To, The Last Day of August

 Dear Last Day of August

As i write this letter to you, my veins are overflowing with hot blood and my mind is quite thrown off  balance by reminiscing the unkindess of the predecessor of your days. 

I know you will arrive in a few hours, but here are a few things I wish you brought with yourself: empathy for September, some respite from my disturbed frame of mind, comfort in the form of love, preferably packed in boxes big enough so i can dissappear in them, and the most expensive thing of them all - a peace of mind. I seem to have slowly lost the last item over the past month. 

As the year drives itself into the foggy lanes of September, I know not what lies ahead of me. Only what was lost in August winds. Admittedly, life had shown me its dark and disgusting colours till the second last day of this colourless and cruel month. It is through sincere request that i ask of the last day to bring me a much needed respite.

The disappointment and agony that trusting fellow humans and putting your love into someone can bring has only come to my notice quite menacingly these past 29 days. I thought I was reflecting on things in June and July but to be honest, August was the nastiest of these realizations. 

Oftentimes I have found myself staring at the pink wall opposite my bed with my heart racing on account of a fresh new disappointment. Tears do not come to me naturally anymore, my heart grows numb day by day. Things still shock me, and I have no idea how many of these shocks and of what degree are enough to shut down my hopes for the things I have wished for in the future.

At this point if someone were to use the words "it will get better" they will decidedly make it worse. 

Many Augusts ago, I was afraid of the winter. I was afraid that the year drives itself into madness and crashes into the wall of 31st December. Accelerated, perhaps by the fuel of my own madness. Now, I think differently, This year has shown me what struggles are in my own life or precisely, that even though you might be facing the most vile adversities, you have to show up with a smiling face and a beautiful character. Everything taken gracefully and with an open heart. 

Dear Lord, have I believed in something so against the fabric of my being before? I do not know. And if so, please forgive me, for the world you have crafted has led me to this road of living in dishonesty to my own emotions.

Now as the fog of September tries to engulf me in its ruins ahead, glorified and romaticised by the mist, let me tell you this, respected Last Day of August, I will not fall for its lies and deceit. 

August has opened my eyes.

Hopefully still,

Person

the ministry of gnarly disguises

your sweet disposition

behind which your nothingness hides

hollow and cruel

never felt happiness, never felt sorrow

and you will be snide and cruel

for tomorrow and tomorrow

burning the world with your silence

not a word of disgrace uttered

only shown

only felt, like a knife piercing my palm

the cradle of despair

creaks when i laugh at your jokes

unable to oil away

the emptiness of it

and once a dove sat at my window

as i wanted to feel its feathers

a hawk snatched it away

bloody and barren 

stains on my window

and the stench of death

washing away every bit of peace

same as you do

and you are nobody's friend

nobody's foe

laugh in joy

absent in sorrow

bitter and hard 

faithfulness punished

my dignity skinned alive

in the trial of truth

moral compasses have tilted to the right

or maybe lost its balance

just a hollow circle with a directionless arrow

moving at your convenience

skin to bone, bone to marrow

for at tomorrow's dawn

your sweet disposition 

will wrap itself like a blanket

of deceit on your face

ready to strip me naked again

A Notice

 I never justified as to why this blog is named "words in coffee cups"

Here are some images that may provide explanations to the same. Enjoy. 

Thanks, Goodnight.

Musings Of A Miser

Sleeping deeply at night is a distant dream for me. Afternoons, however, present a more promising respite from my sleep deprived mind, today I wrote jumbled words consciously in my class notes which gave me some awareness of the state of my mind. The afternoons have recently started transporting me right to the epicenter of my subconscious mind, seeing things that I would generally not want to think of. Completely paralysing all possible forms of motor functions in my body. As a child, such dormancy used to make me anxious, imagining people moving ahead of me in that time. Children have a million other wasteful activities to keep them stimulated. I used to wake up angry and irritated, bargaining for the time I lost out in the world, the time I won't get back. That too with my confused grandmother, who felt least amused by this behaviour of mine.

Now, things are different. The constant chittering of the electrons in my brain need considerable power saving hours. I want to lose out. After all, this generation is not far off from treating our bodies like machines. To note one of the behaviours I have observed in myself so far this year, there is a lack of will power. Is there any way to rekindle interests or even old vices?

Everyday, I carry a steel pink lighter in my bag. Failing to understand what I want to do with it. Do I wish to smoke a cigarette? Yes, perhaps a Marlboro Advanced. To be utterly specific. However, the moment I see the cigarette shop, I cannot seem to make my way towards it. Something stops me. Do I not want to smoke alone? I do not understand this behaviour myself. These days I have stopped spending on anything. Barring the absolute neccesities like taking the public transport (even in this regard I find myself arguing whether to take the more comfortable bus or the cheaper alternative), I hate the idea of money being spent. Sometimes, I have found that I would rather suffer in an adversity, when I can easily use my monetary support to mitigate it. A miser, which is what I just found out the term for this sort of person is. That sounds too close to misery. Which is what this sort of behaviour makes a person, miserable. 

I promise I am working on it. 

Being Confused About Identities, I suppose.

 None of our own habits are really our own habits. I think we hardly know ourselves, everyday we find out a different segment of the house within us, built by someone else.

In the past few days I realised it is as easy to pick up the best in people as is easy to pickup the worst too, humans are selectives sponges. Absorbing only what caters to our needs. I am hardly honest with myself about myself. Often times I find the maintaining of a journal also futile because i find that I am unable to be fully wedded to the idea of honesty even in my personal diary. The relationship is already built on the foundation of cheating as you can find me writing here. As if writing on the web would be harder to discover for people than my neatly hidden journal. To ask myself who is it that judges me would be a foolish question because I possess the harsh awareness, that it is none other than myself. 

Maybe I need to let go of this innate fear of being perceived. It is not judgement by the world that stops me. What is it? do I want to have a holier-than-thou image or am I just really such a person and suffering from borderline personality disorder trying to prove to myself that I may not be who i believe myself to be.

See? I am already finding out much about myself through this eccentric rambling at 11 am in the morning on Sunday, the 11th of this month (11th already!).

 Why do I not have better things to do? 

Things to do:

1. Read my to-be-read books...no wait, that really is not as important as 2. finish the reading for this week's course material. and 3. finish editing the magazine the first draft of which has been requested by this week, but 4. decide what i will be wearing to my cousin grandmother's death anniversary (not my cousin, my mother's cousin's mother) lunch is looming on me more heavily. It is such a morbidity feigning decision.

Isn't that strange? not my deciding how to dress, but throwing of a luncheon for a dead person? I wonder if someone will throw me a luncheon when I am no more. What will they eat? It is most unlikely that my mother will be aware of the dishes I enjoyed eating, although it is a grave thought to have for one's mother to be alive a year after their child's death anniversary. However, why should people eat what I used to enjoy eating, that too a year after my ashes turn to dust and earth? I suppose it is not the case when we are alive. Like Anne Frank said, the dead receive more flowers than the living because regret is more powerful than love. What a pitiful world we live in. 

The list is not complete, and my thoughts have stagnated. I shall return with them next time.