Skip to main content
I'm guilt tripping myself again. That's a statement, not a confession, you idiot. I'd like to keep the facts in front of me and try and make sense of them together (pssst: they won't). It's like a little ball of wool that's tangled far too much to ever be fully untied. But the little knots aren't that obvious on my new sweater, are they? We could hide one of them on the side, and, really, who looks at the back of sweaters anyway? A few hundred knots could be hidden here and there. But enough with the metaphors. It doesn't all make sense together because it can't. Not with all the switching, the back and forth from the words to the numbers to the outrageous. It's not consistent. I know this. It's no victory when all you can establish are symptoms, but then, you already know that there is *drumroll please* no cure.

I'm going to sit down and make a list of victories. I can hardly believe they ever happened, but listing failures ended in failure too. How ironic. Yawn.

(You don't get it. What I remember are the old, old things. They don't matter. Or do I remember them because of "it" too? I can smile at them indulgently. And, you know, forget about you sometimes. So we're ok. This isn't worth switching posts or blogs, is it?)

What I'm really afraid of isn't that there is no way back. That much is clear. I'm just worried about what it's going to be like. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm much more screwed than I thought. Maybe I'll just stick to the list of failures.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

On Home

A few months ago, I was sitting on one of the small stools in the kitchen, the ones that make you feel like a little child again, waiting for the water to boil. I was making tea for my dad and thought how cool a feeling that was, to be home again, doing home-things in a warm kitchen where everything was as familiar as it was leisurely. But later, in a different city, in a place just called home, a place that I have to remember by numbers - fourth right turn, third house on the left - a place I have to recognize by signboards and which I sometimes pass over in the dark because I miss the gate, a place where almost-strangers let you in when you ring the bell; I waited the same wait, standing and waiting for the water in a newer pateeli . It wasn't warm at all; it was just a cheerless, empty, disconsolate feeling. It made me feel low to even think of another place as home. Eating in alien plates, drinking in alien glasses. I never learnt to memorize the house number or the telephone n
11 comments
Read more
Light the sky and hold on tight the world is burning down I don't post lyrics as a rule, but this just came at the right time.
5 comments
Read more

The Parrot

The first few steps were always measured and slow, so he didn't find them hard to manage. Slightly tipping over on either side, groping the sofa and the dining table, almost tripping over the power plug. It was a small room, cramped with a dining table that was too big for it, and as he got older his slow, practised walk across the room appeared more dangerous each day. His hands scraped something; it turned out to be cream from the half-eaten doughnut lying on the dinner table. He rubbed it off with slow despair and kept on feeling his way across the room. The maid only came once a week now; standing here, feeling as soiled as he could ever remember being, he couldn't understand why he had asked her to do that. He finally made it to the cage. He fumbled his way around the lock until he found the latch; when he jerked it open, he heard the splash of the little water bowl being turned over. He felt through the numerous things in his coat pocket, things he'd been instructe
7 comments
Read more