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Of Love and Other Things

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She lay next to him Their naked bodies touching accidently Everytime he moved unconsciously. She lay next to him The smell of the cigarrete smoke Filling her hair. She lay next to him Reading Neruda and his boisterous adventures Of love and other things, Feeling his warm breath on her Smelling the faint musky smell Of his perfume. And then, When she heard his slight rhythmic snores She looked at his face, the scar on his eyebrow The little black mole beneath his lips And she imagined his voice and his laugh. She took a long puff From the almost burned out cigarette And then, slowly, careful not to wake him up She turned in his arms To face the other side. She lay quitely next to him And heard his rhythmic snores And felt his warm, beautiful breathe on her And she finallly sobbed her heart out Thinking about the many unfulfilled loves And the many lost dreams. She sobbed Thinking of his beautiful eyes and the way he kissed. Originally written on
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Of Memories and Forgetfulness

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I keep waiting For a breeze To bring your scents Closer to me. I've been waiting For long For long. I almost forget Your face And your smile I almost forget Your scent. I keep praying For the tides To bring you Back to me But I fear That when you finally come I will be no longer me And you, Well, you would be no longer you. All that'd remain Would be a memory Of you, of me and of us All that'd remain Would be a memory For I would have forgotten you You would have forgotten me And when we cross paths, I might smile at you And you might say "I think I know that girl". And the memory Like a deja vu Would haunt us Without you remembering me Without me remembering you. If I were to forget you If I were to be lost in your memory Would your scent remind me of you? Would my eyes remind you of me? Would our dreams remind us of us?
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Fickle Romances

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You laugh at the random scribbles I have made in the backside of my notebook Not sarcastically or mockingly - But you laugh genuinely. And when I look at you With playful annoyance, You hold me in your arms and kiss my neck. I just love how you see things, you say. And I believe you, for that is what I do. The next time we fought, You called me a feminist And mocked me with nasty words. You told me I was not normal And that everything I write, echoes my insecurity. You will not be tied down by my madness, you said. In the dim lit room, When we lay under the sheets You looked at me - A smile hidden behind tears And a love, hidden behind lust. You traced my tattoo with your fingers, Kissed me on my stomach, And told me just how glad you were To be there - At that time, in that moment. And I believe you, for your words are all that I want to hear. Do you believe me now, you ask Pointing at the ring you put on my finger I smile, for I don't really know
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The diary of a schizophrenic...

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sometimes. i have these useless thoughts. useless because it does not make any sense. it keeps jumping from one thought to a completely unrelated next one. sometimes, it is just the sound of humming- no recognizable tune though. sometimes it jus goes 'buzzzzz'. And it is so irritating. it never leaves, or stops. it keeps going on and on, like the ticking of an old grandfather clock. it does not let me in peace. it does not let me sleep, eat or do anything. i ask it, what is it that it wants. but it never says anything. it continues to tick and hum. and sometimes i get so irritated of it that i start cursing it, abusing it. sometimes i even cry. but when i cry or shout, all it does it laugh, hysterically. almost to the point of craziness. almost driving me nuts. i wished it would all stop. 'and then, it stopped. just like that. one fine day. without prior notice or warning. it all just went away. at first i thought i was dead. i tried to move my finger. and it di
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Fear

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Another time when a thought escapes the mind. Unrelated thoughts. Hurt thoughts. Confessions. Fears. Ever since getting in to this sick routine, there has been very little times when I have felt alive- like really alive. But more often than not, I feel like I am walking, blind folded, on a very thin strand of hope. A strand so thin that I know, one day it is going to snap and that I am going to fall. But the beauty and thrill in it is too much to give up. Also, if I give up on this today, I have nothing to hold on for tomorrow. But that constant sense of losing something, that fear, it just creeps in to you so randomly. 
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Of hope and other things

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Today, my dad told me about this strange feeling he had when he was watching a movie. He has watched the movie many times and he knows exactly what happens to each of its characters by the end of th movie. But still, somehow, he continued watching it in the hope that this time, in the face of tragedy, something else would happen to all of them, something different, something better. He was saying how pointless and almost stupid that hope was, because you know in your fully conscious mind, that it is never going to happen. But still, somewhere from deep within, there rises this strong hope and, faith even, that this time it is going to be different. I keep thinking about it. I told him that in a way, that is exactly what keeps us going, that is what keeps us living. The hope that someday, things would be different. We wake up everyday and mechanically go through our lives in the hope that tomorrow would be much more better than today. Sometimes, it even is. So what if it is better on
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Hmmm...?

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I just tumbled upon this quote of Camus, and now I cant stop thinking about it: In a sense, and as in melodrama, killing yourself amounts to confessing. It is confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it. Let's not go too far in such analogies, however, but rather return to everyday words. It is merely confessing that it is not worth the trouble. Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous nature of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation and the uselessness of suffering. - Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
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