I

I'm awake. I'm asleep. I'm working. I'm feeling. I'm riding. I'm staring. I'm breathing. I'm seeking. I'm searching. I'm crying. I'm learning. I'm reading. I'm watching. I'm loving. I'm waiting. I'm yearning. I'm finding. I'm wandering. I'm losing. I'm fighting. I'm raging. I'm gazing. I'm lying. I'm dead. I'm alive.

Boy Meets Girl

Not long ago, there was a boy 

Who set off on his dream.

He carried with him nothing more than hope and courage; 

In his eyes they would gleam.

But one stormy night he lost them both, 

He knew not where to find.

He searched the path, both high and low, 

Almost losing mind.

Hope and courage both nowhere now, 

He looked back towards the start.

Taking one short step back home, 

He held his broken heart.

But then he felt a warmth around his hand, 

A comforting, kind touch.

Looking up, he saw a girl 

With bright eyes that shined so much.

She'd lost her hope and courage too, 

She told him as he listened.

He held her tight, and said, "It's fine," 

As tears in her eyes, they glistened.

The both of them sat on the ground, 

Not knowing what to do.

They sat in silence, weeping not, 

But sorrowful, too.

Then the boy stood up, held out his hand 

And said, "Let's walk together."

"We may not have what wanted at first, 

But at least we have each other."

The girl took his hand, smiled and said, 

"I'm glad that we do."

And down the road they walked hand-in-hand, 

with new found hope, courage and a little faith too.

Friction

He looked at the clock to check the time. 17:51.

The damn clock. Two fucking thousand rupees for that chrome plated piece of shit.

Just another thing you made me waste money on, he thought to himself. He didn’t say this out loud though. He knew it would upset her.

The crystal glass lay empty in front of him on the table, but he didn’t pour himself another drink. He hated rushing his drinks, it always gave him a bad hangover the next day.

And I really don’t need the hangover at work tomorrow, he thought. Lots to do.

He looked at her long, wavy brown hair that followed the curve of her breasts as it made its way down to her waist, and he felt a strange sense of arousal. He smiled, slightly embarrassed.

Don’t even think about it, he thought.  She’s not in the mood, and it’s just plain wrong to force yourself on her.

Plain wrong.

***

She walked in the front door, smiling brightly with the bag of groceries she’d bought from the market yard down the road, to find him sitting with his face buried in his hands, crying his eyes out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “What happened?”

He didn’t say anything immediately. He just looked up, eyes blood red from crying for hours, tears streaming down his face, stared at her for a few seconds and then screamed, “I hate you, you bitch.”

***

He looked up at the clock (the damned clock, he thought) again. 18:00.

He leaned forward and picked up the bottle of rum from the table, poured out an almost accurately measured drink and placed the bottle back. He’d left just enough in the bottle for one last drink.

He would’ve poured one out for his wife too, but she didn’t drink anymore. She’d stopped drinking for a while now, for no specific reason. If anyone asked her why, she’d say “I just can’t handle my drink anymore, and he doesn’t like it,” nodding towards her husband, who’d just laugh, shrug and give her a kiss on her cheek.

So he sat and sipped from his glass alone, wishing he had better company than his wife who didn’t drink anymore.

***

“I saw you with him.”

“With who?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know shit, you know just who the fuck I’m talking about.”

“I swear I don’t know…”

But he saw her eyes dart quickly away from his gaze and then back. He heard the faint quiver in her voice as her last word trailed off into nothingness. He felt the heat rise as her face flushed with guilt.

“You swear?”

“I…”

Her voice cracked and she stood dumbfounded.

He stood up.

“I saw you two. I saw you get into the car with him. I watched as you two drove away. I followed you. I saw you park in that asshole’s apartment cellar, right in the corner. Perfect spot, eh? I watched him kiss you. I watched him take your shirt off, and I watched you remove his jeans. I watched him fuck you, you slut. I watched him fuck you like the whore you really are.”

She was crying now. Tears fell from her eyes quicker than the bags of groceries that fell from her hand to the floor. A packet of chips fell on top of the box of Hershey’s kisses that she’d bought for the next-door-neighbour’s kid.

He took a step forward, and the packet of chips burst underneath his shoe.

***

The damned clock said it was 18:35.

He took one last drag from his cigarette, and then stubbed it against the leg of the table. Flicking the butt across the room, he stood up and walked towards the front door.

Before he could he open the door, he turned around and surveyed the room.

His wife was still at the table.

He couldn’t just leave her alone like that. She wouldn’t like that at all.

He went back to the table and sat down. He poured himself the last of the rum, neatly put the bottle cap back on it and placed the empty bottle between him and his wife on the table.

“Cheers,” he said to himself, and sipped at his glass, slowly, so that he could spend as much time with her as possible.

He didn’t want to leave her while she was still that upset. He couldn’t.

He smiled at her.

***

He slapped her hard.

He slapped her in a way he had only slapped his younger brother once as a kid, when he had found the little fucker stealing the money he had been saving for over a year to buy that leather jacket he had wanted for so long.

She was bleeding from her lip, but he didn’t see it.

She didn’t scream or yell in pain. She just sobbed through her now slowly swelling lower lip, mumbling words that sounded like “sorry” and “I didn’t mean to hurt you” and “I was going to end it”.

He didn’t hear any of that however.

He picked her up from the floor and steadied her. And then slapped her again.

This time, she did scream.

***

At 19:00 on the damned clock, he drained the remainder of his drink.

Standing up from the table, he picked up his glass and washed it in the kitchen sink.

He put it back in the showcase in the living room, but not before wiping it dry. He knew his wife hated it when he didn’t dry the crystal out first.

He went to the table, kissed his wife’s cold cheeks and said, “I’ll see you soon, bitch.”

******

He pulled his jacket on, and shut the door behind him.

It was cold out, but the rum, along with his jacket, one that his wife had bought him for Christmas last year, kept him nice and warm.

He found the neighbour’s kid playing with his remote controlled car in front of their house, as he always did.

He smiled at the boy, and pulled out the packet of Hershey’s Kisses from his jacket.

The boy’s face lit up immediately.

He wiped the still fresh blood of the packet on to the back of his jeans, and gave the chocolates to the boy.

He ruffled his hair, smiled at him, and walked down the road, until the boy couldn’t see him anymore.

Whatsongsdotoyou

“The perfect words never crossed my mind, ‘cause there was nothing in there but you.”

I don’t remember the first time I spoke to her, saw her or was even introduced to her. It feels like she’s always been a part of my life, even though I’ve only known her 4 (not sure about that either) years. I find it strange, how people in love keep saying “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, you were wearing a really cute green t-shirt and jeans and had your hair tied up in a ponytail and…” while I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck it was that made us look at, let alone speak to each other.

Maybe it was a common friend who introduced us to each other. Or maybe we were standing in line at the college canteen and we had both smelled (tasted?) the fart from the fat guy in front of us. Or maybe we met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. I don’t remember.

I don’t remember when we started falling for each other; whether it was slow realization after endless conversations about (other) things we love that went way too late into the night, or if there was an instant spark that turned our whole world upside down with feelings for each other that we just couldn’t ignore.

I don’t remember the beginning.

“No, I won’t wait forever.”

I don’t’ remember the fights, the name-calling, and the deafening silence. I don’t remember if it was jealousy or just mistrust. I don’t remember if we tried enough to make it work.

I don’t remember if we promised to be in touch and for how long we let that façade drag on between us.

I don’t remember when we stopped talking each other, and when those endless conversations of ours ceased.

I don’t (want to?) remember the end.

“All I wanted just sped right past me, while I was rooted fast to the Earth.
I could be stuck here for a thousand years, without your arms to drag me out.”

All I remember is the way she held my hand when I felt alone and had no one on my side, and needed nothing but a hug, some company, and peace and quiet.

All I remember is the feeling I’d get when I met her after a long day at work and needed someone listen to things that just plain pissed me off.

All I remember is how she’d always take my side no matter who or what I was upset with, and how she’d manage to turn my mood around.

All I remember is the way she’d listen when I was ranting about music and writing and the things I wanted to do with my life.

All I remember is how whenever we kissed nothing else in the world mattered to me as much as she did (does?).

All I remember is us.

“In the confusion and the aftermath, you are my signal fire.”

So. I'm a writer.

So I can write.

Big deal.

Does that mean I need to make a career out of it? Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life sitting behind a computer or with a pen in hand struggling to find words that describe perfectly the exact emotion I feel, or my character feels, while trying (in vain) to look like I don’t give a shit about the rest of the world, that’s slowly starting to spiral down into madness and chaos?

(Like I care. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life begging the world for solitude and quiet and peace and go all emo to “just leave me the fuck alone, will you!”  while secretly lusting for the world’s approval of what I so desperately try to get the world to notice?

(I don’t need you. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to drown myself in hard liquor and slowly burn the insides of my lungs with that pack of cigarettes a day I just CANNOT do without, sitting outside a coffee shop with three empty cups of cappuccino (Grandes, naturally) staring into space giving off a mysterious aura of *wait for it, and I’m only using this word to be on par with what what I mentioned in the first paragraph about always having to find the right word, NOT because I’m out of words, which I am SO not. (Hmph!)* mystery?

(*sip, puff, aura* Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to live “alone” in a studio apartment the rest of my life, going out only to be inspired by the people walking past me into the coffee shop and by the night sky or the rain or the rainbow or the sunset or the lyric of my (current) favorite song, and only bringing home people when I’m horny, and need that post-coital smoke to inspire me too?

(Sex? Hmph.)

Does it? DOES IT?!?



Oh it does?

*emo, sip, puff, aura, post-coital puff*