Scum

Well, the cheesiness and sappiness of this text is not embarrassing. Neither is its brutality and naked candidness. We are but lesser beings, gasping on but some celestial mess in a hazy congregation of time, and that helps a lot. Yet still, I struggle to gather testosterones enough to commit to my fancies. My fancies of penning in idleness. My fancies of blurting out the heartfelt.

Inaction when not desirable and action when, makes putting up rather an irrational continuum laden with repentance so much, that even weed flounders to get you stoned. Well, the simili is out of place, but not out of context. (and MS word, very slyly puts the sentence to its grammatical scrutiny almost always ignoring the mettle in it). Most of the people one meets are also like that. But I do not, and ideally ought not blame them. For they have not made themselves, it is some person else. Someone who seems to possess supernatural tendencies and yet thinks that majoritarian mediocrity would be a workable way for earth.

I have little profoundness in my writings, not even a wacky turn or a mystic twist. To my mind it looks like linear string of words, which is rather akin to blots of blood than prose on paper. Much of this shit is because of not being in the right kind of an affair, not getting the right break, not doing the right things even in leisure- all for pathetically wrong reasons.

Also, only a different arrangement of words from my previous pieces but the identical implication convinces me that though i can pen but only so much. Some for depression and self loathing, few soft words for the girl, miniscule for the God above who loves mediocrity, and some for writing itself. That is my own fencing which fences my fancies. And that is what I contemplate to rely upon for bread and butter for rest of my life and for recouping this monster of a student loan. But then I must not certainly err repetitiously, in a series, or must I? I cannot go on doing things for consistency in my resume. For coherence I should not smudge with the remaining lifetime or ought I.Since death for sure impends, even doing the conventional seems of little harm. But the fact is that if I want to absorb vanity by watching strangers reading my penmanship, or massage my ego in watching the known people doing that, I should do the unconventional; conventionally.

Boy, I am not sure if this would be but sheer abruptness. However, since what reason has dictated hitherto has not fetched; I may as well befriend the unchartered territory of my instincts and desert the safe harbours of comfortable logic. I may take the plunge. Or must I?

So much for scribbling on paper.

The phenomenon

Lots of grey matter there put to the trash bin. Looks like a girl in ordinary course, like the one next door, like you wouldn’t pick off the multitude, like one who wouldn’t sweep you over your feet, like she’s one of them, inhering all the tact of everyday life.

And then you walk over for you’ve met one of a regular nature. It’s only in the late evening that the deception of how all of it was only a beautiful lie stings. That ordinary lady weaves inroads, and you try to figure how all of it meandered into. With every encounter and the breezy, tiny dates with her, however, you feel those conventional butterflies in your belly. She captures all the frames of your brain, murders rest images, brutally robs your intellect and becomes desirable.
The dusky skin, the likeable nose, the frank eyes, the fake expressions and real ones, the high pitch voice, the clear syllables, the ordinariness, the energy, the care, the subtle sentences caress the thinking chain. When every other moment passes by it influences you to picture her, as if she has bought all of your time.

This all does happen over duration; however, the damage is irreparable. When you realise, like I do, that you have kind of serious one way feeling for her, the brain goes a wee bit blank. That I have a pen and a paper feels good, for her beauty reflects itself even here.

The sublime amalgamation of black and white which surfaces every now and then deepens the affinity. So much more when while talking she looks at you, and the lips only seem to synch what flows from her eyes.
She’s a congregation of feelings, much of it rejoice, and the grey shades making her more human.