Good bye, past!

This day marks the beginning of a new life for me.

All my true friends will be happy to know that I am coming away from the source of my pain and tears. I am leaving all the past behind. Every bit of it.

Earlier once I made a decision like this in my life. Just once and I have been sticking to it till this day. This is a similar will. I will not look back. It is not often that I make a promise to myself. Today I am and my friends will know that I stubbornly stick to any promise I make to myself.

To me this is freedom. A space to breathe and let go of that negative influence. I will not sigh or cry. It is time to move on.

You will remain a stranger forever…

Good bye, past!

On becoming him

Rejection. Deprivation of everyday love. Closing her eyes with tears streaming down her face, she felt her fingers numbing with pain. A pang of rejection that gripped at her. She shut her eyes to enter her life with him.

His face blossomed like the multifoliate rose. Smiles and laughter. She drank deeper into it. She thrust herself forward into the fantasy. His hands. She was desperate as a drowning woman. All around her, reality shrieked with its entirety dragging her legs back into its folds. She crawled forth towards that face. His face. Her only hope of escape. Of insanity. Her fingers numbing with stings from reality, she reached out. She stroked his hair with the dregs of energy she possessed. Yet love was erupting uncontrollably. It had begun as an innocuous streamlet and had turned into a flood submerging their lives. She held on to his face like the ship wrecked man holding on to a piece of splinter. It had stayed with her at nights when she saw life drained out of her. Even a minute of hazy violence was dangerous in her dreams. Even a moment of losing his face meant whip lashes from reality. She watched thin strands of red blood crawl up her fingers like needles of rain. She wished to whisper into his soul every ounce of love that weighed her down…and she did. In her dreams, the violence of reality came crumbling down. She laughed and held to his face tighter inside her lashes. She drew everything out of his face. She was greedy for more. His face meant the end of pain. His face meant the end of silence and loneliness. His face spoke in many many tongues. With his eyes he engraved a million hieroglyphics in her heart. His lips were icy cold like the frozen stillness of pain. His inanimate face invaded into her mindspace like the looming mountains or the sequoia. Its conspicuous presence was something she could not ignore. It ate into her, converting her into a foetus that was reborn from his existence.

She had allowed him to consume her. In one self-effacing moment that lasted for a millennium she had replaced her own consciousness for his. As her cells imbibed his spirit, she lost touch with her own exterior. She had become like a cryptic text for those who did not know him. Her stimuli had ceased to respond to the mannequins that walked about her. Her neurons had picked up one chemical that constituted chiefly of him. They grew tired sending unreciprocated signals towards his direction. They grew excited with the flashes of his appearance. Now they had made an indelible print of him for repeated use. Every curve in his face was at their immediate disposal. They substituted her cravings with that print and achieved the desired effect. Of intoxication. They secretly smiled at their success at deluding her. She had now begun to feel his touch. The psyche had effectively transmitted her earlier memories of touch to his image and now it was his touch. Sometimes she craved his voice. The neurons had noted this down on many occasions. Now they carefully dwelled on his voice and drenched themselves in its frequency and tones. They intently extracted every layer of his voice and secured them in big black boxes. Now when she craved, they produced elaborate conversations with his voice. This voice had grown so familiar in her mind, they almost thought it was her voice. They did this voice’s bidding. This voice bid them to grow euphoric and they did. Her whole being grew euphoric with his imaginary voice; his real voice had grown strange and distant. She had learned to wean herself off from his real voice.

In loneliness now, he spoke sweet words, kissed her and comforted her. Now why does love ask for sensuous gratification? She had never once seen him,her ears had heard his voice only transmitted by gadgets, his smell was unknown to her, his touch as imaginary as the rest of him,and his taste the least imaginable. Yet her love grew in leaps and bounds upon her. Her imagination painted an idealistic picture of him.

He was her best sculpture, her best song, her best portrait, her best perfume, her best creation. She had become the Pygmalion of yore once again. She had constructed him out of all her memories of men, their behaviour, their voices, their demeanour and their nature. She had also built him with her instincts about that one companion her soul craved for.

Yet he played his part to perfection where he featured in her life. He destroyed her imaginary creature at times. At times he shattered her dreams and brought her crashing down to reality. Now she had stopped making him out of her idealisms. Now she had begun making her idealisms out of him. The world called her insane. He found her dangerously deluded and obsessed with him. He could not help being him, and the more he was himself, the more she grew obsessed with this man.
She persistently accepted him because he was the epitome of her idealisms. The idealisms he managed to deconstruct, he had replaced with his own example,because she trusted his hatred. Thus she grew into a mere reflection of him. Her imagination of him was so accurate now because he was a superimposition in her and vice versa. It became a mirror,reflecting him in her, her in him, and it was such that one knew not the original from the reflection.

They had become one.

Technorati Tags: short stories, love, heartbreak, delusion

What kind of writer am I?

Flattering..

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery… Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You’re already naturally a poet, even if you’ve never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Technorati Tags: blogthings

EQ Test

For those who suspect my honesty while taking tests..

Your EQ is 113

50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick! 51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you’d have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You’ve got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You’re average. It’s easy to predict how you’ll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities – you’ve either out “Dr. Phil-ed” Dr. Phil… or you’re a dirty liar.

What’s Your EQ (Emotional Intelligence Quotient)?

Technorati Tags: EQ test

Attention Couch Potatoes!

A hilarious post by a frustrated athletic trainer… but behind all the hilarity there is biting truth.
15 ways to become disgustingly fat, unfit, unhealthy and a physical mess « Keith Scott MS, ATC, CSCS

I hope all of you are capable of understanding irony. It seems there are some people who cannot.

The ability to comprehend sarcasm depends upon a carefully orchestrated sequence of complex cognitive skills based in specific parts of the brain. Yeah, right, and I’m the Tooth Fairy. But it’s true: New research details an “anatomy of sarcasm” that explains how the mind puts sharp-tongued words into context. The findings appear in the May issue of Neuropsychology, published by the American Psychological Association (APA).

Read about them here: How does the brain handle sarcasm?

Technorati Tags: Health, Fitness, Sarcasm

Twenty things about you and me

1. I think your hair looks like peacock feather strands.
2. I want to disturb you when you’re busy and concentrating hard.
3. You bloody well know how much I love you.
4. I bloody well know how much you love me.
5. We sometimes hate talking to each other because we both can be terrible bores.
6. I want to drag you into the rain because you hate it.
7. We both love foghorn leghorn and daffy duck.
8. We both hate idiots except when it is ourselves.
9. Others have no clue about us.
10.I choke my laughter when you are angry and screaming at me because you look so funny your glasses sliding down your nose. (Are you saying “Idddiot!”?)
11. We will meet some day.
12. I love it when you sleep but like it better when you’re awake.
13. You are a genius.. my fellow genius.
14. You hate milk but I learned bournvita is damn good for you.
15. We must take over the world. I am the Brain and you’re Pinky.
16. Stalking you has made me very intelligent and well-read, for all those forums I visited.
17. You are a jealous dawg. I too am.. “aargghh..fight me!”
18. We have sooooo many secrets … *giggle*
19. You are phoenix-raiser.
20.

Now I shall go into temporary hiding before he finds me and slays me with his Anduril. Ssshh!

Misjudged

The boy was only twelve years old but his caustic tongue was capable of wounding anyone. The elders at home often warned him for his disrespectful and rebellious ways. He often trusted his mother’s judgment about people and remembered her comments about them even better than she did. He had heard his mother remark that his father was not very intelligent, not as intelligent as her. His father had told him, he had failed at school once and then once at college. Due to lack of encouragement and funds, his father had quit studies after an undergraduate degree. Father often boasted about this degree. Even though he had failed in the Economics paper, he had stood second in the whole college, in his Psychology paper.

Father had this habit of opening his cupboard and fishing out a folder. In this folder he kept his old black and white photographs, a few crumpled bills, old letters from his own father to him, and his degree certificate. The boy had seen this certificate a few times. He did not think much of this certificate because he thought failing in one subject should mean that his father was an idiot. He liked seeing his father’s class photograph though. There was a man in it, with oiled hair that was parted right in the middle. Father wore big glasses, much bigger than his face. A professor sat right in the centre with a suit that was two sizes bigger. Everyone looked awkward. Some of them smiled rather sheepishly. The boy found it fascinating that his father should have been so young once. Yet, he did not see his father as a great student. His father told him how he had won the third place in an intercollegiate singing competition. That made him proud. His father always sang well. No doubt about that.

Father told him how he had wanted to study a different subject and how he had to compromise and study Economics because of the financial situation at home. The boy thought that his father was making up a story. How could his father have done well at any subject! He was not capable of it. All his life, the boy had not failed a single examination.

One day the boy went to play with the neighbour’s dog. His father called out to him from the other side of the compound wall. Father warned him to come home and study for the impending exams. The next-door uncle stood watching. The boy pretended to be deaf and continued playing. Father said, “Come and study or you will fail your exams!” The boy retorted in his usual unthinking manner, “You have yourself failed your B.A. exam! Why do you advise me?” The uncle was shocked by this impertinence and said “First you pass your sixth standard and then you pass your B.A. After that you can speak like that to your father!” The boy thought elders were a bunch of bullies and went in to study with brimming tears.

The degree certificate kept popping out of the cupboard and the folder. The boy thought that his father was shameless to open that failure folder. His father was messed up and paranoid. He fought with mother and was also taking psychiatric treatment for his violent temper. The boy was not sure he liked his father.

The boy was now struggling with his B.A. The father reminded him of the words that he had spoken in front of the next-door uncle. The boy thought it was sadistic of his father to remember it and to remind him of it at this point in time. Yet he retorted, “In your period the syllabus was much easier despite which you did not perform well.” Father grunted and went his way.

When he was in his second year of college, father was diagnosed of cancer. It was in the secondary stage. Multiple myeloma had eaten through his bones. The bone scan revealed that his entire shoulder and pelvic regions were affected. Father was given rigorous treatment. He responded well to the treatment. He did not complain about the treatment even a single day. The boy had to wash and clothe his father everyday. He had to take care of every need the father had at the hospital. His studies suffered. Father was in so much pain at times he screamed at the boy.

Father never knew he had cancer. The doctors had told the boy and his mother, not to tell this to father. After spending several thousands of rupees, there was an unfortunate accident in which his father succumbed. After father died, the boy was in severe shock. His mother had had a severe shock as well though she did not express it. One day mother was cleaning father’s cupboard. She cried so much on seeing his clothes and photographs. She wanted to escape from all his memories. She gave all his clothes away to the poor. She cleared out all his papers and things. The boy walked by that room where she was emptying father’s things out. He saw the degree certificate lying on the floor amid a heap of papers. He asked his mother why she was throwing these things away. He was afraid to ask her. She did not say anything. He concealed the certificate behind him and took it to his room. He put it in his own folder.

When he passed his B.A. in first class with a university rank, father was not around. He went to his room and placed the certificate underneath his father’s. He had misunderstood his father while he lived. Now he had understood everything.

Technorati Tags: Short stories, childhood

Blue Pebbles

Far away in the planet of Antimonite, lived a mermaid called Blue Flare. Everyday she was found basking in the sun her cyan tail gleaming in the rays of the purple sun that shone above their planet. She watched her friends in the distance gathering crimson wavelets from the sea to make necklaces. And she caressed the stony starfish that lay beside her with her long nails. She flicked it into the sea and rolled over dreaming of rain.

Blue Flare’s father was at the king’s coral reef. She was no princess. She was tired of being a “no princess”. She had once seen a merman who had visited their crimson sea. He was a blue pebbles bringer. He had a long beard that floated down to the floor of the sea. His eyes were brilliant orange, the colour of the striking orange flame azalea. What mermaid would not want a merman with a long beard and orange eyes! And his blue pebbles… they were exotic. Often blue pebbles of the rare kind had turquoise streaks running through their core. These turquoise streaks gleamed under the ocean bed through their blue glassy stonewalls. Mermen gathered them sweltering under the purple sun bringing them to their cadmium-haired mermaids. A long-bearded, orange-eyed, turquoise blue pebble merman; such a merman was every mermaid’s dream gene procurer.

Blue Flare had seen him just once from the distance. She had immediately dreamt of hordes and hordes of little merlets swimming around her black stony lair. She had waved her cyan tailfins luring him to her. Yet a passing swirl of silver storm had whiffed her seduction away from him. Since then she had sighed like an empty cavern and sat on that stone waiting, as any mermaid waiting for the man who had given her dreams of merlets. The crimson waves looked drab. She wished the sea could turn a refreshing grey or murky green. Each evening lasted for 3000 laps. Her friends thought she was a lazy brat who did no work. She made a song that sounded like a siren, which she had once seen, in the distance, and she interspersed this song with sighs inspired by the ocean itself. Little fish gathered at her wrists to taste the cyan dust gathered in her shell bracelets. She rippled the waves and bewildered them. She laughed like the tiny waves striking mildly against her stone, upon seeing the fishes do a whirligig. The merman grasped her wrist and slithered into the waves.

She knew the courting methods of mermen. They stole upon you without warning and abducted you far into the ocean’s perilous crevices. Then they carried you into a mysterious grotto or into the rotting galleys of a wrecked wooden schooner. There they would make love, kissing like sea serpents and moonless nights of unpredictable storms. Mermen were characterized by greed and aggression. Mermaids were lithe dart-finned creatures. Their courtships looked like shimmering lightening flung generously with bouts of electric eel wrath. Then they would part without warning and speed back to their homes, full of panic and trepidation. After fifteen nights mermaids rained merlets on the waves. They swam back and forth like supple laughter.

She retained flashes of orange irises dilating and contracting. Her merlets had gone into the horizon without a second glance at her. Her own father had disappeared into a shrivelled body. Now she saw a wooden raft gathering size. It grew. A fish-capturer bloomed. His skin was dark as lethal venom from the conidae. This fish capturer was colourless and enthralling. His eyes were black and his hair was grey. The vessel that carried him was murky wooden. She let her tailfin down into his net and found herself in his arms at once. Her love for him grew dangerously with every wave that lashed at them. With her long-nailed fingers she seized his wrist hoping to take him forever into her world. His struggle reminded her of her orange-eyed merman. She laughed with her quartz teeth enchanting him irrevocably. She kissed his ephemeral body with her benign tragic flaw of seeing a fish-capturer as a merman. She murmured in her language of sighs and trebles hoping he would understand. The fish-capturer awaited his throes of breathlessness. He knew she would love him to his death. She swathed him in her fin and descended into the ocean depths with her find. The silent gurgles of the deep ocean sounded loud as a death knell to his deafened ears. His gasping pangs mesmerized her. Love effervesced in her like the volcano that frothed with golden juices. Yet she knew he was going into never land. Every mermaid revealed the shocking thunder bursts of never land to the fish-capturers. Blinded by its magnificence they grew speechless. All fish-capturers gifted their breath to never land. These breaths were captured in aquamarine bottles and gifted to mermen. She drew an aquamarine bottle with a piece of wafer thin paper, tossed it into the ocean and drew the fish-capturer’s last breath into its confines.

Her orange-eyed merman hauled her into a reef of colourless beauty. He fetched a blue pebble chain with an exquisite bone clasp and fastened it around her unstill hip. She watched him smell her cadmium hair and thrust a fish-capturer’s wandering breath into his hands. Sleepy fish swam away petulantly from the intrusive colours and ripples that ensued…

Technorati Tags: Short stories, mermaid

Swallowed

Do you remember in what context you gave me this song? Now I am giving this back to you because you brought me out of that state but the ungrateful wretch that I am, I have brought you into that state….

My love, even now I can only selfishly plead for you to remain for my sake.. I do not see so much of self-worth to hold you back.. yet you have to stay for this orphaned waif..

Coldplay – Swallowed in the sea

“You cut me down a tree and brought it back to me

and that’s what made me see where I was going wrong

You put me on a shelf and kept me for yourself

I can only blame myself, you can only blame me

and I could write a song a hundred miles long

Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me

and I could write it down or spread it all around

Get lost and then get found or swallowed in the sea

You put me on a line and hung me out to dry

Darling that’s when I decided to go to see you

You cut me down to size and opened up my eyes

Made me realize what I could not see

and I could write a book, the one they’ll say that shook the world

and then it took, it took it back from me

and I could write it down and spread it all around

Get lost and then get found and you’ll come back to me

Not swallowed in the sea

Oohhhhh Ahhhhhh

and I could write a song a hundred miles long

Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me

The streets you’re walking on, a thousand houses long

Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me

Oh what good is it to live with nothing left to give

Forget but not forgive, not loving all you see

Oh the streets you’re walking on a thousand houses long

Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me

Not swallowed in the sea

You belong with me, not swallowed in the sea

Yeah you belong with me

Not swallowed in the sea.”

Technorati Tags: Coldplay

Color Blindness

3.5 million people in the U.S. are color blind. Are you color blind?

If you dont see a number in the first picture, then you are!

Take the complete test here:
Ishihara Test for Color Blindness

Also see this article:How I (color blind person) see the world!

Technorati Tags: Color Blindness Test