After swimming in sunshine that warmed my back and kept me foolish and hungry on the first three days of the year, I returned to chilblains, quite literally. My belly sensed a distance and felt diffident; my appetite demanded a voracity I lacked. I flung myself back into 2012 without a glance the moment I came back; regression becoming me without making me succumb to its humility--in fact making me bold and brave. The art of drifting is an exact one and when you find that you can go back and forth between then and now at the mere flip of a switch, part of you is eager to explore yesterday once more.
Coffee in tumblers that are addicted to caffeine play host to my madness evening after mocking evening. The addiction dictum that is espoused over cups of bean is for losers. The cold outside is reflected aptly within as well as I clutch at straws. I am lonely but not unhappy as I forget to have hasty feet, happy or otherwise. I spend my evenings browsing through emotional memorabilia that hangs in the air like stale smoke. On an unusually cold evening which bites me hard enough to hurt, I weave my way through the backlanes of Sarojini Nagar past Satya Marg and into a corner that is home for the moment. I am angry and I detest the arrogance that accompanies emotional cleverness of the kind I am face to face with. Remains of the day, Ishuguro style that would make anyone uncomfortable, even through the slits of nepotism I am forced to acknowledge. The itch is back and this time I want to write full length with a burst of integrity that allows me to string words that are new on my tongue, dissolving all angst and ill humour. This will be the definitive year I urge myself to believe. From Jack Johnson and The Communards to hunted lyrics that lie unused in piles of nostalgia, I pick and choose what needs spinning, what needs the bin. I am back.
Coffee in tumblers that are addicted to caffeine play host to my madness evening after mocking evening. The addiction dictum that is espoused over cups of bean is for losers. The cold outside is reflected aptly within as well as I clutch at straws. I am lonely but not unhappy as I forget to have hasty feet, happy or otherwise. I spend my evenings browsing through emotional memorabilia that hangs in the air like stale smoke. On an unusually cold evening which bites me hard enough to hurt, I weave my way through the backlanes of Sarojini Nagar past Satya Marg and into a corner that is home for the moment. I am angry and I detest the arrogance that accompanies emotional cleverness of the kind I am face to face with. Remains of the day, Ishuguro style that would make anyone uncomfortable, even through the slits of nepotism I am forced to acknowledge. The itch is back and this time I want to write full length with a burst of integrity that allows me to string words that are new on my tongue, dissolving all angst and ill humour. This will be the definitive year I urge myself to believe. From Jack Johnson and The Communards to hunted lyrics that lie unused in piles of nostalgia, I pick and choose what needs spinning, what needs the bin. I am back.
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