I am jack's tormented heart

You will have a good feeling about it in the morning of a new semester, but when you take the stairs to Room 202 in Academic Block 2 and see the tiles and paint that reminds you of hospitals and the like, you can't help but get melancholic about stifled unfinished dreams. Start. You enter your class, not a bustling classroom like they show in the movies but a classroom with high ceiling fans and low energy quotient. The teacher shall not break the monotone, not because the syllabus is much, or the classes are less, but simply because monotone is unanimously accepted, both by the geeks and those who reek of alcohol and smoke. You shall go choose the last bench, not because you don't want to study or you're allergic to chalk dust on the first benches, but because you can scribble away on the last page of your notebook on the last bench. No one comes peeking, no one gives a damn, and you can observe the large un-fiddling sleepy crowd. You shall get bored when the prett...

Taught to behave, but born to stun. Taught to study but born to learn. Decency became relative, The most decent people he met were the ones he didn't even know. The most decent people were in the mosh pit. Bodies against bodies, kicking and thrashing, breath turned to dust, dust to breath. Living the riffs, living the beats. A brethren of unknown names. And it didn't matter. They were bonded by something far more greater than the niceties of the society. They were bonded by the fact that all of them felt truly alive at only one place. That one place.

Being a bookaholic, we come across many different writers and every one of them is a universe in themselves. To be lived in and to be explored of. But you cannot help but fall in love with one of them way too much. This universe might be anything from being serene to being cocky and shit. For me, its Bukowski. Heinrich Karl Bukowski, the German-born American, is a badass and wouldn't mind being called one. His straight forwardness and honesty, both in his life and priceless masterpieces, teaches us something that he had no intention of teaching. In all probabilities, he wouldn't care a time about preaching. His sense of freedom, and of happiness, are probably the purest forms of these nouns to have ever lived upon the soil. From spending his life switching through low paying jobs and always skimming that layer of poverty, to having a huge posthumous following, Bukowski's life has been the greatest book that would ever be authored by the legend. To everyone ...

Before the sun broke the still, Before the moonlight glanced away, Before the day's clanging broke through My silent vigil I had to capture you the way you were The innocent small face, And the dancing eyes, now closed A comfortable smile curled over that small face, A contented smile You always asked me why I'm never contented, never satisfied. Now, on this couch by the fire, looking at you, I am. But you'll never see me contented, and it will always be so, the absent critical lover and his mayflower. I did not go around to get my SLR, for i feared losing that moment, that body in the fading moonlight. I vaguely remembered Bukowski- "Your leg, my leg your arm, my arm" The Greek mythology must be partially right. Or I have lived my whole life.

1. How would you rate the year on 10? It was awful. Doesn't even climb on the scale. 2. Was this year happier or sadder? 2012 sucked big time because of competition results. 2013 sucked. 3. Best thing to happen in the year? Simran. She's such a sorted mess. 4. The thing you dedicated your time the most? Talks with Aditi. 5. Did you keep up your yearly resolutions? I never make any. I guess i should start now, considering how wayward life presently is. 6. Best musical discovery? I heard more of Porcupine Tree, Pink Floyd, and Cobain. 7. What you would've done more of? Read more books. 8. What you would've done less of? Wasted less time. Participate more, but i guess i always had my reasons. 9. A date that remains etched? 31st January, night time. She contacted after a hiatus of half a year. 10. What was your biggest achievement? I survived the year without a decent Internet connection. 11. Something you didn't like? Stuff happened and ...

Maybe all it was,was a bygone fixation, to write ,to put it in ink, in print. And if it was,  i did not give way, For poetry should come, Only when poetry wills to come.  You will understand this, almost a year I have been away. from The words, from unfinished sentences, in the middle of a conversation. I have treasured it, treasured it all.  For something big,  for something so unhewn and pure To flow From heart to tired fingers From tired fingers to strange eyes To strange eyes, and leave them, mesmerized.

Behind the torrent of illogical blabber, And behind the placid thoughtful look and the unassuming smile, You and me, we shall find each other. And think of love. Somewhere ahead of the mirage, the horizon And all its kind You and me, we shall find each other. And think of love. Caressing and finding crevices, On a happy glass surface. On each other's faces, The crevices of broken stories. Delving inside, we shall find laughter. Of such stark clarity. Bred by innocence, And wrought by time. And after the lucid emotions, You shall find hope. In faded photographs, And in stupid letters of love. And we might meet, And i might give you an unassuming smile, Come, as you are.  We shall find each other, And maybe, think of love.