Dance

“Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”   - Rumi

              I walked into a studio for the first time ever. Covered with white walls on all fours and ceramic tiles from the floor up till the waistline, the dim orange and white lights made everything look better than it actually was. The people looked better. The smiles did too. The movement. The pain. The sweat. Life in general, looked better. I wasn't used to this comfortable of an atmosphere, I was just a troubled young man. I walked into the studio to release my inhibitions. After weeks and months of being impassive and pretending to be someone I'm not and was never meant to be, I needed a place where I could emote. Be myself. Understand what was inside, and do my own thing. I walked in thinking I could pop, lock, drop, move, groove. But when the beats started hitting my eardrums, I could do none. I looked down and stared with amazement at my two left feet. I heard a God whisper in my ears, "Give it time".

              Two months down the line, I didn't care. I learnt how to let go. I've learnt how to give in now. Every evening, surrounded by a God and demigods, life gets better. I can understand sound and why it exists now, and I can hear the lyrics in instrumentals too. I get the history behind a beat, and I can see what music does to my soul. I came to this place to emote, but little did I know, I can do so much more with myself now. I find my body speaking for itself when the music is played. It senses the pride, the groove, the pain and the feeling of letting go with each beat. I can hear it talking through the movement, showing me things I didn't know existed inside. And I now realise that this is a part of me. A part that tailors me more and more every day, makes me feel a different kind of pain than what I felt months ago; the kind I like. This part of me is glad that I walked inside the studio with two left feet a couple of months ago, the same part that fears a lot less than what it did in the past. This part is what says 'fuck you' to every negative wave that is destined to come my way, the same part that teaches me how to face it, better every day. "Dance from the inside first" is what a God had once told me, and it's what I do. So it doesn't matter if you or me are shackled by others and made to feel insane, because while they struggle to find the music in them,

we'll be dancing it all off together.

Pursuit of Happiness

         There was a kid once. Aged five, in the primitive years of his life. He was young, his age shaping him up like a potter shapes up clay; smoothly and swiftly. He ran around in lush green gardens with his mom by his side. Holding his hand she played along with him, rolling in thick green grass and hiding behind well-watered trees while one searched for the other. He wasn't a pricey kid to please. Simple things gave him more joy than he needed. A well-sized balloon would do over a remote control car. Holding his mother's hand would make him happier than holding a chocolate bar in his hand.

         He soon grew up. In his adolescence, his thoughts shaped him up like a sculptor shapes his statues; brutally but emphatically. His interests bent towards having a good time with friends, and spending the remainder of his time in front of the computer. His thoughts tugged at him to do something more productive, but he found his solace amongst what every teenage kid does. And slowly along the years of life and living, he forgot the type of joy that he once used to get from the simple pleasures of life.

         But he grew up further, and with time, his life passed him by. He now was supported with the comfort of an antique rocking chair, sitting under the shade of a creaking ceiling fan. He stared outside the window and into the sun, and realised how the sun seemed the same as it did forty years ago, when he used to play outside in the gardens with his mother. He had a daughter now, aged five, her age shaping her up like a potter shapes up clay; smoothly and swiftly. She gave him a faint call from outside the house, inviting him to play with her. Thinking it would brighten her day, he took along with him a bar of chocolate and offered it to her when he went outside. She refused and took his hand instead, and wore the same smile that he used to when he held his mother's hand, forty years ago.

          We have a habit of relating happiness to worldly things like money or fame, thinking that a mine of gold will give us more happiness than what we feel when we wake up to the company of someone we love. In a world where practicality rules above all, we think that buying a Mercedez might give us more joy than having a peaceful walk on the beach while watching the sun sink in the water. Happiness and the pursuit of it remains different for different people, but the bottom line for it remains the same. Peace of mind. A person can spend a fortune in pursuit of some peace of mind, whereas someone who has the company of loved ones or a friend to count on need not require money for it at all. A smile can work wonders and brighten up someone's moment, or a tight hug can turn someone's day around. Every action that we perform throughout the events of our life revolve around either giving or gaining some happiness. The only question is, at what cost? In the end, we all have to make peace with the angels and demons that live within us. And in the end, we take nothing that we've earned throughout life with us to the grave,

except for our peace of mind.

Pieces

“A star falls from the sky and into your hands. Then it seeps through your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you. And then you have to put it back into the sky. And it's the most painful thing you'll ever have to do and that you've ever done. But what's yours is yours. Whether it’s up in the sky or here in your hands. And one day, it'll fall from the sky and hit you in the head real hard and that time, you won't have to put it back in the sky again.” - C. Joybell C

          There was a familiar lull in the air that wafted past me as I sat here. The cushioned rocking chair seemed comfortable, although I'd tucked a stone under the chair support. I didn't want any rocking anymore. Enough rocking had been done. The room remained silent in the way that a cemetery stays silent in the after-hours of the night. No sound, and yet the silence remains deafening. The poorly-oiled ceiling fan creaked overhead, while it couldn't spin to save its life. Two oil lamps sat on the side-table, out of which one had gone off the night before after I'd gotten off the phone with her once it was all over. She'd gifted me those. A half-hearted cigarette stayed tucked between my two out of five fingers, and I'd probably forgotten it was even there. My eyesight rushed past the window and into the night, and I realised that the world beyond this window had nothing in store for me, that the night beyond this window stayed cold and lifeless. Which is probably what people saw when they looked past the windows of my eyes; a soulless night that lies cold and lifeless.

          There's a comfort in knowing that no matter how much the noises made by a crowd are, they can never overpower the drum-rolls and cacophonies created by a silent night with no life around. Sometimes I still think about the day I first saw her. How her cascading long hair glistened in the faint rays of sunshine that seeped in through the crevices of the curtains. She reminded me of a snowy Christmas morning.

          Soon after, I was shot down by my snow-angel through no fault of anyone's but mine, and I lay there in that zone that belonged to a different dimension, with my pieces scattered all across the floor. And as I lay there, split into a million pieces, I thought to myself that maybe this was what was supposed to happen. Maybe love is not what supersedes all. Maybe there are things that one learns along the way of life. Maybe we don't need to hear that it'll get better, because when was the last time you remember it truly getting better? It doesn't. It's a fight that people put up with themselves, where there's only one winner. There's too much baggage that everyone carries around on their backs; too many pieces of everyone scattered all across the time zones of their life. Every once in a while when the baggage becomes too heavy to be carried by ourselves alone, or when there are so many pieces being collected that some start to fall from the gaps between our arms, we feel like we need someone else to help us with a shoulder for our baggage, or collect the pieces of our lives and help us stick them back together so that one fine day we can be whole again. But that's not true. Sometimes, the people that you'd expected to come through during times like these may have a million pieces of their own to collect and put back together, and you can't blame them for it. Let's face it, you're not the only broken one out there. Everyone is, in their own way. And you can't always expect them to provide for you. Because sometimes, through no fault of anyone's, you might be all alone. You might be all that you have. And maybe someday, you won't be able to collect all your pieces and put them back together. You might have to leave some of them behind. The world can take a slightly broken you, a slightly incomplete you. It doesn't make you any weaker. You have to believe in the fact that you'll be better off without the pieces of your past. Trust this process, this system. Find the beauty in it. You'll have the sun shining out of you one day. All you have to do at the end of the day,

is let go.
   

Toxic

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. I'm coming".

There's a lull in the air of the night which carries you away. Try walking home at 3.30am, inebriated as fuck while you're at it, and find a straight line to guide you home. There will be a lit cigarette tucked between the two out of five fingers of your right hand while you hold a cell phone in the other waiting for your loved one to type out and send what you've been wanting to hear. There'll be a sting; this screeching pain at the back of your head and this strange pain on the left of your chest, like this void that goes on deepening and sucking everything in, but never deep enough. You'll finally give up trying to get home because home is as always just so goddamn far away, and secondly because it doesn't feel like much of a home once you get there anyway. As soon as the guiding line hazes out, which always happens, you will pass out on the streets and wait for it to break new dawn when actually it will be the same as the previous morning's. Hope to never wake up.

But you're never that lucky. You will.

Autophobia. It's a term which was released very recently. They started coming across cases in the 70s where people started losing their minds(probably the Alfred Hitchcock effect) and broke all mirrors and reflecting objects in their vicinity. The examiners realised that it wasn't because of anything absurd that they saw in the mirror which caused this phobia. Except for their own selves.

There was a 20 year-old guy with such a condition maybe a couple of years ago. Unlike others, his case was brought under control. After which he was interviewed.

"I spent a lot of nights blaming myself for what happened. My family was a mess and so was my social life. My parents kept fighting and I spent years trying to be the guy who doesn't lose his cool and solve everything. And I did. At every stepping stone, it was me who was the eldest in the family, trying to keep two kids from throwing things and cursing at each other. I never thought I could falter, and my confidence was going up the skies. I couldn't be broken. I learned that logic and rationality were the answers to everything that existed. They weren't. I didn't keep many people close to me, I didn't think everyone would understand. I was born and brought up that way. Certain turn of events took place all at once. The couple of people I was close to walked out without any explanation and I didn't have it in me to get accustomed to anyone else. My family was a mess as usual, but I couldn't bring it under control because I only had two hands and very little time. I gave up. There came days where I didn't utter a word. My confidence was nowhere to be seen. I stayed in, without turning on the lights even in the night. Instead of intimacy and affection, I searched for solace in blasts of music followed by deafening silence. My dreams and nightmares sent me screaming at night, and they didn't make sense. In all of them, it was just me in a house of mirrors, free falling from nowhere to nowhere. But there was always someone watching, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hide from him. It felt like there was poison coursing through my veins. I started taking the help of alcohol to explain to me why nothing made sense. I didn't want mirrors around me anymore. The view in it was the same, but the perception of it changed everyday. Every night, I passed out due to exhaustion and waited for it to break new dawn the next morning, but it remained the same as the previous morning's. I hoped to never fall asleep because I didn't know what it was that kept its eyes on me and trying to find me each time I hid. So I started to count down to keep my eyes open and not fall asleep. I wasn't that lucky. The next time I opened my eyes, I was him."

Be Good, Do Good.

            Here's an ordinary man. And he's a growing ordinary man. He takes in all that the world throws towards him, good or bad, and ingests it and keeps it in. And he grows. But don't tell him that he's grown so much every now and then. Because someday, he will think that he's grown more than anyone else. And that's the day he will stop growing.

            Yesterday was a good day. A day that taught me a lot about human nature. Good, bad. Beautiful, ugly. Right, wrong. I have the month of Ramadan going on. A very prestigious and traditional month in the Islamic calendar. A month where a follower is required to abstain from all food, drink and sexual relations from sunrise to sunset in order to elevate his consciousness from the physical to the moral and ultimately the spiritual dimension of his being. There was a time when I used to follow it. I don't now. I don't want to be a self-righteous asshole and make excuses on the internet over this matter, but yeah, I don't follow it. There was a prayer service that was held last night somewhere in South Bombay at a relative's house. Such prayer services happen thrice in a row in the month of Ramadan where the people are to be up and following certain traditions till dawn, after which it concludes and everyone goes their own way. My mom wanted me to go along with her. We always go together, every year. I'd had a tedious week at college, with the weekend being my only breathing space where I could relax and enjoy doing nothing, so I refused. My mom never took me for much of a believer throughout life. I was never the 5 times Namaz/day kinda guy, but I had my own way of believing in God. I didn't want to ignore certain responsibilities and follow religion. I don't think that's what He would've wanted me to do, but then again, that's my way of looking at it. My mom is really edgy when it comes to these things. She never appreciated my belief for God no matter how strongly I believed in Him(not like I believed in Him for her satisfaction), and was always unhappy with my efforts. Yesterday was her breaking point. She told me I won't go anywhere without His help. There'll be no one to protect me or watch over me in pressing situations. And that I'll have to pay for each time I've taken religion lightly when I'm finally facing Him up there. "What are you going to say then?" she asked me. I had no answer. She yelled and bawled and cursed me for being so ignorant. "Na deen ke, na duniya ke", she said. Neither did you ever belong to religion, nor did you ever belong to the world.

           I always believed that God lived somewhere inside, and as long as you cleansed each and every bit of your spirit by doing good for others and doing nothing immoral or unethical, you'd be closer to God than any other man. There are people who give up the world. Their responsibilities, relationships and life. And go and preach religion at some temple or a shrine far away. And there are people who kill, bomb, extort and assassinate in the name of religion. A man standing and praying in front of the sculpture of his deity at one moment might be holding a gun to your head at the next moment if you mock his faith in his God. How could God want that? The devil came into existence because he refused to bow down to humans and all of mankind. Even for all you religious people out there, THAT is the pedestal that God holds man over. And you're ready to kill not one, but entire nations of people who didn't respect your belief in your God? If that's what a believer is supposed to look like, then there's probably a huge difference between being a religious person and being a good person.

           I went out with a few of my acquaintances last night. On a lonely Saturday night when I really had nothing to do, they didn't seem like a bad option. They were a bunch of friends who were labelled all sorts of things by others around them. They were called liars. Conspirators. Freaks. Fashion-disasters. All sorts of bullshit. I'm not going to be a hypocrite here; I've labelled them a couple of times too. I started hanging out with a few of them recently, and I've realised that they actually aren't bad people. And that's the thing. I didn't care if they were ugly, stupid, black, white, fat, thin, tall, short. As long as they are nice to me, I'm nice to them. I have no reason to not be.

           Yesterday made me realise a lot of things about mankind. There can be a mother who's ready to disown a perfect son on the basis of him forming his own ideologies. There can be missiles fed, tears shed, and violence brought upon entire nations over something so volatile, solely because people don't understand what religion really is. There can be people who are misinterpreted and treated like lepers for months and years before some twist of fate brings them closer to you and makes you realise that they're simply misunderstood. Mankind really does deserve a chance. And I'm ready to give it to whoever's willing to take it with my eyes closed. Because in the end, I've realised it all. Being good and doing good is all that counts in the end. Don't overthink the consequences; let fate play its part, and you will not be disappointed. Take it from me.

It's exactly what has made me a much better, stronger and happier person than I have ever been.

Fever

            I have a fever. A bad disease that pours out and lets itself in through any which way it can find. Air-borne. Water-borne. Life-borne. It keeps my head throbbing late at night whilst inflaming each cell present inside and outside. It warms me up and shuts me down, makes me cry and makes me frown. It clouds my judgement more than slightly while my heartbeat fastens, and each thud against my ribs makes my chest grow weaker. With eyelids half open I struggle to sleep, but fever doesn't let me. I just lie, strewn on my bed while I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the fever to leave the heart and get to the head. My body radiates a heat like never before, and the deliriousness of fever makes me do things I never thought I was capable of. My half-shut eyelids show me the derailment of all the trains of my thoughts, and everything in my head becomes topsy-turvy, spirally and curvy. I can't think straight because I'm fever's bait. It used to be a blessing, but fever's got me stressing. It started off so brilliantly at first, when I was so sleep-deprived that I had no choice but to be awake. The fever set in slowly, sending pleasant chills down my spine and making my head hit the bed, slowly and swiftly. I smiled as a new warmth coruscated my aura, and I drifted off to sleep a happy man. Only to wake up to being on fire the next morning.

            But like most people, I didn't get the point of fever back then. I do now. Fever is a sense of comfort, a fight that one puts up unknowingly against all the crap that's thrown at them by the world which they're too blind to see. Fever is an aura of protection, a reminder that it isn't time to give up just yet. It will fight your fight while you try and take your meds and make it go away, but as long as you're in harm's way, fever will be here to stay. It will keep you up and remind you of why it exists, making sure you don't forget its existence for a single second. It will show you tough love, and at the same time keep you reminded of the fact that it's capable of turning your life upside down. You can't forget fever until it's done its job. I should know. I'm your fever while you are mine. And tonight, our heads will hit the bed, slowly and swiftly. We will smile as a new warmth coruscates our aura. And tonight, just like the time fever first set in,

we will drift off to sleep as happy people.


Credits : Fever - The Black Keys.
(Talk about a song getting to your head. Just like a fever does)

Raindrops

          I see a withered tree. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the horizon. Hollow. Dry. Leafless. Lifeless. Its branches lay suspended naked in the air, some being covered by dry leaves that represented forgotten dreams and resilient hope that just needed some watering. The tree stood extremely close to the sun, the heat of which scorched everything that lay inside. The clouds that sprung overhead once upon a time, disappeared and never came back. The forest remained white while all that was living turned dead, as the cry of the last raven got lost in the echo. The veins which once used to suck in water from the ground now lay corrupt with the company of lifeless skulls and bones that were buried deep beneath, and through which now ran great disbelief and lost faith. The bark of the tree dried up and lay rotten and forgotten, through which ran scars of relapse. But the tree stood. Beyond the horizon, it stood.
         
          Before I could react, my vision turned into a different dimension of reality. I was that tree. I lay somewhere in the distance, beyond the horizon. Hollow. Dry. Leafless. Lifeless. Lost ambition and envy scorched everything that lay inside. My surroundings remained colourless as I pushed away everyone around me and the last offer for help, I threw far away to someplace where it was lost in the echo. My veins which used to dream for me were now corrupt with lifeless conspiracies, lust and spite. The shine of my skin dried up and lay rotten and forgotten, through which ran scars of relapse. But I stood. Beyond the horizon, I stood. And after a long wait stretched by eternity, I feel a chill of comfort. There's a wind that has come by and carried away all the dead leaves that lay on the ground. The sun shines brighter with a singe that makes me feel more alive. There's a comfort of doing good to others that washes away all conspiracy, lust and spite from my veins, and fills it with gratitude and appreciation. My skin feels moist again, and the shine present in the smile on my face has now returned with a promise that it will only glow brighter by the moment. A speck of snow falls from the sky on my hand, just one, representing a promise for more to come soon, as long as I believe. And the clouds that had disappeared a long time ago, are now back with raindrops that have made me lush and green again, helping me turn over a new leaf. I finally feel more alive than I have ever felt.

And it is a far better place that I'm in now, than I have ever known.

Her

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

            The seconds clocked past as she sat there, her head buried in the darkness. Her figure was a silhouette, slightly illuminated by the 3am lamp-post that flickered every now and then. Every few minutes, there would be some car that passed by the nearby turn while a little bit of shine from its headlight led into the room full of darkness. She breathed harder than usual each time it happened. Her whirly hair cast a golden glow each time the light fell on it. There were none but a few sounds in the room. The constant hammering of her heart against her rib-cage every 0.8 seconds. The beep of the ECG machine lying right next to his bed. The whoosh of his breath escaping through the oxygen mask, fogging the mask up. The clipping of the fan overhead which might as well have fallen on her. She couldn't bare watching her father suffer from something he couldn't handle. He could handle everything, she thought. They'd called it Osteophytes, the thing that delivered excruciating pain to him each time he moved. She sat there conversing with a might that not all could fathom or face. But she knew that someone was listening.

          I met her the very next day. Huge smile on the face. Jumpy attitude. Glistening eyes. I could bet that it was the tears and the crying from the previous night. Each time she spoke, her voice cracked up with uncertainty that went unnoticed by all. She'd stop talking to put herself back together and start talking again after a while. I could sense the discomfort she carried from the night at the hospital, and all the horrors that the dark room must've brought upon her. I didn't know her too well, but I knew that look. It was the same one I taught myself.

         Coming across her and getting to know her better, I realised she was a lot like me. A face that is thought true by all. A smile that greets all those who plot her downfall. And a gesture towards the ones who need it the most but deserve it the least. Be good, do good. And let all that you do be done in love. She spent most of her time trying to mend broken bonds and conversations, not caring about what people thought of her. And if I had to pick one person I knew who genuinely believed in good, it was her. And each time I saw her face, it looked like the one of a true believer. It didn't matter if the people who she helped were 'bad' people. They were just astray of the path that all of us were supposed to be on. She made me realise that it's the 'bad' who need the most 'good' from you, and that you cannot give up on humanity. Because one day, humans will come through. It took me a while to wrap my head around that, but soon enough, I did.

         All we look for every now and then is some love. A random act of kindness from someone we care about. A smile from someone who hasn't spoken to you over weeks and months. Any little thing that could help make someone's day just slightly better and brighter. Because in the end, we're not worth our fights. We're not worth our arguments and conspiracies. Not worth being the cause of another's sorrows. Or worth being someone's vendetta. A smile counts for so much more than a frown. And happiness overtakes sorrows, even if it is for the moment. Because in the end, humanity deserves so much more. Because someday, this post might just help you be the better man.

And it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for her.

The One Above

         Rains. It's always a beautiful season in India. Well, as long as it rains for less than five minutes in one shot or else there's water-logging everywhere. This was one of those days. It had rained for a good hour. Not heavy showers or cats and dogs, but just a swift, wind-less pour. It was enough to turn some of the streets into ankle-deep ponds, though. It was night time, and I was on my way back from work when I happened to come across such a street. It was fine for me though, because some blessed braniac had laid down pavement stones at every step so that the commuters wouldn't face problems while passing through, but the rest of the street was pretty much a mess. And while walking through that mess, I saw three kids playing in the water. They splashed water against each other, pushed each other down into it, and piled up on each other while taking turns as to who remained at the bottom. They laughed and jumped everywhere. They wore nothing but a ragged pair of dirty shorts each, and appeared to have not eaten in a long time. I was surprised at how the simple pleasure of playing in muddy water could cloud the hunger of days and the struggle of the nights that their parents may have spent feeling guilty about not being able to provide. I had to walk away from there; I couldn't stand it.

         I walked along, and home was just a few minutes away when it started drizzling again. Well, it was slightly stronger than a drizzle as I was forced to take my umbrella out. I tried so hard but the umbrella wouldn't open, so I stood under a shelter nearby trying to achieve that feat. While I stood there, I heard this jittery sound coming from around there, somewhere. I turned to my right and saw a small boy sitting down against the wall, wet with the rain. He had a torn and ragged raincoat spread over him, but he shivered in the cold. Drops of water trickled down his bare body, and he looked so hungry. I managed to somehow open my umbrella as it was time to go. I took a step further towards home and away from the little boy, when I felt this wave of something wash over me(I don't know what it was, but it was something). I turned back and walked towards him. He recoiled more and more as my footsteps became louder towards him, and I saw torture in his eyes. I spread my umbrella over him, gave him a half-eaten pack of biscuits, shared one last look with him and walked away in the rain. And that was it.

         I spent the rest of the night standing at the window and staring at the skies. I waited hours, for any sign of Him. Any indication, any fluctuation in temperature or any sight of a shooting star. Just anything, anything at all to let me know that someone's there, somewhere. Watching. Watching over all this that's happening. So that I could ask Him how He could stand it. There was a lot of pain to go about everywhere we looked. Umpteen amount of torture. Innumerable amount of spite, insinuation and ill-will. I wanted to ask Him what the little boy by the shelter had done to deserve such a horrible fate. Or what those little kids had done to be happy with so little, that one would feel sorry for them. And so I did. I asked those questions. To the skies, the stars, and everything in between. But everything stayed the same. There was no response, and that's when I gave up. I remembered a story.

         There was a communist group once, a fraternity of sorts who had visited India somewhere in the 1960s. They were all atheists, and belonged to Russia. They came by to do a report on this country and on how it runs before the Prime Minister made any sort of business deal with our country. They wanted to get a closer look at things to see whether the country is worth it. They came, they lived here for six months, and they went back as changed men. They resigned from their jobs without telling the Prime Minster as to why they're doing it once they went back, quit communism and became followers of some or the other religion. A journalist interviewed each of them and all said the same thing. He printed it in the next day's newspaper,and that's when the world, including the Russian Prime Minister, found out. They said that they enjoyed their stay here, but this country lacked discipline or ethics. It was disorganized and pitiful. And them being practical men, could not fathom how a country so disorganized could run at all. They said that there had to be a superpower somewhere in the universe, which helped run this country, and so they started believing in God and quit all other worldly things.

         I remember hearing this story when I was in school, and I'd reached home after a tiring day. My dad was an atheist, and my mom a Muslim. My dad sipped on a cup of tea in the living room on a humid evening and I sat there on the floor, playing with Hotwheels or something. I was intrigued by the story of the communists, and so I told my dad about the story. At the end of it, I was all like

"But that's stupid. God doesn't really exist, does He?" pretty sure that he would agree with me, him being an atheist and all.

"Who said so? Of course He does. He's not where people go to find Him. He doesn't exist in mosques, churches or temples. He lives inside us. Always has, and always will. All we need to do is recognise Him"

         It didn't make sense to me at the time. Not one bit. "How could he say that if he was an atheist?" I asked myself. But there was no answer. But it makes sense now. Why my dad believes that God lives inside us. Why he's an atheist. Why when we commit a sin, it is said that we are polluting the place where God resides. It's because my dad believes that God is not a superpower. God is not a light that created the Heavens and Hell. God is not someone who forgives or punishes. It's us. We choose our path, our destination, and everything we do along the way. We choose to be the best of humanity, or the worst. God is something that lives inside us. Someone that tells us what right and wrong is. He is the best of ourselves, the supernatural fragment that lives inside us. Our spirit. Something that science cannot explain, or math cannot calculate. A voice inside, that grows louder with the number of good deeds.

All we need to do is recognise Him.

Broken Benjamins

money
ˈmʌni/

noun

---->   a current medium of exchange in the form of coins and banknotes; coins and banknotes
             collectively.

---->   sums of money.

---->   the assets, property, and resources owned by someone or something; wealth.

---->   circular, thin, usually metal-made objects that will cause more pain if taken away rather than
            when they're thrown at someone.

---->   rectangular, coloured(red, blue, yellow, brown, green) strips of rich-feeling paper that people                can maim, threaten, assault, extort or kill for.

           Example: "I counted the money and put it in my wallet before it got stolen from me                              undeservedly".
       
           Synonyms: cash, capital, coinage, silver, gold, dough, currency, wealth, riches, fortune,                        prosperity, public image, food, clothing, shelter, roti, kapda, makaan.


Hair set, polished shoes, ironed clothes, tucked-in shirt, neatly knotted tie, expensive wrist-watch, best deodorant on. Yes, I take work very seriously. On my way to the train station, I was walking down a busy Monday street on a dusty evening and was almost there. Vehicles honked where birds should've chirped, and smoke bellowed out and surrounded everything that tried to distort it. The sun had approached its bedtime, and silhouettes of moths surrounded street lamps, buzzing around the source of light. Sweaty attendants of the roadside restaurants and juice shops yelled so as to beat the commotion caused by the horns and engines of the vehicles, and crowd going both ways made its way through every crevice in between vehicles.

I finally reached the ticket counter after breaking sweat, where I greeted another queue of impatient travelers; some on their way home, some off. The place reeked of sweat and dirt and a lot of other unpleasant stuff, and there were paan stains in every corner you could find. Some or the other beggar waited next to the junction of the ticket window and the queue, asking for a dime or two. After waiting a while, I was third in line. I saw a beggar waiting next to the guy who was first in our queue. A teenager, ragged dirt-clad clothes, hair filled with dust and eyes full of misery and suffering. He stood up and asked the first guy for some to go on about with life. The guy just took his ticket and walked away, ignoring the boy next to him. The guy who was in front of me had now reached the counter. He was well-built, tall, and had a radiating aura. He looked like the devil had carved him out himself. A very shrewd-looking and matter-of-fact kinda guy. The boy nudged him and asked him for some.
The guy, disgusted by the very presence of the beggar, shrugged off his arm and smacked him in the head. He fell to the floor holding his head, crying. The guy turned to the window,
"How can you even allow these low-lives here?!"

"It's not our fault, sir. We have no say in this. They come here, settle down and trouble everyone that comes their way." the guy at the counter said.

"Better take care of them. Call the police and finish them. Finish all of them. They don't deserve to live. Not here, not anywhere", the guy said, sounding like he was ready to take a dagger out and finish the job himself.

He stormed off once he got his ticket, leaving the poor boy in tears. The boy got up holding his head, his sight tracking the guy as he walked away from the scene. Eyes filled with hatred and abomination, the boy said something at a very normal volume, which was enough for me to hear it as I was standing right next to him. I was stunned after what I heard. I took my ticket and walked away as the words choked me and crept into my ears and into my brain, playing themselves on repeat. I put my earphones on to drown them out.

I looked around wherever I went, and poverty was everywhere. It was on the corners of footpaths where families lay strewn without a care. It was on the streets where naked little boys and girls ran around each other. It was on the roads where cracks had crept through cheap cement and led the roads to be unfit for use. It was in the movements of the girl who was forced to buy just one packet of chips instead of two because she didn't have enough money. And it was in the eyes of the banana vendor at the turn of the road, who twitched a little every time he was asked to lower the price of what he tried to sell. I went to sleep with a shiver in my spine that night, because I could very well be one of them. Avoiding it was the reason I worked in my free hours despite of going to college. Because there was no avoiding poverty unless you avoided it. I closed my eyes, hoping to wake up to a richer Earth with less suffering, as the boy's words echoed in my ears.

"Ek din, woh noton mein hee jalega"

Someday, he's going to burn in the same money he prizes himself over.

Dance with Time

"The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time" - Abraham Lincoln

            You should know that life hasn't been the most kind to myself and people around me of late. I see a lot of pain in the eyes of my friends and acquaintances, and even though the kinds of issues they face may be miles apart, it has the same effect on us all. Humans are fragile creatures, and all we try to do is provide and embrace the other's strength, both at the same time. We all help each other stand tall in many ways, and some of us are just broken down instead. But one way or another, we all rise again.

            A strange thing happened today. There was this girl, once upon a time. I won't say much about her, but she was a good friend. The kind of friend that can help you get through tough days and sometimes even sleepless nights. We'd had our own share of drama in the recent past, and of course, we weren't on talking terms anymore. Nothing major, but I guess we sort of just outgrew each other's company. She was in my class, and there was no way of avoiding eye contact on a single day. We were just minding our own business today, her and I. And she's in-charge of everything, so I guess she's always on the run, trying her best to not let any person who had the slightest hopes from her down. And she was good at it, probably the best. She came back to class, books bundled up in the cradle of her arms, waiting to collapse on the floor at any second. And it was chaos. The absence of the staff went in agreement with conspiring two-faced sociopaths who loved sharing with each other what they thought of every breath that was spent in their environment, and how many of the same the breath-bearers might have remaining. Noise was trying its best to tare eardrums in every corner, and the lurid view of the classroom was a little too much for someone as simple-minded as her to take in. There I sat on the first bench, staring at the sickened expression that her face bore.
"Guys, I have an announcement to make. Listen up" she said, as boldly as she could. I could sense the annoyance in her tone.
Not a single speck of dust would budge.
"Guys! Listen up, please!" she exclaimed this time, as loud as she could go, but it didn't make much of a difference.
"Guys. Just shut up and listen to the announcement!"
The entire room dropped dead. Ninety sets of eyes were fixated on mine, and they looked like they couldn't dare move. I found myself standing at my place, palms forced tightly onto the table. I don't know why I'd just done that. I guess I didn't appreciate noise much either, or maybe it was because it bothered me how annoyed she seemed. Maybe I thought this would make her day a little easier. She stole the spotlight from me before everyone realised how awkward it had got, and made her announcement anyway. I drifted my eyes in her direction once she was done, and she saw me look at her. She smiled at me, with some amount of gratitude, and walked away.

            I don't know how I felt about that. I spent the day thinking about how it really wasn't that hard to understand human beings; they just look for some love or kindness every now and then. They all just have different ways of portraying it and reacting to it. And as far as relationships go, it's not about how much time you've spent in the other's company, but it's about each moment that's worth remembering. Each memory develops a dagger of it's own after the relationships fall apart, but that's a risk worth taking. And life doesn't end with the relationship; a bond is never that fragile. There is always co-existence, and you will not stop seeing the person's face unless you curl up under your bed with a blanket on and the lights turned off, waiting for someone to be your hero, when it is really only you who can save yourself. You don't have to be vindictive towards the person. You don't have to go out of your way to try and make things right either, because sometimes, time is all that is required for reconciliation. No additional efforts, suffocation, crying or forced laughter. Just patience. People take time to heal, and it could take hours, days, months or years. But all you can tell yourself while waiting is that they will come around. Hope that one day, it will all be fine. Don't expect anything at all, as expectations have different degrees of operation. Expectations are something created by your mind, while hope is the nature of the primal spirit. Maybe someday you'll see the person smile at you while they walk by, and maybe a few days later, a text saying 'Goodnight' could actually help you have sweet dreams. Maybe you can wave at them one day from afar, and smile back at them when the smile at you, or maybe a couple of months down the line, the two of you could share a good laugh over a silly joke.

            Time works wonders, but it needs time. You've given in so much, so why give up now? The hope that one day it will all be fine is enough to help you not just survive, but thrive. And maybe one day when they finally come through, you'll think back to this moment and be glad that you waited. Maybe one day, there'll be a random scream from somewhere to stop the chaos and give you your voice back.

Maybe one day you'll dance with time, and find them dancing with you.

The Little Things

             The train made a steadily increasing chugging sound as it started to move. We'd taken our seats, her and I. She sat right next to me, a sister-like figure who'd grown closer to me than I'd thought or imagined. A beautiful friend. An early morning prayer next to the window seat set the standard of the day for her, while she looked outside waiting for the sunlight to eat up the sky as it crawled out of the horizon, bright and orange. She looked so fresh with belief and hope. All day. Everyday. I sat next to her, second seat from the window. The whiff of damp rainy mud wafted past us, so what if it was February? Goddamn global warming. She stared outside the window while I saw and thought about everything around me as the seconds clocked past. The tintinnabulations of my thoughts were the only sounds that existed at the time, apart from the rumbling sound that the wheels of the train made. I noticed that her index finger wrapped itself around the middle one, the basic crossed-fingers gesture that allows people to believe that what they hoped for wouldn't be jinxed. I never believed in it. She looked straight at me as her head turned close to 180 degrees, away from the window.
"I have a good feeling about this day", she said.
I'd heard that so many times. Almost everyday. And each time, her fingers remain crossed. It didn't matter if the day was bad(and that happened so frequently). She did the same the next day. I always smiled at her and said nothing. And then she'd continue looking out the window. But I was on the verge of a different vantage point today. And so I asked,
"Why do you do this everyday? I mean, it doesn't make sense. Do you not notice that the day goes the way it's destined to? And that you have more frequent bad days than good days? What's the point of hope if there's no fate to fulfill it?"
"Because hope is why I survive to see another dawn, and how I survive to be a sister to you for another day", she said.
I smiled at her. And no more words were spoken. I could see the sincerity and candor in her eyes. And everyday, just like the day before, I hoped that it would remain the same till the end of the day.
             
             I was on the verge of mental suicide, later on in the day. It wasn't very much the day in particular, but it had a history, this predicament of mine. It had been building up and piling on for days. And everyday, there was a new item in the baggage that I carried around. I didn't know how to unstrap the baggage, and no one would help me. It was like trying to scratch your back at that inaccessible spot. You try and try for a long time, and soon everything starts hurting, so you give up and decide to let it pass on its own, not knowing for sure that it would. I felt really low and hollow. And my anxiety attacks kicked in, right on schedule. 10pm. I hyperventilated about each breath that anybody I knew took, and how many they might have left. My list of unanswered questions grew longer every night, and I didn't know how to find the answers. I'd grown so accustomed to my anxiety. Heavy breathing, a dosage of medication and consequent fogginess of the mind. I hated it, but I couldn't change it. I lied down and closed my eyes, my heart thumping and beats echoing inside my hollow soul. I realised that I could do nothing to end this drought of faith, love and self-confidence. The darkness increased within my closed eyes as I started to give up and wallow in this spacious shell I'd created for myself, which grew smaller with time. I didn't need to kill the body. Just the mind. After all, that's where the problems originated from. I'd kill everything. Every derailed train of thought, every relaying neurotransmitter, and every random access memory. I'd die in that faint wait for some goodness. Wait. Goodness. Memories. Moments. That's what I needed. I thought back in time, as I saw hope in that freshly created rotten cavern of mine. The world turned upside down, but my thoughts didn't. The feelings left my heart and coursed through my veins. Images shimmered, slowly and swiftly, and calm entered inside.

I saw her sitting next to me, and everything sounded and appeared blurry, except for her sunkissed skin. Her long black hair shone as sunlight reflected from it, and there was so much mystery in those hazel-brown eyes that kept me up at night. There was that addictive half-smile on her face. The one I'd never seen when she was with anyone else. I kissed her on the cheek while our fingers were tightly wrapped around each other's, as I locked that memory in my heart forever. She was the snow I'd always thought to be perfect, and I was never disappointed.

Another image shimmered. The four of us sat around a small table on our ancient balcony, playing UNO while a packet of Lays rested in the midst of four half-filled/half-empty glasses. It was 11.59pm on the New Year's Eve of 2009. My sister had an exam two days later, so we'd decided to stay in, while I bailed on close friends for the night. It struck 12, and a thousand fire-crackers went up, all at once, bursting in our faces as the light traveled into us, while the sound was taken away as we stared in marvel. It reminded me of the light that once existed in my life, and the family I'd never forget. They were my lungs.

The scene changed. A person. A figure who knew the best and the worst about me sat across the table. She smelled of cherry blossom. We sat inside a desolate Pizza joint, and lights were everywhere, marking Christmas season. Her home had given her a reason to get out on this night, and her eyes remained slightly red from all the crying an hour earlier. But as we spoke, I noticed the genuine happiness on her face as she got to see me after so long and at such a crucial time. It felt good to be able to bring light in another's person's moments; something I didn't think I was capable of. And so I laughed because she'd been there when I needed her. She was the breeze of my crisp winter morning. 

            A thousand images whirred by, like the reel in a cinema. So many memories, so many smiles everywhere. They were all my treasure. Alive is what I felt, and feeling something felt so good. My eyes opened, and I saw the light return to my world. I realised that baggage is not something you can leave behind. But it's always been about having someone to help you carry yours, while you help them carry theirs. It's not about planning something you know would go wrong in the future, but it's about enjoying the thoughts and laughs in the process. And it's not about creating a storage room where you can base your materialistic pleasures of life, but about locking your memories away deep inside; something that can never be stolen. Having faith, feeling love, and living dreams. They don't have to be big things if you don't want them to. They can be the little things you build and base your smiles on. I slept peacefully that night.

             6.58am. Next morning. The train is moving with a rumble. I saw her sitting next to me. Freshly damp hair from a bath, a soft tweed jacket, hopeful eyes that stared outside the window, and crossed fingers full of belief. This was another memory to savour. And she was another person in my life who glowed. Such a lovely sister, not by blood, but by bond.  She was my legs that helped me stand strong. She looked at me sharply, as expected, and asked,
"I have a good feeling about this day. Do you?"
I smiled at her. A few moments passed in silence as her eyes filled with expectancy. But I said nothing.

I just showed her my crossed fingers in response.

Burlap Dressings

I still remember the day when I first saw you, and didn't think at the time that I could be blinded by you so easily.

The world has become a gruesome place ever since. Or maybe it always was, but you always covered the bad from my vision. 

Still disappointed, I never fail to run my fingers through the thought of your coruscating black hair, before I force myself to stop.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun.

You shouldn't have tried to douse the fire inside of me with pitchers of gasoline; it’s what, along with time, has made me a pyromaniac. 

I never liked fire, and now I’m afraid of myself.

It was like a bullet that breaks no body, but all of the soul.

A train that runs on no tracks, so it can’t be derailed.

Time has passed, and I always thought you were the doctor, but you turned out to be the medication. 

And I haven’t taken my medication in really long. Probably never will.

I sat there and stared at my memory of you; all I could before memory slowly became imagination.

And the burlap dressings you gave me still poke and itch,

and I have no choice but to wear them every day. 

Whereabouts

        A crimson-coloured lamp rested on the table a few feet away. On an already iridescent night, the faint orange light that it emitted outlined your face. That's all I could make of you; just a dark figure, a silhouette behind which was a faint source of light. Except for the eyes. The same, shiny, hazel-brown eyes. The coruscating black hair was tied back neatly into a bun, exposing the piercings on both your ears. Three on the left, two on the right. The aroma of cherry blossom and a faint fragrance of jasmine danced around the room. The same old scent of the introvert I once used to know.

Say something, I'm giving up on you.

        Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The seconds clocked past as we sat there. The whiff of a recently stubbed cigarette still circled the room, waiting for an act of happenstance. My grip grew tighter as I locked another one of my fingers around my pen, afraid of any movement. The moments got slower as the seconds rolled past, and time grew more impatient. The fan overhead creaked as it circled slowly, as though it was suffering from a form of slow torture. The silence grew more deafening and hungry, and eventually swallowed us whole without a word of hesitation.

And I am feeling so small. I was over my head, I know nothing at all.

        At first, it was just a mere sound. Footsteps. An image shimmered slowly. There was a corridor, a passageway of an ancient British-built building. A faint memory. Of you running away from something. Each time I called, you looked back. And each time you looked back, I choked and dissolved in my own spirit, wondering what kind of terror you'd confronted. You looked so scared. But you ran faster each time you looked back at where I was standing. And that's when I realised that it was me who you were running from, but it was too late.

And I will stumble and fall. I'm still learning to love, just starting to crawl.

        There soon came a time when realisation dawned. This madness began with me, and me alone. I played the victim for so long now in this game, but I realise now that this game had no winners. It was like entering a House of Mirrors and finding your way out, but only if you could survive the horror of looking at all the facets you put on, all the psychosis you juggle between. It was unfair to your spirit and I know that now. I just never wanted to make you face this world alone. But this is the last piece of you, the last wound that will leave no scar. The last apology, without which I'd be so lost. 

I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you.

Credits: Say Something - A Great Big World ft. Christina Aguilera.

Love to Hate

I stole the show and ran the mile,
The emptiness inside grew engulfing and vile.
The dagger is in the spotless disguise,
A cute half-smile and hazel eyes.

So when the pieces of memories fall to the ground, I want you to pick them up and throw them at me without thinking about how much more of it I can take.

For hate is our four letter word,
Hate me, just not the mockingbird.
With eyes so red, I'll come along,
So you break me while I sing our song.

Don't play your heart out to show, like I did, that you won't let go. Just bury me deep in your hatred if it makes you feel any better.

At the edge I stood, with a hollow cry,
But as they say, only the devil can pry.
Breathe freely while I asphyxiate,
Waiting for someone to help me resuscitate.

If you still believe it's in my soul, I'd say all the words that I know without expecting any consequence. So hate me, because I can take it. Hate me, because I'll never fake it.

Breathe into me, you're my Everglade.
But it's over now, this masquerade.
So with deep brown eyes that shine when hurt,
These words will be the last I spurt.

There will come a time when there will be no hate left in you. And when that happens, I want you to remember that I've stood strong, and I'll always be there. But I'll never know how to show it.

Pour buckets of hatred all over my head,
I'll choke, I'll freeze, but I won't be dead.
At the end of it all, when you glisten with glee,
I'll fly away like a bird, as free.

For I can capture the moon, the stars and even the clouds, so blue. But too late did I realise that I don't have the hands to give them to you.

Hilario the Misfit

            "He's so hilarious!", they never said, painting the misfit's thoughts in white, bright red. Hilario is the lame joke that no one laughs at over dinner. He is the darkness in the tunnel, no matter how bright the light is at the end of it. Hilario is your train of thought, your great escape. His brain ticks like a bomb which never explodes. He is the tremor to your hands when you're a victim of anxiety; the key to the treasure of the heart of your loved one. He is the sound you hear when you're being consumed by the silence around you, and he is what makes you feel lonely when you've lost a special someone. He's the driver of your train of thought; the neurostimulant in your nicotine patch which you so half-heartedly put on to keep up with your brain. He's the mirror which turns your smile upside down; your soul inside out. He is what makes one person's right hand lock with another person's wrong one. Always. He is the rustle of the leaves; the faith that makes you go down on your knees. He's the mercy you beg for, when you're all out of a metaphor.
            Hilario is a thought so real, a facet so fake. But he has no face. Look around you when you're in a crowd, and pick a face. Now place that face in front of a mirror, and lock your eyes with the mask of terror. That's him. He is the cruel reflection of the perfect world we live in; a world that has no subtlety or discretion. The Misfit's neither male nor female; neither science nor art. He's nothing but a mere deduction of your conscious mind just so that you can make sense of the nonsensical nonsense that eats your senses away. His name is of mockery on the existence of satire; the sadness that exists within hilariousness and desire. He's born a misfit, someone who doesn't belong. But he's everywhere. He's in the smile of the girl who gets back someone who's gone for too long, and in the disappointment of the boy who misses the same girl's smile because she's long gone. He's the string that hauls you back to the past when you look at the photograph inside your wallet when you croon, or when you listen to your favourite Owl City number in a Saltwater Room. He's a face in the crowd, the hammer on your leg. A celebration of monotony that makes you down a peg. The vodka shot that requires lime, a string of words that need a rhyme. Don't lose your senses, he'll never quit.

He's Hilario, after all, who's born a misfit.

The World Is Yours

           The limelight is barely a few feet away, and the only thing that separates you from it is a large red curtain of a certain grandeur, whose origins can't be traced. Your knees feel heavy, and while you may think that this is not the best time to perspire, your body has other ideas. You can feel the faint accumulation of a tiny bead of sweat that will later roll down your apparently smooth skin until you lose track of it, as the roar of the crowd and paparazzi on the other side of the curtain grows louder, but not louder than the noise that reverberates through your windpipe as your heart thumps against your ribs. But you gotta be calm, and be ready. That's what separates you from the 'normal' people. They just need an excuse to be here, and tonight, you're exactly that. You look in the mirror for the last time, and apart from the monster that is fighting to break free under your iris, everything looks fine. You stand a few yards away from the spot where the curtain will part towards both sides. You smell like all the good things in the world have been emptied out on you. Trust. Faith. Hope. Love. But it does just enough to mask the stench of a stranger, someone who doesn't belong. For once, your mascara speaks more than your eyes, and your make-up hides all the pain it took you to get here. It's only moments away now, and when the big red veil parts, it will be your cue to put on another one exactly like it; Only this time, you'll be the only one who knows it's there. In the dying moments, your thoughts race back to a line from your favourite One Republic number,
             
                                   Everything that drowns me makes me wanna fly.  

It reminds you of how long it took you to get here. All the struggles, the disappointment, the let-down, and the self-crisis. But those days are over. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. You were born a stranger, someone who didn't belong. Your days of lurking like a shadow past the corridors of your each breath were over. You've made peace with the fact that you're never going to be one of them, no matter how hard you try. You were always a fad to them, and they watched as spectators. Your every move was monitored, your every fall, mocked. They loved watching you play a game they thought you could never win, but fate had other ideas. They love games, so why not give them what they want? You've found ecstacy within yourself, and you need no other's hand. Stop searching for someone like you. You're alone; you always have been. But it doesn't matter; the winner stands alone. The winner always stands alone. The curtains will open any moment now, and along with the flashes of their cameras and the roars of their voices, you will be greeted with thoughts, emotions, anger and jealousy. They will throw their smiles at you, hoping to asphyxiate yours, but that smile, you've practiced it so goddamn hard. It will never falter, unlike other things. When the curtains part, you have to put the veil on. Give them a reason to talk about. For each breath that a person spends on talking about you, will add to yours when you suffocate of loneliness. It will save you. You have to show them what you're made of. You have to walk out a different person than what you are now. You have to be the air to their breath, the movement of their lips, their train of thought. For this is you, taking back control. Of your thoughts. Of dependence. Of hope. And of life. If you want it, step out there and take it. You deserve it. Put the ever-so-charming smile on, and go out there and conquer what's yours. Life starts now. Don't forget,

the World is yours.

(In the light of the same :- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4Uv_4jGgAM)

The War with Peace

"Take my hand" he said to her, as he invited her to the dance floor; a realm familiar to the both of them. The masquerade of her innocence went well with the surrounding; a gathering of a hundred shadows, all suited up and well-dressed, exposing the reality of their existence by putting on the ever so convenient mask.
He placed one hand on her waist as her body tensed, while he held her hand with his other up in the air, at face-level. The dance begun, as they went along with the crowd, but they both knew that neither of them belonged there.
"How was your time away?" he asked, condescendingly.
"Exhilarating" she snapped, not taking more than half a second to respond, gaze fixed upon him.
           He knew how he made her feel with these things, but he couldn't help it. He hated her for rendering him so powerless. He hated the Creator for sculpting this piece of perfection, as if it were born to deceive. But they belonged how they were at this moment; hand held in hand, and a barrage of clandestine thoughts, unanswered questions and unspoken words, pushing them further away from each other. She always thought that he didn't understand why she did what she did. But of course he understood it. Did he? He'd said a lot more than he should, but words are all he had, after all. Rifts formed faster than they realised what happened, but he couldn't let her go so easily. For he was the whole-hearted half of her heart, while she was the half-hearted whole of his.
           Lush straight hair. Hazel-brown eyes. Puffy little butterfingers. And a personality of rock-salt.
A glisten of celest,
Moments led them apart,
An echo that swallowed the thoughts,
Nestled within her heart.

"Enjoying the distance that lies within our proximity?" she asked, as he brought her face closer to his. He lifted her then, going along with the crowd, as an 80s lady of a darker shade sang the melody of their presence.
"I won't fall this time" he replied, as he wrapped his arms around her waist while she stayed lifted and stared down upon him.
           He brought her down and they continued twisting and turning to the beat. She brought her lips closer to his ears as she spurted out,
"A downfall is coming, love. And you can't help but be in the middle of it. You will burn".
"Might as well take me for a pyromaniac" he said, ever so charmingly.
           He was an abomination for her. He was the storm she kept running from since she was a child. He was what she saw in the mirror when she felt least human. But she couldn't help it. She hated every bit of him, and hated the very fact that she was found by him when she was so lost. She adored his attitude, but hated his overconfidence. She did once think that he was everything she once desired. She knew she shook hands with the devil the first day that she spoke to him. But what she didn't realise is that when there's a fire around, jumping in ice will burn just as much. Difference is that it won't leave scars.
           Cavalier attitude. A strange half-smile. Eyes of an eagle. And the skin of a chameleon.    
Notoriously he looked,
As he waited for gravity.
Smiled at a stranger,
Instead he soldered with reality,
Remaining ever so ecstatic.

           They hated each other. And hated themselves for having loved each other. They danced away though, as it would all soon be over. They looked at each other, straight in the eyes with endless vindictiveness, as they melted away in emotion.
"I will be the cause of your fall" she said, with uncertainty in her eyes.
"While I knife you in the back" he replied.
           Moments of silence rolled by as they waltzed. What were they doing? They sighed on the inside. They cared for each other endlessly, but wouldn't dare admit it.
"After tonight", he managed.
"I concur. After tonight", she said,

as she sunk her head in his chest while he held her like he'd never let go.