I am jack's tormented heart

So, it's been a turbulent week/ month (so much for overhyped birthday months). Half of the month I have been seriously sick (still am, hence time for writing) which means not being able to work and missing out on some big opportunities. I've been cutting my hands too often while cutting up apples, the last one so gory and deep that it made me quite lightheaded with the blood loss. So bored am I with life at this point that going to get that cut dressed seems like an avoidable task, and hence avoided. My weight is acting like Brad Pitt from Benjamin Button and i'm again distinctly below 50. Pretty sad that's the only way i can compare anything with Brad Pitt (fml, right?). A woman i fancied says she's elsewhere with the heart. I could go on and on, but the bottomline here is that the birthday month has been pretty much forgetful and terrible, but hey, I found Matisyahu and Sigur Ros and any moment with good music is never a wasted moment. In all this time that i...

I sit by the day and laugh with this world, Telling her i’ll write her a haiku tonight, To sound fancy. A word-weaver, Just plucking words To make sense of this, To not feel like tangled earphones all the time, Craving an understanding  more than I could crave you, in believing that i have stories in me waiting to be lived. A hope that this circus is not what life is there is more, there is magic, A place where mundane is not a word, the love child of colours and mountains.. I sit by the night and laugh at this world.

Maybe this is what death is like- A person closes, With thoughts of warm beds and red roses Of rebirth and acts of cleansing He sees white lights with high hopes of deliverance. But he floats on, with longing Acceptance, but no deliverance. Maybe it is what love is like (or the love I know) - Years in longing, years in denial Then years in acceptance, But still longing. I've  never had qualms with accepting. I've  dealt with my denial and understood yours Understood life and its absurd ways But help me understand this- That why, why When I think of summers and white swings, I think of you When I think of winters and perfectly brewed tea, I think of you And at long night, when  I've  dealt with another day, When  I've  smiled the smiles and laughed the laughs Lived through summers and lived through winters (tried) And I sit back, staring at blank pages on my laptop screen, I think of you. ...

Here is the deal. And i can tell you, from lore or from luck,  If you end up doing something That you are not wholeheartedly into, That does not make you dwell within it with a childlike innocence And the same curiosity, Happiness will always be a couple of steps ahead Or a couple of steps behind But never together. Eluding you like love, unrequited and huge And shake you up with realization tremors At 3 in the morning And you can see the turn that life has taken, The morning coffee mug is the makeshift ashtray now.

It was a usual Sunday afternoon. Yes, I never know Sunday mornings. I'm a wasted would-be engineer who sleeps when the sun goes up and wakes up when it goes down. I've always had this habit of reading, no matter how wasted i was. Sunday was special, because it brought with it The Hindu Magazine. I really liked that piece, and I read something there that got me thinking and got me here, typing at 5 in the morning. About 25 years ago, Tiananmen happened. For the uninitiated, students of the Peking University in China went on a massive strike against the ruling Communist Party (CPC) in 1989, demanding reforms in the then current system. The rest is history. PLA was called in to clear the Tiananmen square and they cleared it. Hundreds and thousands of students died on a day that goes down as a red blot on humanity.                 But what amazed me, as I read through and researched about it more later, is that their legacy is dwindling. T...

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.