15 hours, almost non-stop labor, lifting boxes half my body weight or maybe less every other minute. Although, I don’t recall my body weight nor do I remember the last time I measured it. A full black sleeve t-shirt over loose gray bottoms running down to heavy safety shoes 1 kg each. RealFeel -17 and cold wind scratching against my face as it blew brutally. Repetitive motion of in and out the store before the skin could respond to rapid temperature change. Sometimes I don’t understand the force that drives me. When you pick up weight more than you can, using your arms, they become sore and heat builds up in the muscles that helps mind throw a neural impulse faking a warm feeling throughout the body which fights against the cold temporarily, after that everything is an adrenaline rush. As I lifted evening’s last box of 55inch core bits up to the 3 legs balanced ladder, the manager cheered ‘Abhi jaan baki hai young man.’ to trigger a weak smile on my dry face. By the time I reached home my joints began betraying me and after the shower, I have to say I am amazed that my fingers are still running across the keyboard following directions of the motor cortex which a minute ago refused to grip a pen in soreness. If I think about it, this everyday ritual of remembering everything that happened throughout the day before going to bed is plain stupid but, makes me remember things I thought I never would. A swift motion of eyelids to shut the world out and remembering that I forgot to eat, or for that matter cook. Ma would be so mad. It’s a good thing she doesn’t have to know. Seems to me, it’s easier when you don’t have people around to care.
It feels like my backbone is slammed and will break from 3 different places within the thoracic column if I try to move without the consent or support of my hands which by the way are still going strong along the dim reflection of a faintly lit LCD screen while I am thinking about what Virginia Woolf once said.. “How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?” because somehow my heart hurts more than my body. And If I think about it, she didn’t say anything about people who use keyboard to drain their emotions on the internet which in the end aggregates to a couple of megabytes bound to be lost among the terabytes of data, making me just another pretentious snob, wasting at least 22 words per minute on a cold winter night. Makes me want to skip forward to the better part of my life where I am happy and holding hands with the love of my life. I think I am approaching the limit of my emotional endurance. Ted had it easy, he believed he would meet Tracy one day because the script said so from the beginning. Me? I don’t have a clue which way to go in this total darkness. A hopeless romantic, even on the edge of oblivion I know I will always choose Yellow Umbrella over Blue French horn. Borrowed time in the sun is always better than settling for unjust calibrated destiny. I used to believe that there is a yellow umbrella girl for everyone, but the truth is I am tired of waiting. I know it’s not in some depressed, lonely frustrated kind of way because my words are not profane yet, but it takes a toll on my reserves of belief. Every day I don’t meet her I believe a little less, and as Ted would say, it sucks. Because all that I am holding onto is escaping hope and a misconception of true love. I know I have to suffer a few heartbreaks to get to her, it's just that, every time I fall for a wrong person it takes away a part of me that I can't get back. And I am terrified that someday I am going to meet her and I won't have anything to give anymore. Would she love me anyway? Would I even have the courage to go up to her and tell her how all my ways led to her? Because it’s not easy telling someone you love them. If you mean it, it takes all the strength you have, and all the courage in the world comes up short. But that is not what scares me, it’s what if I don’t meet her? What if I’ve already met her and she doesn’t feel the same way? For a person who loves rain so much the criticality of a colored umbrella throws everything off balance. I have this notion in my head of how her eyes will light up brighter than the Times Square when she’ll tell me all about her dreams and I’ll tell her why they are important. Somehow I know I can achieve every other goal I have in life one way or the other because that is how I am, I do well on the things I care about less with minimum effort, but this, this is a hit or miss. I am just too paranoid to leave everything in the hands of fate. Maybe that is why I run my bloody fingers across these keys forming words of my thoughts, so that one day when I am gone, someone will find these feeling beaded into bytes and think ‘I would’ve loved him’.
I also learned today that deficiency of B12 causes guilt in a person and guilt is a powerful motivator. I can only imagine why people always work through the process of ignoring feelings to maintain a spotless conscience. It makes you wonder if every other emotion you had was because of malnutrition or lack of one vitamin or the other. Or is it just another trick that our brain pulls on us. Wouldn't it be great if you could just go up to a person and say.. Remember the other day when I said I loved you, I didn't really mean it. I was hallucinating due to the lack of oxygen because earlier that day I saw you smiling and it was so dauntingly beautiful that I couldn't breathe. But what's the point? You know you can only lie to the person, not yourself. Why would you even decide to tell someone you have feelings for them? The answer is simple: when you understand the feeling behind a heart running wild across the barbed wire of stereotypical notions that society puts up, only then will the intensity of one's integrity towards the irrational actions make sense. But there are also actions which are driven by the reckless emotions on a high and cannot contain the chaos even if given a bottomless pit container of sympathy. The warm nurturing touch of love may very well be an illusion, where naked eyes perceive the misdirection of a magician at work who likes to call herself 'life'. And I guess this is where my feelings sneaks up on me from behind and beats me senseless under the busted street light in the back alley of my sub conscience to convince me that the unexplained emotions my mind was experiencing is more than just some metaphysical manifestations of my psyche created for the ample defence mechanism to avoid truth I always keep running from a little longer. I live for the little things in life, like balloons, balconies, rooftops, the smell of the earth after the rain, the reflection of the night after it snows, soulful eyes, smiling lips, inspired hearts and last but not the least, the symbolism of a yellow umbrella and belief that if one can’t see the beauty in twigs there is no point in looking for it in autumn leaves.
I miss her the way I feel hunger. One second I am totally fine other second I crave samosas, but then I ignore it and it leaves me with this emotional acidity that gives me a literal heartburn. To tell you a secret, I don’t always crave samosa, but I do always miss her, does that make me a terrible person? It’s like there is this face imprinted on my frontal lobe and the more I try to smudge it off the more my cognitive skills degrades. To lose this feeling I have to lose a part of who I am and I am not sure I am ready for that yet. Because however messed up I maybe, I love myself and I am the only one that makes me happy, even if it is through long nights of sadness and momentary mornings of epiphanies, like this one; It doesn't matter how many godly things I do in the day. During the night, in the cold lap of vulnerability, I am just a boy who misses the girl of his dreams, who is never going to feel the same way. And that makes me sleep so tight that I don’t want to wake up the next day.
So far, the day I wrote this post was my worst day in Canada when I met that girl at that bus stop on my way home. I couldn't help but listen to her as she spoke about how she's struggling, she doesn't trust herself, she might hurt herself and all the while I believed she'd pull through but couldn't do anything to help her, I am not sure she remembers this, she was going home to take a nap because she was so tired and I suggested she might have a b12 deficiency. I was so sad that day because I knew she was not happy, and I didn't realize this until a few days ago, I think I wrote this for her subliminally or maybe not, I don't know what to think, I may have written this for someone else entirely for someone I loved, for the significance or the symbolism of the color yellow, fucked up in the head I am, can't trace meaning of my thoughts anymore. But today tops off the mother of bad days. This shit show stars our very own self-proclaimed tortured writer who always has to give two fucks about every damned thing. I mean who does he even think he is, a punk smack dab in the middle of a messiah complex, well, boo-fucking-hoo I can’t even save myself how can I possibly think I can save others? Sometimes its easy to blame it on my misplaced sense of righteousness other times it’s just as comforting to accept the fact that I am in fact what’s wrong with the world. I mean poetry..pfff, what I write is not poetry it’s just a lame attempt to stay alive or find something to cling on so that the darkness doesn’t devour me or the night doesn’t swallow me whole, but to be honest sometimes I wish it does and maybe choke on my bones. I suppose if I really think about it, I am the darkness, pure unadulterated form. I damage people with things I say or things I do out of LOVE, and maybe you’d think that it is justified because of that most commonly used four letter word, but let me tell you, it is not. I am starting to realize that it is my baggage to feel ever so deeply for people who get close to me and show them the life they think they deserve and have never had. And honestly, I think people do deserve better, even if they are not the best ones, I mean who the fuck am I to judge, the man who tries to walks on water or the man who drowns in his puddle of tears. It is always ugly, always and we have to fight for it, work hard for it, but what would I know, I am sitting here writing tales of my sadness. I should just stop getting so close to people, just stick to my ye ol’ mask of the “the guy who always says something funny or inappropriate or both”, shut off the sensitive side, notice less melancholy and more mediocrity. Dissolve in the crowd and say what is expected, behave what is narrated and get close to no one better yet sway further apart from myself. I am so tired of all these feelings I get, so tired of thinking that this time it would be different. So tired of giving people the benefit of the doubt. So tired of them always letting me down and leaving. My mornings smells like cigarettes and I haven't felt like myself in a very long time and I think this should be it, that's all, that's it. Last time I called, they put me on hold with an automated machine, I really hope they answer this time or I really hope not. My writing has become all about venting and I believe it is not fair to write about hope if I don't have any, it wouldn't do anyone any favors. Writing has always been about the truth for me, it should end on that note too. I fall in love with people easily and far too often or maybe I respect them more than myself and it seems it is a crime against the existence of the generation we live in today, and I think its almost poetic to go out as you were than to become something you are not. I wish I knew how to put emphasis on almost in the formatting but I am too tired to care and everything hurts and I can't make it stop. Make it stop! Make it fucking STOP!
It feels like my backbone is slammed and will break from 3 different places within the thoracic column if I try to move without the consent or support of my hands which by the way are still going strong along the dim reflection of a faintly lit LCD screen while I am thinking about what Virginia Woolf once said.. “How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?” because somehow my heart hurts more than my body. And If I think about it, she didn’t say anything about people who use keyboard to drain their emotions on the internet which in the end aggregates to a couple of megabytes bound to be lost among the terabytes of data, making me just another pretentious snob, wasting at least 22 words per minute on a cold winter night. Makes me want to skip forward to the better part of my life where I am happy and holding hands with the love of my life. I think I am approaching the limit of my emotional endurance. Ted had it easy, he believed he would meet Tracy one day because the script said so from the beginning. Me? I don’t have a clue which way to go in this total darkness. A hopeless romantic, even on the edge of oblivion I know I will always choose Yellow Umbrella over Blue French horn. Borrowed time in the sun is always better than settling for unjust calibrated destiny. I used to believe that there is a yellow umbrella girl for everyone, but the truth is I am tired of waiting. I know it’s not in some depressed, lonely frustrated kind of way because my words are not profane yet, but it takes a toll on my reserves of belief. Every day I don’t meet her I believe a little less, and as Ted would say, it sucks. Because all that I am holding onto is escaping hope and a misconception of true love. I know I have to suffer a few heartbreaks to get to her, it's just that, every time I fall for a wrong person it takes away a part of me that I can't get back. And I am terrified that someday I am going to meet her and I won't have anything to give anymore. Would she love me anyway? Would I even have the courage to go up to her and tell her how all my ways led to her? Because it’s not easy telling someone you love them. If you mean it, it takes all the strength you have, and all the courage in the world comes up short. But that is not what scares me, it’s what if I don’t meet her? What if I’ve already met her and she doesn’t feel the same way? For a person who loves rain so much the criticality of a colored umbrella throws everything off balance. I have this notion in my head of how her eyes will light up brighter than the Times Square when she’ll tell me all about her dreams and I’ll tell her why they are important. Somehow I know I can achieve every other goal I have in life one way or the other because that is how I am, I do well on the things I care about less with minimum effort, but this, this is a hit or miss. I am just too paranoid to leave everything in the hands of fate. Maybe that is why I run my bloody fingers across these keys forming words of my thoughts, so that one day when I am gone, someone will find these feeling beaded into bytes and think ‘I would’ve loved him’.
I also learned today that deficiency of B12 causes guilt in a person and guilt is a powerful motivator. I can only imagine why people always work through the process of ignoring feelings to maintain a spotless conscience. It makes you wonder if every other emotion you had was because of malnutrition or lack of one vitamin or the other. Or is it just another trick that our brain pulls on us. Wouldn't it be great if you could just go up to a person and say.. Remember the other day when I said I loved you, I didn't really mean it. I was hallucinating due to the lack of oxygen because earlier that day I saw you smiling and it was so dauntingly beautiful that I couldn't breathe. But what's the point? You know you can only lie to the person, not yourself. Why would you even decide to tell someone you have feelings for them? The answer is simple: when you understand the feeling behind a heart running wild across the barbed wire of stereotypical notions that society puts up, only then will the intensity of one's integrity towards the irrational actions make sense. But there are also actions which are driven by the reckless emotions on a high and cannot contain the chaos even if given a bottomless pit container of sympathy. The warm nurturing touch of love may very well be an illusion, where naked eyes perceive the misdirection of a magician at work who likes to call herself 'life'. And I guess this is where my feelings sneaks up on me from behind and beats me senseless under the busted street light in the back alley of my sub conscience to convince me that the unexplained emotions my mind was experiencing is more than just some metaphysical manifestations of my psyche created for the ample defence mechanism to avoid truth I always keep running from a little longer. I live for the little things in life, like balloons, balconies, rooftops, the smell of the earth after the rain, the reflection of the night after it snows, soulful eyes, smiling lips, inspired hearts and last but not the least, the symbolism of a yellow umbrella and belief that if one can’t see the beauty in twigs there is no point in looking for it in autumn leaves.
I miss her the way I feel hunger. One second I am totally fine other second I crave samosas, but then I ignore it and it leaves me with this emotional acidity that gives me a literal heartburn. To tell you a secret, I don’t always crave samosa, but I do always miss her, does that make me a terrible person? It’s like there is this face imprinted on my frontal lobe and the more I try to smudge it off the more my cognitive skills degrades. To lose this feeling I have to lose a part of who I am and I am not sure I am ready for that yet. Because however messed up I maybe, I love myself and I am the only one that makes me happy, even if it is through long nights of sadness and momentary mornings of epiphanies, like this one; It doesn't matter how many godly things I do in the day. During the night, in the cold lap of vulnerability, I am just a boy who misses the girl of his dreams, who is never going to feel the same way. And that makes me sleep so tight that I don’t want to wake up the next day.
So far, the day I wrote this post was my worst day in Canada when I met that girl at that bus stop on my way home. I couldn't help but listen to her as she spoke about how she's struggling, she doesn't trust herself, she might hurt herself and all the while I believed she'd pull through but couldn't do anything to help her, I am not sure she remembers this, she was going home to take a nap because she was so tired and I suggested she might have a b12 deficiency. I was so sad that day because I knew she was not happy, and I didn't realize this until a few days ago, I think I wrote this for her subliminally or maybe not, I don't know what to think, I may have written this for someone else entirely for someone I loved, for the significance or the symbolism of the color yellow, fucked up in the head I am, can't trace meaning of my thoughts anymore. But today tops off the mother of bad days. This shit show stars our very own self-proclaimed tortured writer who always has to give two fucks about every damned thing. I mean who does he even think he is, a punk smack dab in the middle of a messiah complex, well, boo-fucking-hoo I can’t even save myself how can I possibly think I can save others? Sometimes its easy to blame it on my misplaced sense of righteousness other times it’s just as comforting to accept the fact that I am in fact what’s wrong with the world. I mean poetry..pfff, what I write is not poetry it’s just a lame attempt to stay alive or find something to cling on so that the darkness doesn’t devour me or the night doesn’t swallow me whole, but to be honest sometimes I wish it does and maybe choke on my bones. I suppose if I really think about it, I am the darkness, pure unadulterated form. I damage people with things I say or things I do out of LOVE, and maybe you’d think that it is justified because of that most commonly used four letter word, but let me tell you, it is not. I am starting to realize that it is my baggage to feel ever so deeply for people who get close to me and show them the life they think they deserve and have never had. And honestly, I think people do deserve better, even if they are not the best ones, I mean who the fuck am I to judge, the man who tries to walks on water or the man who drowns in his puddle of tears. It is always ugly, always and we have to fight for it, work hard for it, but what would I know, I am sitting here writing tales of my sadness. I should just stop getting so close to people, just stick to my ye ol’ mask of the “the guy who always says something funny or inappropriate or both”, shut off the sensitive side, notice less melancholy and more mediocrity. Dissolve in the crowd and say what is expected, behave what is narrated and get close to no one better yet sway further apart from myself. I am so tired of all these feelings I get, so tired of thinking that this time it would be different. So tired of giving people the benefit of the doubt. So tired of them always letting me down and leaving. My mornings smells like cigarettes and I haven't felt like myself in a very long time and I think this should be it, that's all, that's it. Last time I called, they put me on hold with an automated machine, I really hope they answer this time or I really hope not. My writing has become all about venting and I believe it is not fair to write about hope if I don't have any, it wouldn't do anyone any favors. Writing has always been about the truth for me, it should end on that note too. I fall in love with people easily and far too often or maybe I respect them more than myself and it seems it is a crime against the existence of the generation we live in today, and I think its almost poetic to go out as you were than to become something you are not. I wish I knew how to put emphasis on almost in the formatting but I am too tired to care and everything hurts and I can't make it stop. Make it stop! Make it fucking STOP!
