We don't get to a live an edited version of life, we get to live the full version.

Yes, for a while, you were my painkiller. The addictive sweet sedative that gave me dreamless restful sleep.
I got up one day and the pain was back.In spite of you.In spite of everything.
So i stopped taking you.
And I haven't slept since.

Life seems to be putting  a small * with everything good I find.And when you go the end of the text and read what the conditions are in the fine print of *Conditions Apply, you realize that theres nothing really good about it.

phone calls,chocolate cake, chilled coke, stomach cramps at 4am, pill popping at 4am,more phone calls at 6am,wind,non subsiding pain,another pill,rain,dancing in the rain,getting really wet, sleeping for a couple of hours,forgetting to dry the hair,getting up with the curliest hair ever,18 missed calls,3 new messages,fever,the mother of all headaches,talking happily,pretending to be "okay",body aches, damning the dancing in the rain,pill for fever,pill for headache, dragging to the washroom to clean up, cotton shirt, red walls, chilled water,nerdy glasses,glucose biscuits

She calls me an emo writer.She asks me to write love notes for her lover.

I plead with her that I am no writer,I write only when I am sad or overwhelmed. I cannot write on cue, I can only write when I absolutely need to.Its not a very comfortable thing for me.

The thing is that ever since I was a child, I have believed that there is an invisible force that reads every word that is written with heart. It reads every deleted word, every broken message that you type in your phone, every thing that you scribble and throw away in crumpled papers.It reads the words yo u trace out with your finger on a foggy glass or on your torn jeans on a bus ride.The things you trace out when you play with your food.Words you inscribe in sands and snow.The doodles in places that no one knows.

Its doesn't have to be a word,or a perfect shape.It doesn't have to mean something.This force understands what you meant and how you felt.You float messages in a bottle out to the sea of life, and this force is what is there at the other end, intercepting every kind of language every kind of code.I have no idea what it does with all these messages.Whether it judges us or not, whether it acts on our pleas of help, our desperate wishes.All I know is that it is my oldest most loyal friend, it helps me hold on the illusion that I am not alone.

There is a threshold for how much we can feel and keep within us.Most of the times it remains within us,but at times it oozes out of our fingers,dripping off us in spaces we occupy.It doesn't matter how it is written,all that matters is how purely it is you.

She has been listening with her eyebrows raised. I have realized that my rant is not working. She responds to it saying that it is bullshit.I tell her what she wants to hear.

"How do I write for your lover, when my heart has recently been blasted and lies plastered across the walls of my existence."

She says," Tell me when your feeling better, lets give Valentines day a pass. Its his birthday in March."

"You are cruel you know"

She smiles and says,"I know."

(A vegetable hawker yelling gajar lo mooli lo kheera lo tamatar lo)

I have been wake. He is fast asleep.

There is a spot above his right brow on his forehead, if I kiss it, his face lets out the most beautiful involuntary smile. He sleeps, unaware of the hundreds of kisses it has taken me to find this spot. Unaware that he is wearing a blanket of my kisses on his back.Unaware that I have kissed no one as much and as the way I kiss him. I sleep, laughing at myself, thinking, “and you thought you couldn't do this, you thought this was stupid, why can’t you stop kissing him???”

(palak lo methi lo saag lo)

I am awake. He is half asleep.

I softly untangle his legs from mine.As I gently pull away my head from his chest, his arm pulls on me, tugging me back to where I was, close.It’s like a kid and his rag doll, I move away, he pulls me back. I tell myself to sleep, wishing we could freeze in time here right now, sleep for a hundred years, this close, this way.

(gobi lo gajar lo mattar lo mooli lo)

I am awake. He is awake, talking on the phone to his girlfriend.

I whisper to myself,"Kisses don’t mark a man and rag dolls get replaced" and go back to sleep.

You are yet another dose of dopamine that wears out leaving me colder than before. As I pop pills like tic tacs in the single digit temperatures of the night I wonder if I know anything for sure anymore. You, me and this.. A beautiful firework that fades into nothing but ashes and smoke and I like a little kid still stare at the velvet blue sky,wishing I had made you some breakfast the last time.

                                            
                          And if I am abusing too much, and not being creative about their use...know that, what I really need to do is have a good cry.

If dolls could talk...and teddy bears could sing....

they'd tell you I wasn't always like this.....how easily I'd laugh and cry.....

they'd tell you I loved to talk...teach them stuff and tell them stories....

they'd tell you how patient I was....I'd put each one of them to sleep....

they'd tell you how I took care...patched them up...made clothes for them....brushed their hair

they'd tell you how worried I'd be when others played rough with them.....

they'd tell you I was never scared of the dark, the thunder,the spiders or the monsters.....just the teacher in school who would shout to bring me back from the day dreaming.....

If dolls could talk...and teddy bears could sing....

they'd tell tell you who I am.....not who I seem to be.

..in plastic and fur....recycled...or in the dust....

lie my purest kisses and caresses... tears for nothings..

 ...misgivings of a tender heart.