The Idea-smithy

Sometimes,
you close your eyes
to shut out the whole world
Pretending,
you’re the only one in it
For a piece
of that illusory peace

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Sometimes,
you close your eyes
And leave them shut
Just to see if,
when you open them
the other person is still there

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Speakers interchanged
But the words stayed true.

The week

What a week!

she winced
Every morning waking up with a bad headache
A foul taste in her mouth and the most unpleasant feeling of all…
That the world was just the way she had left it the previous night
Improved not a whit, insurmountable problems waiting to plague her again
No respite.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The night

Evening was a haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol
Replacing the daze of screaming and insomnia
Tonight, bodies entangled
An ode to the twisted tango of her emotions all week
Yet, underneath the stupor…

Dad, how could you? Forgive me, ma, just couldn’t take it anymore so I ran away. Leave me alone!

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Morning after

She thought she might’ve been able to call them moans of passion
They were after all…moans…of passion

It was just great sex, wasn’t it?

She shrugged, unhappy realization

It never is.

A night of great passion is always followed by a hangover. It felt exactly the same as every other morning this week.

He looks at her from the corner of his eye
Thinking she won’t notice
Secretly hoping she will
So secret, he won’t even admit to himself

She feels his look
Like sunlight, warm on her cheeks
Her eyes stay downcast
Shielded from his blinding gaze
Warmed nevertheless by its intensity

Then it starts to rain.

Her parents say that she was born talking.

Then she discovered writing
English grammar compositions
Stories and poetry
Letters and emails
Chats and instant messaging
SMSes, orkut scraps
Resumes and reports

Then she stumbled onto blogging
And anonymous posting
Even editing and deleting
And much later, private publishing

But silence is yet to be learnt.

Happy birthday!

Paper rustling, excitement tinged with apprehension
Glittering, blinding.. sheer intoxication

I can’t accept this, it’s too expensive!

So what? It’s just money.

Too much of it!

It doesn’t matter, there’s plenty.

Exactly.
When it is about something else,
that matters more,
even if there’s very little of it,
I’ll be delighted to accept.

When we kiss, do you close your eyes?
Or are you looking over my shoulder to see if someone better comes along?

I keep my eyes open,
checking if you close your eyes!

How come you don’t trust me?

Because you don’t trust me.

How do you figure that?

Because you ask too many questions!

She picks a gob of mud and aims carefully
Splatch! It spatters down his clean (too clean she thinks) face

Then she sits back to sip her drink
But it makes her choke

Arsenic!

…she thinks in panic

And so the loquacious one is silenced

But it wasn’t fair play!!

Are her final unspoken words

Phone in hand, she dials with her thumb. It is a number that has traveled from a dog-eared phone diary, to an organizer, several internet address books, an online contacts list and a couple of mobile phones.

As the number dials, she thinks back to the last time they spoke, her mind’s eye showing her the pages of a calendar flipping, instead of the hands of a clock. Ah, yes, she pauses at a memory. And then the calendar turns again. Oh, yes, that too. More flipping…

Trrring…

Hi!
What’s happening?
Not much. You?
I’m at work. Talk to you another time
Sure. Bye.
Just a casual call, wasn’t this? Or did you need to talk about something?
No worries. You run along.

She smiles to herself. Sometimes you need to dial a number just to hear the call being answered. She snaps her flip-top shut and tosses it into her bag. Knowing they won’t talk again for awhile. Hoping they won’t. An occasional impulse may be indulgence, more often would be neediness. On her part would be mortifying shame, on his would be dismal disappointment.

What, she wonders, would I call him? Something other than a lover, someone not quite a friend and yet…definitely not a stranger. One of my own.

Friend-lover. She stops, lips smile-tinged, remembering. A title that someone once tried to confer on her and she cut that thought to shreds. But stored away the thought in her mind if she ever needed it. Noted for future reference. Neatly filed away as always. Now she pulls it out, finding a use for it and she knows it fits. Perfect, no one else could be described quite this way. That crazy dance on the fine dotted line between scorching sexuality and prudish platonicity. She smirks…if we ever danced baby, it would only be the salsa.

It works because there’s just enough on each side and we always stay on the dotted line. It works as long as we stay on the dotted line. Life on either side is just the way it always is. But the dotted line makes it different. Special? Who cares? The dotted line justifies its own presence. Connections that could be made. A series of blanks. Whichever way I want to look at it.

Some things are not meant to be. And then some things are meant to be…flexible.

The room has a view. An expensive view.

She says,

Take a walk in the mud. Stay out in the rain so long that you never feel clean and dry again. When you return, you won’t need to stand at the window to see the view.

He shrugs,

Too late, I already paid the rent.

Heard: The theme song of Omkara

Felt: Like a mouthful of pepper laced with honey

Thought: Lies, it was all lies…save this one

Did: Blamed it on PMS and the rains