Hysteria.

She's an eccentric lover.
Laughing her way through salty rain drops making way from her eyes to her numb, cold, wanting lips.
Claustrophobic in an empty, barely furnished abode, nursing a fleeting slideshow of despair and guileless, pubescent love. Bursting out like victims of steadfastness from the jailed lock-horns of farce. Deep, senile love doing its frolic, in a smiling head, gleefully clapping her way through a room of dancing others. Diving aimlessly, head first, into a crevice knowing no bounds. And being upstaged by scorn.
Justlikethat.
An illusionary sorry figure transcends from hitherto a parallel gratifying scheme of events. Where love is nothing but a stream of bodies chalked out by the peripherals of their touch. Where love is happiness and grief alike surmounted onto an impenetrable wall of heroin addiction. And heroin being nothing but that, that beats in the blood of a fool, he being that. And two worlds create themselves, with a psychotic ease that nothing but addiction demanded.
While in one, every cry was met with an ignorant sigh, two naked bodies danced their way through a streaming flow of void, settling down, arms entwined, in the invisibility of the world set apart from the rest.
As she carelessly muttered helpless cries of a world that belonged to her head, he silently noted how big his thumb really was.
TchTch.
And her thought flow went on to have street bumps. That made little thought vehicles go plop! in the air. And the little yellow-knickered man cried for help. And he noticed how enormously black the sky inside really was. That there are no stars or moon in the head did not help him either.
And whilst his trivialization slowly killed the all-consuming despair, the yellow-knickered man jumped in awe at how close the sky really seemed to be coming in and how small the world inside really seemed to feel. 
""If we could just escape into an all-seemingly delusional corner with our drapes enshrouding us from obscure views, it would be nice. I'd make love to you like there's no tomorrow, gasp with a feeling of self-worth and die in your arms, unable to put up with the ecstasy. And maybe, just perhaps, your sauntering kisses will spring me to life."
Do you like what I say?
No, you don't, you answer."
TchTch.

Gold chariots and the likes.

We've all been subjected to grandma tales.
But what left Kiu a little perplexed is if any of them ever came true.
Kiu would walk, into the lonely terrains and mythical thoughts, into those imaginative ideas and floating shadows, often questioning her whereabouts whether she should lay down her instincts onto those tales of yore.
But, what she searches for is not what you and I may understand.

.
She dreams,
of the strange mix of love and touch,
of life and death.

And then he happened, and the questions were put to rest, albeit for a short while. He's the soul-breaker to her, that she never could be.
Together, they decoded their own red-coloured language. 
Together, they loved. Together they were wounded.


So, grandma, would a prince come to me in a gold chariot.

No, she smiled, they came with their own troubles, and their own whims. 
They came walking down, oblivious to people around
They smiled, and rejected the unnecessary drama, they came with their own subtlety. 
They were princes, no less. 


P. S. Image courtesy, me. Yes. 

Dreadful despair.

Attracted to morbid dreams,
of love and separation following thus. 
When suddenly afflicted with picturesque moments,
of hearts and smiles,
I paused,
momentarily confused.
And stayed, put.
Aft a while, I began,
the search for despondent happiness,
that lay in lights,
and in self-benevolence.
And as I passed by your abode,
that lay, perhaps a thousand miles from mine,
I felt a strange complacence, 
and sat there,
put.
Waiting in solitude,
but in contentment,
at the aberrant happiness that lay ahead. 
The lights now chose to appear,
out of the blue. 

How she settles, oh how beautifully, she does.

As she silently settled onto her seat, her eyes vividly began dancing and established themselves on the page that her fingers tried to trace.
She began reading.
You and I might be forced to think that she was oblivious to the silence around her, but we might think, or we may think, or it may not be so.
Her loneliness in the dead of the night surprised her, and made her weirdly content.
And suddenly, almost notoriously, the water droplets began to spur her. They came, almost abruptly, like perhaps, by accident. She panicked, and her arms closed around her book.
What followed was an awkward moment, wherein she couldn't decide if closing the window was a better option to moving.
And then, as abruptly as before, she calmed down and smiled.
She sat where she did, did not rush to close the window, and let the rain drops replenish her troubled frowns and soothe them.
She marveled at the peace that's infused in the most unexpected moments.

"When the dream is gone"

It is not often that one's thoughts serenade into those mystical spaces, that otherwise exist, but for us, just in the mind.
But her's did, always.
She called it, yearning for a life, altogether different.
I called it being untamed.
She was definitely not one of us. 

The lights of ecstasy.

We're not dissecting age-old norms here.
Nor will we talk about how it was wrong for her to have gone out that night. How it wasn't appropriate for her to step out of her periphery of custody.
But the want for freedom sometimes, beguiles the most careful of them, eyes.
And I have, always, silently appreciated her wavering attitude to stability. I somewhere, saw my unwavering soul in it. The one that has always dreamed of quenching her faltering thirst, but has never been able to take the first few baby steps. I was in awe of her. But that was a feeling that I solely kept inside of me, and thus, forever, sealed my lips.
Well, so coming back to the spunk of it all, she silently averted our attention that night, and made way, to the acropolis where royalty waited for her with baited and nervous breath.
I have never been  able to duly comprehend the love that existed between them, but then, she once silently whispered to me that love was not to be understood, either way.
And as she made way to his ready-to-embrace arms, she saw the lights that had forbidden her all along. The lights of pure ecstasy.

The incoherent ripples of child-dom.

We've all been part of the same sweet game. 

Often, if not, always, when abundance of emotions prevail, and situations run high and dry,

like the demystifying eyes, that flutter across your troubled brows,

that are often shriveled, like the ripples that we made in the lake, in the days of yore.

When often, life was defined by the shoe-clad wriggly feet,

that were often pointed to the stars in the wavering nights of child-dom.

Oh, how often, if not always, my thoughts go back to the same incoherent folk-tales.

When the Maharajah extended his strong hands to the erstwhile princess, and how we blushed,

at the prospective love that was deemed to happen.

You and I looked into each other's eyes, and we realized that love is not what is spoken about, only. Love can exist, sporadically, insignificantly. And having made our compelling discovery, receded into the the same child-dom of blooming happiness.

When you and I were a little different. 

A bit more silent, a bit less coherent, slightly more eloquent.