Reviving dented dreams.

Tonight, I am a cliché. (An update on my current predicament because I am secretly, like Wordsworth, an egotistical sublime, a confessional prick— and, tonight, shamefully open.)

Tonight, I am a cliché.

Charcoal fingers twitching.

Lips holding (a)

Cigarette embrace.

Smoke dissipating.

Mixing with French music.

“I don’t understand it but I like it.”

Blind likeness.

Simple.

Those rare occasions where everything is

“pretty”

and

“nice”

and

“okay”.

It makes you want to sob.

It’s okay.

I’m okay.

So this is what it feels like?

Rekindling a forgotten sensitivity.

Or perhaps, I’ve never known…

Contentment could be like this.

So simple.

So still.

A pencil in one hand.

A sketch pad on the other.

Messes everywhere.

Don’t touch it!

Leave it be.

I like this mess.

It’s mine.

As mine as anything can get (which means it ain’t really. In fact, it’s the other way around).

This is how it feels like.

I’ve forgotten this.

And now, I’ve known it—

I’m forgetting myself.

Must be a good day.

And on bad ones:

I forget everyone else.

But it’s alright.

Sometimes faulty memories are assets

When we want the world to go away.

“It’s alright.”

I keep repeating it.

So this is what it’s like:

To say something and mean it.

To believe.

It’s new.

I think I might like it.

It’s too early to tell…

But I might like it, in fact, just as much as my melancholy.

Now that’s saying something.

Reviving dented dreams.

Officially turning my room into an “art” piece before our house gets knocked down. Madness wall semi-done (it just needs strangers’ secrets. Fitting that my closet will be filled with secrets. It suits me. Never been one to fill closets with clothes. Can’t afford them. Then again, secrets are rather expensive things as well. Anyway…) Up next: Dream pit. Boredom is my best ally sometimes— at others, the worst.

Officially turning my room into an “art” piece before our house gets knocked down. Madness wall semi-done (it just needs strangers’ secrets. Fitting that my closet will be filled with secrets. It suits me. Never been one to fill closets with clothes. Can’t afford them. Then again, secrets are rather expensive things as well. Anyway…) Up next: Dream pit. Boredom is my best ally sometimes— at others, the worst.

Reviving dented dreams.

An excerpt from Suicidal Bliss

CJ:
You shouldn't trust anything that makes a living out of making things up. They're dangerous things.
Katha:
But aren't we all make believing anyway?
CJ:
We're not children. Make believe is for children. We've got to grow up sometime.
Katha:
No one really grows up, I think. We'd like to believe we do but we don't. We only grow. And sometimes we shrink. But we never grow up. Now, that's just everybody else playing make believe while calling it something else.
Reviving dented dreams.

Suicidal Bliss. A round table discussion on Heaven and Hell and the things we invent to put blame on. An Excerpt.

Takes another puff from a joint. 

"What’s the word for it? Ngilo."

"Ngilo?"

"You know, at the dentist when they drill at your teeth and there’s this gnawing sensitivity, this sensitivity we all get when holes are drilled into us— it isn’t pain or pleasure… it’s there dwindling— a new sensation. Nasty feeling."

"And?"

"Well, when I go to hell, if I go to hell which I kind of think I will, if not for anything for the company, I think that’ll be it for me. A lifetime of drilling and making holes, a cold, gnawing sensitivity. That’s hell. It’s a liminal feeling."

"To think you’d be used to liminal things when you live in a country like this. With a culture as ambiguous as this."

"It’s not the ambiguity of liminality that kills you, it’s something else. I don’t know what it is. But hell is a feeling. And that’s my peace."

"Hell is a place."

"Hell is person."

"Hell is a social invention."

"Everything’s a social invention with you, Bogs. Don’t know if there ever is still anything natural for you."

"Leaves. Organic leaves. Oh and dirt. Dirt and dirty things. Natural." 

Everyone shakes their heads. 

Reviving dented dreams.

The Mess we’ve made. A break-up wish.

Darling,

This is the mess we’ve made. Do you see it?

It’s us.

Or at least the selves we’re reduced to now.

Now… (It rolls off the tongue this word. It rolls off fluidly.)

Now we are tattered beings with carved out chests.

Beating

Beating. Restlessly.

Without hearts.

Such dirty things.

Out of place.

Hiding in shabby motels.

Forced to play hide and seek with a propriety that wants nothing to do with us,

With a virtue that had given up.

            With a pride still counting one to ten.

                        With a husband that’s murderously nice but sometimes too violent (I don’t blame him. He’s utterly too kind for his own good.)

With unborn children that never stood a chance.

There’s no growth in this. No future. None in this sweetness.

In this great dream. I think we’ve known that all along.

But we’re idealist just as much as we are massochists.

So we booked the room and said “why not” (A lot of Why’s lingering in the background. Momentarily dismissed. Unhealthily. But aren’t we simply children?

Stealing ice cream when the parents aren’t looking. Uncaring if we might spoil our dinner…

Now, I think, perhaps, we have. And it’s a dreadful ache in the gut—what we’ve done.

We’ve overstayed our welcome.

We’re overdue.

We’re…

(dragging,

treading hollow words,

dissipating,

lost love letters, eaten by history…

trailing… on

            … and on…    

…and on…

trailing… Like a never on the tip of a wanting tongue.

Traling…)

…We’re a spoilt intimacy that had spilt itself-

That’s what we are!

Spilt sourness passing itself off as a bittersweet

Lost tastes

Breathing in an empty apartment

Curdling

With a heavy nostaliga

Clicking like a sad wrist

Waiting for its lover’s kiss.

Moldy. Dusty. Breathing.

Vices covering up the taste of stale cigarettes.

Festering in a deep dark.

Running away.

This is us.

Tangled in a stained sheet.

Drinking too much bleach

Because we want to feel the whiteness again.

But, you see? Love stains just as much as it corrupts.

This silly thing.

This destuctive hum.

Stuck in our heads.

It’s the best and worst song all in one.

What do we do now?

How do we clean ourselves up?

I’ve forgotten how to clear away the sticky web we’ve seemed to weave ourselves into

And the cleaning lady had gone.

I don’t know how to pick up the broken shards

Of a dream.  Not anymore.

These sharp things, cutting everything up.

Lying on the floor like a thousand mirrors

Reflecting a thousand lives that could have been.

(It’s sad isn’t it those words… “could have been”

Utterly sad.)

Lives, that never did. Never could. (Perhaps, that’s sadder. Never could. Utterly sadder.)

And to make things worse, I’ve misplaced the heavy duty gloves.

I’ve misplaced the dust bin collecting

Time.

And we’re running out of rags to soak up the trailings of our former selves

Us- before this feeling had chewed us old and spat us out.

Just another thing to add to the grocery list- with all the other things we’ve misplaced

All the other things we’ve forgotten about-

The milk, the eggs, the bread— everybody else—the cleaning tools!

You don’t seem to know where all the cleaning tools have gone!

I’ve no clue, either.

Maybe the land lady had taken them away.

That clever woman making her way, meeting ends meet.

Stealing inconspicuoulsy parts of our story, selling it to the neighbors as gossip.

(Just the other day, the guard downstairs had looked at me funny. Or maybe that’s how he looks at everybody? This thing with conjectures and a Best Buy record book where he keeps his thoughts about the people that come and go. This bored dreamer killing time. Maybe he’s more of a mess than us, huh? Maybe this is a haven for messes, pieces waiting to be swept away by a rolling clock and sand dune, wind pan, gathering. Dripping in an hour glass. Ticking hypnotically into forgetfulness.)

Hmm… The room smells of age, and of damp musk, now.

This is us. This mess. This scent.

It’s us.

What do we do, now, lover?

What do we do?

Maybe we should clean ourselves the way people usually clean themselves up…

With a cold shower and an ending.

And then the clicking off of a switch. Lights turning off. A doorknob turning. A door clicking behind us. Us- closing. Walking away. Separately, with a sealed goodbye. Onwards to echoing halls branching towards a lonely dark. Obscure.

(But there’s growth in this obscurity, in this loneliness. There is growth.)

We’ve got to choose sometime. Go back and home.

It’s the only thing left to remedy the stain in us, you see? (Do you understand?)

Ending. (Maybe that’s the saddest word of all.)

Reviving dented dreams.

Dear Self,

Do not be afraid to write what you want to write. This is yours and not anybody else’s… but as you’ve come to find, ownership of anything is a tricky matter- nothing’s really yours- thoughts and stories most especially. They’re not anybody’s. They belong to no one but themselves or perhaps they don’t even own themselves completely? We’re all wild things in our own cages with our own self-assigned freedoms. But, I digress. We’ve always had this habit of digressing, don’t we?

What I really meant to say is: This is your project. You can do whatever you want to it. Do not be afraid. No one will read it. Just write for yourself and hope for the best.

Write because you just feel like writing it down. Write for the sole purpose of being able to read it. No other extravagant intentions, no dillydallying with grandeur. Not this time. Grandeur ruins everything. Hope ruins everything. Just write because you can. And because you want to. This is a game. Let’s not take it all too seriously. We are just playing. You’re just playing. With words. And that’s it. (But I guess, as you’ve come to find as well, nothing’s ever simply as it is. Nothing’s just that or this. But that’s another matter, perhaps, for a different letter altogether.) 

Anyway, you can do this. Though you’ve forgotten the art of endings and closures, I honestly believe you can still finish this.

Please finish it.

Sincerely,

Yourself.

P.S.

In case you’ve forgotten yourself again, forgotten yourself in this lovely mess, don’t forget to take a break once in a while. I’d really like a cup of tea for some time now. Also, you have a meeting at four thirty. It’s already four twenty eight. Get a move on.

Reviving dented dreams.
Reviving dented dreams.

Wanting is a Game of Chess. An Excerpt from Suicidal Bliss.

“Love is destructive!”

“No, lust is. Love is gone. Love is mere a social invention. There is no such thing as love. There is only Lust… There is only a Wanting in your chests… There is only me…”

A laughing, heavy, wounded silence fills the air. The type that cuts like a chill, the type that goes up and down one’s spine- electric. A sardonic silence. A tired silence. 

And then the silence breaks itself.                             

“So why do I feel like shit? Tell me this! Why did I opt to ruin myself for this woman? Why did I dare destroy myself for her? Why would I even fall for her despite societal conventions that dictate otherwise? Why would I risk crumpling before the fists of her husband if I could have lusted for anything else—anyone else? What’s the point of all of this? I never chose this. You think society can conceive this? You think lust can lead to this?”

“You undermine society… You underestimate lust… You misjudge me, Katha!” 

“Society could never have done that much! It is’nt that powerful! It isn’t that omnipotent or clever! And neither, by the way, is lust…”

“But man’s folly is that ignorant! Man’s folly is deterministic. And you, yourself had been determined. Predictable things, you, mortals. Nevertheless, it is both your salvation and your tragedy- your determinism. And perhaps, our tragedy as well.

Reviving dented dreams.
Reviving dented dreams.

Passenger, Fairytales & Firesides

[Divers & Submarines]

Fairytales & Firesides :”>