Ideal Guy Rant

You know how in books and movies the girl always gets the ideal boy she's been lusting after eventually? Yes, well that is how I hope for it to work out for me as well but I am well aware of how I look and most definitely for a fact know that I am not one of those girls who don't realize they are beautiful.
Reason being, those girls are an urban myth.
I was once told I look like a guitarist's hippie girlfriend and that is by far my favorite compliment yet including all the times my ex boyfriend told me I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. He was obviously using it as a bait for the physical aspect of our disastrous relationship but lets not get into that.
So the ideal guy. Yes. How do I imagine him to be? Well, he's lovely. He's sensitive, funny, witty, charming and for a change, respectful. Of course, he'd have no idea I'm head over heels for him but I often picture myself finding this ideal boy and one day, I would gather the courage to tell him how I feel about him. I'd ask him to ravish me and he would pull me towards him and make sweet passionate love to me on either a piano or the soft velvet carpet floor of the recording studio because obviously, being some sort of an amateur musician that is after all the sexual fantasy for me and after the scandal we'd elope to make more love and of course, music. We'd smoke up and become peddlers as it would be a risky yet excellent source of money. We'd get stoned and listen to Pink Floyd, Radiohad and Tool. We would eventually stop peddling and start a band and play at a tiny Restro-Bar where I'd work as a waitress some nights because we'd need money to pay our bills. We'd steal wine and drown ourselves in it on the roof while conversing between kisses at 2 in the morning.
It would be perfect. He would be perfect.
But that's just the stoner and alcoholic in me talking. Maybe even the drug dealer and potential law school drop out. All I know for now is that this ideal boy probably doesn't even exist and if he does, he probably is not affected by my existence because in real life that ideal guy:
A) has a gorgeous girlfriend,
B) is out of my league,
C) friend-zones me.
and I'm just a crazy girl in love. 

The Bottle

My dear friend, Devasheesh was kind enough to write me this and I loved it so much that I just had to share it on my blog. I can't put in words how flattered I am to be his muse.

"I found it in the land of pain and torment, a small, unremarkable bottle; it was given to me by he who betrays on the bat of an eyelid, he, who never really appreciated the value of the simple bottle.

As I looked the bottle over, I found something exquisite, something that the betrayer had overlooked. Inside the bottle was a storm, a raging tempest of sadness, hatred and spite. I treated the bottle with caution; lest it breaks and I face the wrath of the storm inside. The bottle belonged to the pretender, and the pretender indeed was what I deemed the right title for him, he had seen fit to fill the bottle with a gentle breeze of love and affection, and then thrown it away, discarded it in the hope that he could find better, but before he discarded it, he had filled the bottle with smoke, the smoke of fake hope. Over time, the gentle breeze absorbed the smoke, and a new wind was born, a ragged, tearing wind of anger and hatred, yet, mixed with hints of love and hope.

It was this bottle that was handed down to me by the betrayer.

Sometimes, the stray thought that the betrayer simply wanted to get it off his hands catches me unawares, but I comfort myself by trusting in the will of fate. The betrayer was simply supposed to deliver to me the object of my fascination and often, my devotion.

My earliest experiments with the bottle were dangerous indeed; I tried tipping it around, trying to edge out the storm, trying to look for a weakness; a small exit that would allow me to slowly let out the storm. But my experiments were met with repercussions. The bottle’s will was absolute, no one could get in, and no one could get out. The bottle’s will was absolute, and I was spurned, scorched and singed multiple times.

I realized that any headway that could be made would either happen if I broke the bottle, which my conscience never let me do; or by twisting the bottle’s will. After much thought, I decided on the latter. And the first was too inhuman to be considered.

“You can never trust me”

The one thing that sticks out in my escapades with the bottle was this one line, uttered by me in spited breath, after being scorched by the bottle yet again; a measure of desperation, but an impulsive one by itself nonetheless. A line meant as a warning and nothing else, seemed to appease the bottle. And I saw a weakness. The bottle had nicks all over it, almost as if it had been trampled upon my numerous feet.

Almost as if it had been stabbed in the back too many times.

All of a sudden, my feelings of hidden resentment towards the bottle turned into ones of respect. The fragile bottle had survived more damage than most beings I knew. And as a creature of war, I myself came to respect it, and I studied it with a new sort of understanding; with love and compassion.

Feelings that I had thought had no power over me.

My efforts bore fruit, as the bottle opened. But to my surprise, the tempest didn’t escape, neither did it subside. It was almost as if the bottle WANTED to keep clinging to the storm, As if it was afraid of letting go. Almost as if the painful storm was a reminder for her.

A reminder of a long forgotten past.

One fine morning, I finally mustered the resolve to face the tempest. The bottle didn’t try to stop me. Instead, it was as if it had been waiting for my curious soul to wander into the storm. I double guessed myself, expecting a trap, expecting the bottle to shut itself with my soul stuck inside. And I would slowly be driven mad by the tempest as the bottle had its revenge.

But my curiosity would not be denied.

Slowly, I crept into the bottle, and before I knew it, the storm assailed me. I was torn between the winds of anger and hatred; two feelings that my warrior’s mind recognized and embraced. But my mind also had a different value of its own. Perseverance, the skill I needed to survive the tempest, to lose my will, but to persevere.

And persevere I did.

My deluded mind was cast aside as I left the storm and entered a part of the bottle so well hidden in the smog of false hope and mistrust; that it was next to impenetrable. This shell would not allow me to pass any further. But a warrior’s most valued skill is his determination. With my determination, I pushed against the veil of smog. And the smog parted for a second.

And a second was enough for me to fall in love.

When I saw the core of the bottle, I fell in love instantly. The core was calm, yet soothing. The calm was a mixture of emotions, yet it was not chaotic, far from it. There was a strong sense of loyalty. There was peace of self. And most notably, there was kindness.

But the core would it not have me.

The smog caught me and catapulted me right out. But I hung on. If I was to go, I would take the smog with me. The smog was foreign. It was the fog of the pretender, but it would not go. So I tore it out, as much of it as I could. The storm, which was hostile to my entry, helped me to exit with the smog, as if it was waiting all this time to be rid of the pretender.

I landed outside the bottle, hitting the ground facefirst. As I got up and brushed myself, I realized that the fog had no hold outside the storm. It was the storm that kept it alive; and on leaving the bottle, it dissipated. The pretender’s fog let out an unearthly shriek as the brilliance of the storm had been its bane.

The bottle began to shine. And that’s when I saw her, a vision in holy light; the bottle’s true form, a beautiful maiden. I gasped, awed by the vision. The lady in the vision smiled. And she asked me one question.

‘Will you keep protecting me, till I find the one who is accepted in my heart of hearts?’

I could do nothing but nod. The woman smiled, and the vision faded. I was left with the bottle, the storm inside it bad as ever. But now, it was a clear storm. And I knew, is someone was to conquer the storm, he would find the center, even more beautiful now, with the pretender’s fog gone. I wasn’t the one, the bottle had shunned me.

But it had also rewarded me.

It had rewarded me with its loyalty; and that reward, which someone like the betrayer would see as a burden, was my honor to carry. I made a promise to the vision, that I would protect the bottle till its rightful owner came and claimed it.

And that promise, is what has kept me alive.

So, I end my story by simply stating the fact that the bottle is more precious to me than my own life. A life I’m ready to lay down any day.

But I fear if the person who claims the bottle turns out to be yet another pretender.

That would mean disaster. For the bottle is now weak. And if it breaks, it’ll unleash its storm on the world. And then, I will have to destroy it. But I keep my mind off such thoughts. I have time, and the fates always will the best for those who are true to themselves.

This hope is my last connection to sanity, the bottle deserves better. And I’ll make sure it gets better. This, I swear on my life as the warrior."

Dear Lover

I saw the love notes you wrote on my skin fade away with the memory of you and how you made me feel. It took me almost one year and the smoke of innumerable cigarettes to melt the words you said to me into the words I said to someone else and to kiss his lips like I kissed yours. Thus, making way for a new heartbreak. There are nights when I find myself looking for pieces of you in him but his words don't sting and he makes me happier than the summer sun. However, happiness is temporary and you taught me that. Therefore, I don't cling to him or his kind heart. Often, I drown myself in whiskey and his sweet kisses only to wonder when its all going to end and no amount of liquor or love can ward off his inevitable goodbye. 

Haiku For The Two Best Friends

#1

Young, reckless dreamer.

Lost in her reverie, she

kissed him goodbye.

#2

She made her own

solitary paradise

on cigarette smoke.

Haiku For The Old Lover

Woke up to the rain,
last night's liquor in my blood
chaos, in my mind.

You were beautiful
with all your lying, placing
kisses on my spine.

Maybe you didn't love
me enough to stay with me
like you do with her.

Music For The Soul

A few days back, my best friend Prakriti said "There are a million songs that we could connect to right now and they're out there. We might listen to them, we might not. Songs that we can wear like sweaters because they fit us so perfectly” and it really got me thinking, does music really have that big a role in everyone’s life? Do all of us take it so seriously?

Music is an inspiration to the masses. An average teenager has a song for almost every mood. There are songs which make us happy, others that make us sad. Different genres suit different purposes. A lot us even listen to music while doing simple tasks, doing your math homework, cleaning your room. Music is not just limited to our usual rock, pop and all that jazz, music is present everywhere and in everything. The sound the ocean, the rain, nature are all just music to the ears.

It is almost cathartic, you can completely let go and lose yourself in music

For every instrument, every musical ability there might be a thousand or maybe even more players, but who out of these millions are actually able to reach out and inspire others with their music? Maybe a few hundreds and even those hundreds have to face crucial criticism and are grounded and limited to what the society likes.  Music is not only limited to what inspires the society, and we seem to have forgotten that.

Music sparks people’s positive energy and triggers the artist in them, that they have hidden away. People relate to all kinds of music, especially the ones that talk about experiences that they have also dealt with. It helps us to express. Often, we are at loss of words, uncertain of what to say, or how we feel. Music fills in that void and helps us introspect.Some musicians inspire us to such an extent that they make us believe in ourselves when in times of self doubt, and all we can listen to are their melodies, the beautiful music, like nothing else. These artists inspire us to play instruments, to sing. Every lyric, every piece of work is so right that it leaves an everlasting impact on us.
Every individual has different taste. Everyone is inspired by different music. I'm inspired by Robert Plant but if i actually go out and ask people, they might not even know who he is. The key is not to judge others and their music but to respect it and let it inspire us.

Day & Night

Day and night,
I'm always alone.
On my way to the bookstore,
on my way back home.
In the coffee shop
down the street,
making conversations with strangers.
On the beach,
with my feet
drowning in the sea.
At midnight
in my room,
staring at infinity
when I can't sleep.
On a Sunday morning, 
watching cartoons.
At the bar he always took me to,
listening to dreamers
make music.
In the park I sat wondering who
is stealing kisses
behind the oak trees.
Day and night,
I'm always alone.


But I am not lonely.