Music swims back to me. It pours over everything.

Speaking of sulking ..

Knowing you tastes like pennies. Cotton fingers and silken arms. I remember your temper, which would flare up out of the blue and how you refused to talk to anyone then. What you’d call sulking. Where coaxing you out of it wouldn’t work. The people I brought over knew nothing about how to shine. The girl with her dogwhine of a voice and the bright blue pineapple dress. And I remember how I sat next to your feet and you immediately pulled your toes in, away from me. You wouldn’t let me hold you or your hand and sat with your blank expression, with your toes curled up under you. My attempts at getting you to laugh it off always went disastrously. You’d invariably shoot me this look of contempt and indifference. Anybody would wither under it. You refused to let me kiss you or undress you. I remember you sitting there, on the white bedspread, in the middle of the largest sunbeam on the bed. Your fingertips, absentmindedly, kept grazing the bedspread and I began to despair. I wanted nothing more in the world than for you to talk to me and to not be this way. You obviously could sense my condition and need for you but chose to ignore it. Most clearly, I remember thinking how much I love this teenaged girl, who isn’t only so much younger than me but also always behind this invisible shield, where nobody could quite reach you properly or really know what you were thinking or wanted. I remember pitying myself and feeling foolish for being so far away from home, in this extremely hot country, living in this tiny studio apartment where most of my time was spent waiting for you to show up or call me. Delhi wasn’t fun by myself. It was ridiculous. I had postponed going back to my life and job and family to be able to spend time with this girl who refused to talk to me for no real reason.

Just as simply as you decided that you were going to sulk you decided that you were done sulking. Out of the blue you were smiling at me again. That feels quite like nothing on this planet. It’s like the sun shining only on you, right as it comes out from behind a black cloud. You were sitting there, with one leg casually resting against my knee and you were the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. You were so together, reading the newspaper and asking me about my mother. That was one of the moments where I knew my being there just to spend more time with you was the only thing I could have done. Once I left I’d never get to go back to that place with you again. You were incredibly young and unspoiled. Gradually you’d move on with your life and you’d never really get what that summer with you meant.

It’s abysmally cold for the first day of the year. There are beautiful flowers at home. The world seems to be entirely grey and misty. I’m sulking in my room. Happy new year mofos.

I like:

Order in numbers

Patterns

Symmetry

Tree huggers

Having the sun in my face in winters

Caffeine

Pencils

Gummy candy

Turquoise Oshos

Plants

Traveling cheap

John Frusciante

Warm towels

Lizards & frogs

I dislike:

Waking up early

Being forced to do something

Spineless people who can’t stand on their own feet

Sentences with odd number of alphabets

Nothing interesting being on tv

Lack of caffeine + things to be done

People who’re neither interesting nor good looking

Clocks/watches with no numbers written

Leather furniture

Learning from experience

People with tattoos

Afternoons

Bad art

I loathe:

Scary traffic

Auto-rickshaw drivers

Most vegetables

Pointless poets (and yes, trust me, there is pointless poetry and no, the point isn’t always expression)

Pointless people

Crowded sidewalks

People who keep fish at home in tanks or birds in cages

Slanty/italicized fonts

Long nails

I love:

Hero

The children

Ribbon

Certain kinds of paper

Jewellery

Mochas

Green things

Rough hands

Scars not tattoos

The physical map of India

Bottles of ink

Waking up only to realize that I can sleep for at least an hour more

Socks

Interesting stones

Internet, hello.
There's cold feet and Emily wants to leave blogspot. I think her idea is beginning to smell like effort. It's grey in the afternoons and the matarfry is in Bhopal. I feel like organizing photo albums or something. Fourty pencils have been bought and you need to see the colours. Pencils. Wow. Matarfry also did a beautiful Blood & Guts stencil for me. I need a new artfile. One solely devoted to pencil sketches. If we leave blogspot, we's not telling nobody. Though like I said, that reeks of work. So, yeah.
*stretches*

I miss doing nothing.