i hate shopping.




There is so much I'm not saying these days. It's as if my thoughts have forgotten what it is like to be defined by words. It has been so very long since I've had a long meandering conversation, that when I did have one today, it seemed to gush out.


Life feels like a boring sunday afternoon- an endless game of cards, a rented movie, a switched off phone, and pappu saadam. There is nothing to look forward to, and that I think is my biggest problem. A cousin called it the "second year syndrome." May be that is what this pointlessness is. Everything is such a grind, college, phone calls, messaging, going out, watching movies, drinking, coffee, ice cream, cheese-goddamn-cake, even listening to music feels boring.

I need to do something new, I think. I need to do something.


likeasoulwithoutamind inabodywithoutaheart i'mmissingeverypart
hey-ey-ey hey-ey-ey hey-ey-ey

Oh, and to all those people who come to this blog looking for "tamil actor siddharth love life" or "siddharth dirty photos" (no kidding!!) or "siddharth girl friend", I'm sorry, but this is not a gossip column. If you do find this stuff though, do get back to me. I'd be interested in some of it.. :p


(lyrics from massive attack - safe from harm, unfinished sympathy respectively.)


what a cool thing to pretend,
what a cunning way to condescend,
[add magic lines]

you know i'd be insane to let that dirty game recapture me.




if i wasn't here..

..i'd be somewhere else.


i live
in illusions;
out of cartons
of boxed dreams.


i would like to indulge in a splurge of words. i would like them to evaporate in my mouth, melt into my tongue like warm cheese. i want their smells to get trapped in my hair, like the smell of bread in the oven. i will slice them with my fork, pick at them with my fingers and mix them in a gravy of sentences, garnished by punctuation. i will pick out the looming capital letters, and pack wondrous vowels in consonants and exclamations. i will then bake them into stories that i will never tell, and pat them into songs that i will ever only sing in the shower.
and then, for dessert, i will pack them away in boxes and sell them to little children on the road.


she sneezed out
the story
in a rush
of phlegm,

and i could only think
of how much good
warm soup
would do her.


dear master of jacks,
do tell me how
you manage juggling
only one task.


one constant circle the clown was juggling
with invisible eyes, a red nose,
disappearing colours, laughing children,
dynamic worlds and
perfect delivery.





some music repairs.
it lets you take your thoughts into your hands, and puts them into perspective.

it rejuvenates.


..as a child's silent prayer,
my hope hides in disguise
while satellites and cameras watch from the skies.

an acid drop of rain
recycled from the sea-
it washed away my shadow,
burnt a hole in me.

and all the king's men
cannot put it back again.

but the ghetto sun
will nurture life
and mend my soul

The big wheel
keeps on turning
on a simple line
day by day.

the earth spins
on its axis
one man struggles
while another relaxes..

hymn of the big wheel, massive attack.