Delineate your life

I’m trying hard not to scare people off with my likes and dislikes. Even before I tell them something, I see this genuine smile in their eyes, around their mouths and cheekbones. This is when I say to myself, “Oh fuck it, just smile back and let them believe what they want.” Don’t look at me in disgust. When I’m sure they’ll have difficulty relating to what I say, there’ll be no point in sharing because it’ll make no universal sense. Or blame my persistent failure in expressing myself appropriately.

There are so many scars on their bodies, all those untold stories! It disappoints me that I tell them stories, but I get none in return.

Sometimes I feel I scare people off with my love and devotion to my favourite band.

The same old question: What do you want from me?

A tiny trace of complaint from my end, and people will say, “Snap out of it”; otherwise, they’d sue me big time. I’ll keep swimming against the current alone.

The next thing is people assuming that drinking is the most common thing to do. Ok, I forgot I’m in Great Britain or in a world where alcohol is a party or relaxation factor, and it’s only Buk who did it the way that makes sense.

I’m not interested in talking about writing. They all seem to have so much fun talking about it, sharing quirks and habits. Who cares? Friends and enemies of writing… that was so ridiculous.

I wonder why people who are already eloquent choose to write. They speak well; they don’t stutter. Unless they want to tell the world about their fears, then I understand. If I had communication skills and were as articulate as a politician, a TV presenter or a telephone sex whore, I wouldn’t write a word. I would speak to a dictaphone or produce silent movies, but I wouldn’t write.

I’m in a baby’s cot of my own breakdown, and the bars are so high, they disappear in the clouds. This is an impasse where all you can do is grow, grow as high as the bars, and maybe you will see something. (‘Drink Me.’)

Or stagnate in your own pathetic mirage.

I’m scared of double beds – those agoraphobia-inducing places on which you rest. You’ll never know when the softness will turn into quicksand. It’s all just a reminder of past mortifications and anticlimaxes. Single beds suggest this kind of fidelity that not even a dog can give you. Single beds with decent coil springs may treat you right. When pressing your legs tightly against your chest, the single bed will give you comfort.

Are you the missing chromosome of my love’s DNA? Let me steal you and fix this disfigurement. Can you call it genuine love, or have I violated the rules of nature? Be natural, a friend once said.

It’s a critical situation when you have to ask yourself how to delineate your life.

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