not the eyes.
your voice is plain. screechy at times, too. the perfect modulation to irritate someone out of their skin, when you're trying hard not to. no, you don't sing as well as you imagine.
nope, not the voice, either.
you walk funny. but everybody does. in their own funny ways.
your toes, are okay. your hands are not exactly what i would like to call nice.
may be it's your shoulders. the way they're always there when i'm slightly tired, or drunk even. so comfortably placed.
may be it's your talk. the inanity, the love, the tone, the humour, the way your eyes say more.
may be it's your gentle smile, your silent person. your shy face, your grin.
perhaps your laugh. but that's not great either.
may be it's just you. your emotion, the way your hands move when you talk, the way you blink.
perhaps i'll just wait to find out.
there's something about you.
i sneaked a look at his feet yesterday. they're beautiful. perhaps the second most beautiful feet in the world. his toes are short and broad, toe nails cut to perfection. it's not what you'd expect, looking at the rest of him. they're a very comforting structure, the kind you'd want to look at when you're tired and stressed out. they were slightly dirty, just enough to give a dusky colour to his feet, and a rough texture to his nails. he had his big toe wrung on to the second one when i looked, and my heart did a little flutter.
i want toes like those!
A good book seduces you.
It feels your fingers first, and slowly, without you noticing it, thrusts you into its depths. It makes you lie in its world, a distorted sense of reality and fantasy fuse into each other, and you are oblivious to both.
It makes you want to cuddle up under a blanket, and each time a page is to be turned your mind rages into battle with comfort. Your mind eventually wins, the world in the book being too irresistable, you pull your hand out of the blanket to turn the page.
A really good book makes you lose all sense of reality and fantasy. You become audience, enraptured in your mind's story telling, the voices and the eyes are all you feel. The hand comes out automatically, without comfort protesting, or even giving a slight whine. Your body becomes invisible. When you are jerked out of this world, you know what Buddha felt like in his ultimate state of concentration.
A brilliant book stops all time, reality and fantasy.
It makes sure you are still enraptured by it, even when your hands and eyes are not fixed upon it, even when every part of your body makes its awareness painfully obvious.
And in this gentle semi-consciousness, you are too detached even to think for your own.
I sometimes wish there was a book that could hold me so for eternity.
they say i mustn't write about the things i don't know.
so i won't write about why the man on the road never fails to walk by at 9.30 sharp. so i won't write about why the ice cream melts, even when its cold.
i won't write about the stars. i'll pretend they're candy hung in the sky, wrapped in shiny paper like a reward for those who come first in class.
i won't write about colour. i'll pretend africans are being discriminated against because they dance funny.
oh, and i definitely won't write about religion. i'll pretend people are a funky bunch who choose to think they're in the world for pretending to do the same thing differently.
i won't tell a love story, because nobody understands love anyway. i can't tell a hate story, because i have never known passionate hatred.
i won't talk about poverty, because i'm wearing jeans worth 1,500 bucks, a t-shirt worth 500 bucks, listening to music on a stereo worth about 20,000 bucks, typing this into a laptop, whose cost i am not about to imagine.
i won't talk about sex, the closest i got to it was "female" on all the forms i filled.
i won't talk about me, because i don't know half a thing about me, and nobody else knows either, so i can't be helped.
what ever is left to write about, i won't, because i know everything there is to know about it, and writing won't help.