To dream, perchance

It has been a while since I have written here. Indeed, so long a time has passed that my fingers wander awkwardly on the keyboard, they hesitantly seek out familiar words and longingly wrap themselves around the commas. I know, it has been a while.

In this time, I have often wondered what it takes to dream. And I believe I may have found an answer. To dream is to ask of this universe those things one creates in the heart and mind.

To dream is the ultimate sign of life, it is the embodiment of wanting to be. To have. To go and come and to stay. To pluck from trees and to plant seeds and to cut and swish and swap and shape and buy and trade and act and not.


Does everyone dream? Does everyone dream the same amount, the same way? Alas no. It takes, I have concluded, a special kind of bravery to dream. The hope of something else, and the strength to want.

Not everyone wants. Isn't that the strangest this you expected to read on this blog?

I used to want.I used to dream. They were big and spead over pages and pages of colour, and light and bright sparkly patterns.

They made me smile, they gave me hope, they allowed me to continue working and doing and trying even when it hurt like hell to just be.

I dreamt of things, I dreamt of people, I made up cities and houses, I had names and ages and numbers and ideas and loves and lives for everyone. I made art, I made music, I built and shaped. ( I also won, in no specific order, the nobel, the booker, and the fields)

It was a good life.

And as much as it was, I am forced to acknowledge that I will never be all that again. I am bruised, and shaken and fragile.

I have no more the strength to dream, I have no more the will to look beyond.
I am scared of what the future brings.

I know not who I am anymore, and i am scared to look into my dreams, for they are lies; pretty and summery, but still lies.

I would give anything to go back into the idle love and joys of earlier this year, but we are not allowed what we want in real life. nor, it seems, in dreams.



I have, over the past three years celebrated my life with you here. This blog, this space of mine, started as a personal diary, then spread to chronicle what law school and people have been all about.

Through this, I have met the most wonderful people, friends, boyfriends, and loves.
I have had the best birthdays and the greatest ego-boosts through the past four years, spectacular crashes and awful fights and lots of tears, and I remember them so well because I had somewhere (?) to tell it to.


This blog has given me so much, and now I have nothing to give to it.


I'm afraid things must end. This must end. I wil go back to my life, and work it out, and I will try to mend what now seems to me to be nothing but a series of painful bursts of... harsh reality.

Maybe I will write somewhere else, if so, i will link to that place from here. If not, then I will write a book. Of that you can be sure.


I leave utterly terrified, because I am losing so much that I valued, the blog being one of them, but these are decisions I have to make, and I am assured that life will balance out some way or another.


This place, idreamthedream was a happy place. it was my faourite place in all of the interness-ness. On early mornings, when I was waiting for gmail to load, while I queued up for printouts in the net centre, just before I went to sleep, I have often stared at the screen, read a random entry on my blog, marvelled at how young, or how old I sounded and smiled.


I want to leave this that way.

Smile, love and miss me.I will too.

thank you dear bloggy on this parchment-y page. thank you so much. goodbye.

Clutching at.

I shall not grieve
this innocence was not so prized
shall we put it that way?
liar, just be sow.
Wild-flower child of the war zones.
zombie-eh-eh-eh-eh.
I am still clutching straws
and despair is a nightly visitor
but
life has no need of sense.
hold me please.
for tomorrow's tomorrow is
so far away.
and once more
this, this
this,
these affairs
have mocked my plans
laughed at my dreams
and sent me some flowers.
we're so sorry, be brave?
all ahead of me is empty.
and i have anywhere to be and all
the world to go,
truly though
no.

Pink- October.

October is breast cancer awareness month.

If you read this, tell everyone you know.

I knew it too, I knew what BC was, and how older women were at a higher risk. I knew what symptoms it caused, and I knew that a lump was a definite sign.

I knew.

A part of me will never forgive myself for letting the person I love most in this world, ignore my advice. I could have pushed harder, fought and cried and demanded that she get it checked out. But I didn't.

I forgot. I didn't make it an issue. I breezed through my own life and occasionally asked her to get an appointment, when i found the time to check on her.



What makes it worse is that I only ever wanted her to be happy.


Please don't do what I did.

I'm sure you, just like me, are all aware of BC. That you will probably wiki it in a moment, and will know everything that there is to know. You will file it away for later use.

Don't stop there.

Tell your friends. Tell your sister. Your mum, especially. Aunts and grandmums and cousins.

And push them to do take tests and have breast-self-examinations, every month.
It could save their live, one day.


Support Pink.

one fork or two?

I was never good
at waiting for
spilled compliments and answers
lapping them up instead
stealthily, silently.
When you were not looking
prying them from you
tugging at your upturned corners;
looking for the scraps of a smile
rummaging
for some shallow love.
for all that
deep breathing and closed eyes
i was never good at waiting for
measured assurances and weighed concerns
may they explode
and blow me away
the early bird.
my wary worm is too slow
too quiet
too calm
(and i like to go with a bang.)
I shall huddle in anticipation
I will wait for the morsels that you dropped
and devour them greedily
dressed as i am in silks
i will not succumb
to your lights
to your peace
you will turn
to ask
politely as a prince
(or it is punctuality?)
if it is one lump or two
( the irony, the irony)
but the tongs are holding me hostage.
now more then ever.
will you pass
me the
sugar, please?

love letters # 60908

Some years hence, when we ae jaded and old, we will look back upon this year, and we will fall in love with our younger, crazy selves all over again. We will not, curse our laziness and inaction? and wonder at our naievete or our faith in all things orange, and instead for a brief moment we will want to go back, from our jobs and our lives and all the things that tie us down and yet we love; we will want to go back, and for a year, we will want to witness the rollercoster madness of a we-dont-know-when-we-started-but-maybe-we-do year.

We will wonder how we managed to say so much. with so little. Our cellphone callme-now-youcallme-now-you games will seem so weird, our incessant talking while we continue living through each day, and each evening will surprise us. Our passion for arguments,(mine, mostly), and reason, (yours, mostly) - our love for dhaba paneer and pictionary mania and alternatively trying to figure out what is the right amount of time to spend and who gets to decide that, all of this will seem so surprising. To each other, us being the counter, and the sole-ness of comfort, of giving in and giving just, until the accounts dont matter anymore, because on the scales, they're balanced by an equal amount of ridiculous laugher and tears, will bewilder us. There will be times when I will wonder, how you shaped me so sharply, taught me by such example, so as to make yourself my counter, my other-even when boyfriend-ness makes you my one. I will ask myself why I placed me in such a conflict. The point where one is torn between wanting to compliment and also complement. I will, I suppose arrive at the answer I have now. That any other way would be a compromise. It would mean a lessening of inegrity ( for me) and respect ( for you, from you?). It would mean peace, but who cares for plain peace anyway? :P we are of the wild kind. We are pagan and fiery and we change all we meet. We will maybe talk to each other of these things, maybe we will have newer things to say.


Such displays of faith, as we have displayed, such love as you have shown me, and such respect that we still love us when we hate us, all of this will overwhelm us. I know because it does, still.

How do I love thee? Badly, I know. I complain, I whine. I drag us through mad rambles, all the while looking for coloured candy hearts and silver words. I

How do I love thee? Incompletely. Scattered fractal bits of light and good and fear. some faith. some.
How do I love thee? like a child. I follow you everywhere. I trust you in the dark. faithfully I hold your hand and believe in your wings.
How do I love thee? Angrily. Stormily. Darkly and fiercely.

How do I love thee? Ignorantly. Sweetly. I bury my head in your chest and inhale you and fall a little more deeply.

How do I love thee? Why do I love thee?


Counting the ways
in my head, always
love
sowmya.

the best way to live

is to fall into the world. And long for nothing.

I know how to do the former. But when will I learn that I daren't have expectations of others.

A pocket full of stars

A pocket full of stars.
Some I dropped these past few days, some I kept to light up the way.



I have been, all this while, trudging to class unwillingly, shifting, unpacking, cleaning, swabbing, wiping away messy brick-dust covered surfaces, moving furniture, sticking lovely large posters and doing laundry (ah, but you knew that already. Laundry is, after all a favourite recurring theme on this blog here.)

I wanted to tell you, that the most startling change does not come from big grandly obvious things. It creeps up on you in the most random incongruous of ways that show you up. Quietly and scarily. And very small and insignificant twitches have reminded me many many times these past few weeks, of just how much things have moved on and become new, and different.

For one, all my clothess which proudly state that they are those of 202, aren't _of_ there anymore. We live in a different world now. 209 we call it. Half a universe and some windows away. These indelible marks, existential points of reality. Truth? Non truth? In between grey areas in the hazy universes of laundry gods?

Closer to screaming distance to the banda, farther away from the lake. Many more trees. Foliage shadows on picture-poster-stickup wall. Walls. Four of them. All mine.
A window. Large. Some fear-moments away from darkness inhabiting creatures that shriek and mate and call and chirp and buzz and croak. Rain all this while. Heavy sheets of furious rain.
Power-cut nights alone. A solitary wick-less candle for company. quiet.New neighbours. Conversations yelled across windows. public private divide.

"Play that song again"
"do you have food?"
"Come and see my new shirt"
"are you done with your app yet?"

Representative wall. Advice wall. Mirror wall. My wall. Post-it wall. Picture wall.
One lamp. Same lamp. Different light. Fairy light, too.
van gogh explosions.
this world is beautiful.
oshoed. ( pun! pun!)
Sound. Woofer sound. Loud. Quiet. Static. Concertos, listening to the fan slicing the air as the music rises and falls.
Just being by me.

I know its inexcusable that I havent blogged in so long. But its not because I have no time. Or that I have so many people to talk to that this execise has been reduced to a futility.

I feel at home.
I am happy. at some peace. Absent and voluntarily giving up, the moments when I question myself. Deeply, that too.

The other extreme, of the excessive outpouring every two days, is the absolute lack of your desire to understand you. To ball up all the usual ways you've been doing it, to not blog about minor personal crises with petty penguins. To not write longwinded fre verse in the hope that amidst all the feet, all the allegories to the red skirt, that you will say what you want to say about yourself, disguised although as a well articulated discourse on the metaphor of finding keys. ( made to rhyme, though, in the most charming of ways) To not excesively worry about your lack of reaction. to just be.

Alas, I have not been feeling much, not as strongly, not as angrily.
I have been being. Just.

But after a month or so of it, I am a little bored, I admit. And when I find myself again, I promise I will come back. Very soon too.

My teenage friend through lonely nights - thank you for all.