What do we do about the girl in the train?

With the future seeming blurred, and the past, so much more pain consuming, she took her seat. The vividness of the unknown, or should I say the lack of it, was eating her inside out. Though she tried, unsuccessfully, to not let it show. The pain, of course. Unsuccessfully. The tears that lingered at the corner of her eyes, gave her away.
The rain started beating down on the earth, against the window pane, on the green fields leaving the leaves wet, ruffled and awakened. That feeling of being animated, of viability, she ached for. Something inside her had died that night. The will to live, the will to smile, the will to love, not even herself. She did not stand alone, tall and proud anymore. She sat defeated, purposeless.
If I may ask, how does love give you away so easily? Rules are broken, and the resolute often bow down, often intimidated, often losing to spite the necessary ego. Please don't answer. I'm just asking. As I look at the girl, bereaved and alone, I cannot help but question some uncertain emotions. Now, don't look at me like that. Love is pretty uncertain, with all the unanswered questions, and the unspoken promises, along with the broken bonds. Trust is pretty over-rated, over-used, and mostly so, over-abused anyway. But what do we do about the girl in the train?
Whose face clings to the window pane.
The tears roll down, giving her away, only more so.
The nose turns a cheeky red, trying to sniff in the loneliness.
Who tightens her grasp around herself even more tightly, suddenly realizing that she is all that is there, for her.
Who clenches her fist and loosens it, uncertain of her life.
Who not once looks out of the window, trying to grasp in the surroundings, the beauty of the perfect amalgamation of rain and water.
Does she realize how bereaved and lost she might be, that she's gotten onto the uncertain train, as well?
Oh, what do we do about the girl in the train?
Do, we let her pain heal itself? Or do we leave her alone, to wither, and to be re-born again?
Oh, let the girl in the train be. Let them all in love, be.

Unreturned.

Like everyday, I see, 
you coming out of your sweet agony.
Your pain, 
makes my love for you abounding. 
As I stare at you
through the narrow recesses of the gleaming window,
the sunlight filling my eyes with joy.
Oh no, its not the sun to blame.
The world seems fine, with your smiles, 
and that twinkling laughter of yours.
Do you know my feelings, 
or me at best?
I guess not.
Does that hurt?
It fills my whole self with profuse pain.
But I still manage a smile,
or a silent blush,
when I see you sitting outside the door,
talking to your folks,
not once staring at the gleaming window;
where fluttering eyes stay. 
One of these days,
you'll be well.
Not anymore will you sit outside the door,
not anymore.
Not once have you seen up at me,
now, not anymore.
You will ride your bikes,
come back late in the night.
Or not return at all.
You will smoke joint with them guys,
in the alleys, that I cannot venture within.
My eyes still search for you through the gleaming windows,
for your signs, your laughter,
or your music. 
My love is still growing,
but it aches for your presence.
One day, it might grow,
to exalted heights of agony,
and will let me wither and die in this pain,
that love alone can give. 

The devil

As she helped Sara lie down on the bed, her face bewitching her emotions, all she did was wait, for THE moment.


I've always been good to you, to everyone around me. Alas! Life hasn't been so fair to us, she mumbled.

Life
Isn’t death everything
Isn’t death everything
Isn’t death everything


..crooned Elton John in the distance. The gay bastard was so right. For her, Sara's death meant everything.
However ironic the song might be, Sara would never approve of shutting off the radio. She was sure, Sara would want the radio to go with her in the coffin [since she could smell Sara's death. Soon]. But the undying love and loyalty had always remained. Funny how people set up relationships with inanimate things. The materialistic ones, but more often then not, fail to have genuine love from the animated ones, like her. Sara seemed to have only invited her hatred. 
From the very start, the better one, the closet devil. The more-loved. The equally more-hated. 



Die when I may, I want it said of me, by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower, where I thought the flower would grow.


-Abraham Lincoln





Stupid Lincoln. It was not a flower that the dying hath planted, it was a thorn, of pure, rotting hatred.


Some water please!


She wouldn't mind taking the life off her, though she obliged.


After I die, do take care of my precious garden, I wouldn't want the roses to wither and die. My grave should be next to mother's with the same ivory craving. Not like I'd see it, she coughed some phlegm, but it would give my soul some sweetness to cherish, I'm sure. Do be a good person to all. 


She rambled on. Testing her patience, like every single time. Almost tempting her to retaliate with a few harsh words, or actions, not that she has ever done any, but how long could Sara instigate her like this. The elder, the better, the sweeter, the prettier. The one with the better husband, though dead. The one with beautiful children, though none here, not so soon, the one with a huge house, that she was allowed to live in. She, the barren, abused wife of a fucking bastard. Ah! The cruelty of life. 


She sighed, this time aloud. Took the pillow, and sucked out the remaining life off Sara. The devil had acted, after all.

The cross-legged animals.

It should help, the indifference.
Or so, I thought.
You smile at me. I do not smile back. Silently hoping that you'd realize your bad. Do you? Maybe, maybe not. Do I care? You might say no to that one, but you see, that's the funny part, I do.


There is a garden, a pretty one. With flowers, freshly dewed, or maybe watered. A lot of green, red, pink, all those happy colours. Basically, its my place, the place I live in, in my dreams. I own it, and it houses my happiness. Not that I have any particular fascination with flowers. In fact, I hate them. So, let's just replace the flowers with different coloured chocolates, which taste like M&M's. You get the picture, right? I'm an awesome story-teller like that.


I sit in the garden, cross-legged, crooning to myself a very happy song. Maybe it's the Beatles. Cross-legged, because the world makes more sense that way. I see you, or maybe it's the silhouette. You won't come into the garden, cause you very well know, that the trespassers might just be killed. You read the devil inside me very well, don't you? But little do you know, that you own the garden as much as I do. The chocolates, we live on them. We both are cross-legged animals who croon along, together. 

If you want more love,

why don't you say so?

If you want more love,

why don't you say so?

We sing the same songs, almost in unison. If you want more love, why don't you say so?

Why don't you come out of the silhouette?

Why don't you step into the garden, which you own as much as I do?

Why don't you sit cross-legged with me, and help eat the flower shaped chocolates which taste like M&M's?

Why don't you talk to me, so that I start smiling?

With you, the world is a happier place, so why don't you be with me?

Trivial

A trivial thing she was,
almost unnoticed, almost non-existent.
Almost dead.

How about a Bucket List?

So I was watching The Bucket List the other night, with even more contemplation than the two times before that. Why? Because I was feeling morose and so I thought, that the energy that's so lying dead inside me would be better concentrated on a movie so subtle, with a profound outlook to impending death.
Death is inevitable, very much like life, in the true sense of it. Very few of us are lucky enough [or not] to be told the time of their death. So, it's better to have a personalized bucket list, eh? Makes living life so much more purposeful, and joy-ful [which is not a word, by the way]. So, yes, caught up in the complex expressions that Morgan Freeman kept displaying every minute, I decided that I'm going to have a bucket list. A very own, personalized bucket list, that will give a deep meaning to my stupid existence on earth. So that, if tomorrow, a totally random person walks up to me, and asks "why-the-hell-don't-you-f***-off-from-the-face-of-this-earth*, I can proudly show him/her my bucket list, which at that moment, would be lying contently in my denim pockets waiting for its bulletins to be ticked off. Get it?
So well, I will not put up wishful and hypothetical things like I want to own a plush sea side bungalow in Goa/ a Volkswagen beetle/ *tada data*.. [read: loads of rich luxury stuff*] in the list, because that will make me look materialistic and blind to the simple pleasures of life. So well, cutting it short- THE LIST.

• I want to have a walk by the sea shore, in a beach that would be enamored by the beautiful colours of sunset, that would be empty of all chaos, save for me and my special someone.
• I want to bungee jump. Yep. Not because I'm an adrenaline junkie or something, but i want to experience the tense moment between me having worn my suit and me, being pushed down [considering there is no way on earth i'd jump down, compulsively].
•  I want to go on a bag pack trip across India, experience my country first hand, eating in road side dhaabas, travelling in crowded buses and trains, asking for lifts from truckwallas, yes, that India has to be the most enriching, not the India trip that some tours&travels organizes for you.
• I want to have a whole library made in my future house. Loads of books to be read, to be learned, and to be smelt. Yes, you read that right. The smell that emanates from a new book, is any reader's delight.
• I want to take loads of photographs in my life. Yes, I have a taste for photography, and I want to adorn the walls of my future house with loads of them.
• I want to make a silent, submissive trip to the backwaters of Kerala. Lets say, a self examining trip. And this is one trip, I wish to make alone, wherein I want to be away from the chaos of city life and experience beauty, serenity and simplicity first hand.
• I want to go to Paris, yes.
• I want to attain contentment, which is something I do not boast of, not right now. But someday, I want to be happy about how life is shaping up, and how there is nothing much to worry about.
• I want to have thousands of followers, but more importantly I want to be appreciated for things that I believe I'm decent in, writing being one of them.
• I want to write a book, or I want to contribute creatively to a very important piece of document.
• I want to sing like crazy in a karaoke bar, yes, the soonest I can. And yes, I can sing pretty decently too.
• I want to learn to play the tabla, so bad. And the guitar too, yep.

This list will keep getting updated in the recent future. You can never expect a person to want to do so less in their life span. Of course. Life is a funny place to live in. Sometimes so subtle, and sometimes, so on your face. It's kinda funny, really. But might as well take it with a pinch of sugar/salt as you may please.

Shadows.

Slowly, with nervous, insecure fingers, she touched the photographs, looked at them, rather merely glanced. It was not the photographs that bothered her. Okay, they did, but only a slight bit. It was the uncertainty that was gnawing into her empty recesses. Is it possible for any person to feign anonymity? To block yourself from the prying eyes of the world, to wither within yourself, and then someday, die, a lowly, unimaginative, and neglected death. Well Sybil did that, but she had Dr.Wilbur for comfort for the most part of her life. But, she was no Sybil, not mentally disturbed as much as Sybil. A slight bit, maybe. Not much. Like her grandma would say, "not too much, not too less, sooogar". Funny, she was. She smiled.
The photographs reminded her of an eerie past. Eerie because she was happy then. Not alone and happy. Well, you might ask as to how happiness could be eerie, well for Nina, it could. She was not used to it, the happiness.
It was not too long ago, that the hallucinations started. Not too long ago, when she realized the presence of the very human shadows that kept following her. Not too long ago, that she started dreaming of her own death.
The shadows ruined it all, the happiness, the impending marriage with Aaron. She drove him away, yes it was her all the way, with a little help from the shadows. Trust was a word that she knew nothing of, not anymore.
The would kill her, the shadows. Humiliate her, make crap fun of her. And then ultimately bring her down.
The death was inevitable, now, even more so.