April 2010
i formspring nao →
“I quite like pressing bruises. They’re convenient buttons for pain.”
novel attempt, an excerpt
I think about how every time I revisit the ball pit in my head, someone’s at the plexi glass, knocking with their offensive knuckles. Sometimes it’s my Dad, sometimes it’s my cousin; Nabs, sometimes its Tiff, Abby, Roha and Aamna. Together or separate. Sometimes it’s my little brother, Raaquib, squashing his sun tanned nose against the glass, whining about me not buying him the Danish I promised....
reviewing the past midnight list and being...
it failed. i didnt even curl up in the fetal position. i just bathed, then prayed and slept. according to The Gum Theif, toast is liable to orgasmic activity. i shall quote for you - my fate is to be toast, i suppose thats a small blessing. wait-wait-its almost here, the knife. its almost ready to dock onto my super-sensitive spot in the dead centre of my - nmghhh… aughGHHH! oh! that was-...
past midnight to-do list
im nocturnal. be jealous. okay so here’s what i plan/predict in chronological order. 1) bathe 2) pray 3) make cup of tea (the slightly diluted kind with the herbal leaves that smell like cardamom and green grass. slosh of milk. one sugar) 4) read The Gum Theif, sip tea simultaneously 5) sit at the open-window edge and track the neighbourhood dogs’ movements 6) listen to The Damnwells...
one of my favorite quotes from The Gum Theif, so far :)
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youth culture's diluted ocean
imagine a sea of teen-somethings. flints of idea and opinion in their eyes; bright and well formed. waves of chants are swimming. imbuing the ears of stunned onlookers who review this arias of blatant political activism with a mixture of offence and awe. cardboard and cloth float like driftwood and their printed word and imagery (amateur, posterpainted), declare revolution, regime and recovery...
i know its wrong, but i'm tumblring about my... →
comment if ya want.
had a productive day. this post sums it up.
letter to a lover
dear lover,
where are you? where, oh, where does you silent smile hide? which pockets become a sanctuary for your fingers? who hears you laugh? who runs their youth bitten palms down your spine? who whispers words at your ear; engaging and love-lined? who sees you in the morning and kisses the hollows at your collarbones? (painting a telephoto picture of you bathed in 6:45 light, an icy warmth...
“there is something terribly sexy about IB boys”
