Tuesday, April 5

On a different plane altogether, not voluntarily. Purple clouds and pepper love. Sitting in my room I call out to her though she's outside the house. I don't really want her here but I know she won't be able to hear me anyway. The lies that you tell are an integral part of you. They tell me more about you than the truth. We all get lumped with the truth. The lies you chose told me what you wanted me to know.
She has one of those dupattas with the millions of little circular mirrors. So when she walks into a room the walls are covered with running, leaping, flying people of light. I'm told when you chase her you can see yourself in those mirrors.
All of my friends who wear kajal (except Johnny Depp in POTC) look like they're ill and dying without it. It's built up a dependence and they're all resigned to their fates of buying lots and lots of kajal. Don't fall for it. Really.
Whenever I want to do so I can wake up in a place where all the people I know don't exist and I'm just another drone in the hive going through the daily motions. It's almost comforting. Solitude must be sweet.
I keep meeting the same person over and over again in different forms. I've spent alot of time with him so I recognise him with considerable ease. I don't know what to make of it yet. I long for my crayons and have to study economics instead.

1 comment:

JP said...

Perhaps your life is interesecting with a Michael Moorcock novel? Good to see a slightly wordier post. Still cryptic.