In less than 40 hours, I have a test to write on the Romantics, who though a favourite group of poets can not sustain much critical and analytical studying and I have a huge inclination to write a post on rain(yes again!), a temptation that I must give into, the Romantics, the test and the late hour not withstanding.
It had rained heavily last afternoon and satiated with my fill of staring out of the window at the ripples making and breaking, overlapping and dissolving anti-climactically, in the green pond and little muddy puddles, I ventured outdoors. The black pitch lane, blacker than usual, wet and sleek, lay before me and as I walked on this winding para path, the tedious and the quotidian came forth in newer shades-subdued and soft, melancholy but not morose. It seemed as if the same yellow house that glazed in the sun, and the tired green leaves that wearily languished over a high boundary-wall, and the dead looking moss on the wall been touched with a wet paint-brush, which despite the agency of softer hues, had infused life in them. I have often wondered if anything can contest the beauty of a cloudy sky silhouetted against which stand canopies of high- reaching trees. I declare, nothing can. The grey sky, with its cloud cover kept reminding me of Pelling and the walks under a very low sky on the winding, sinuous roads that I undertook more than a year ago. yesterday I kept returning to those walks through clouds,swathed in layers of warm clothing, when the only assailable body parts of mine that the clouds could touch mischievously were my uncovered nose and mouth, through which I had swallowed a little cloud, in a bid to sing at the beauty surrounding me. If I could only return to Pelling once again.
Sometimes I should paint Sikkim on this blog, before it gets written off my mind, however unlikely that may be.

And finally it rained!! And how it rained! I am grinning, grinning, singing, grinning.All the time it rained today the ends of my lips remained stretched to their last limit-you can draw a perpendicular to the limit points on either side from the ear-side limits of my eyes-and my facial muscles hurt. BUTDOIGIVEADAMN!!! ITRAINED!!! The only time I stopped smiling was when this arrogant, rude man refused to budge from near us and smoked to his cursed lungs' peril even after we told him that we had a problem with smoke, and claimed that he would do so because the shed(actually a building under construction) we had taken refuge under belonged to him! I wish Dr.Slop could read out from Bishop Ernulphus's book of excommunication and insert his name(whatever it is) in place of Obadiah's. And I met my best friends today, after a long time and spent a lot of time with the chubby bunny. And my best friend had a good news to report. And I am happy.
Oh thou happy happy raindrops!
Oh thy blessed purity.
arghh!
Whatever.

Ultrasentimentalcrap.

So once upon a time you were friends...of mine. you, you, you, you and you. Good friends, great friends. Friends to swear by, friends to stand by. And I had great confidence in myself and you...all of you, that nothing will change, ever, if anything(/one) does that won't be either of us. And I basked in the glory of our friendship, let my spirits be high with love for you, filled my head with words you said, delayed my walks back home and so did you...all of you. And then this nothingness. And then this void. Would it help to take each of our friendships apart and see where it went wrong? Would it help even if we did find that precise point and talked at length about it? I did. You did. You did. You did. You did. We did. You and I did not. Not clearly. We didn't know. I didn't dare go back and dwell on the one moment that destroyed it all. But you and I were two parts of the same world. Or so I thought. You never did.
So that world where you and I belonged, has been closed by a door. And there's rust and a lock on it. And I wouldn't open it, not once more. I wouldn't try to match my footsteps with those in the dust, they won't fit anymore and I want them intact, at least in memory.

It's so darn easy to say so and so has had a heartbreak...like it's some fancy toy or a porcelain bowl a corner of which has chipped off, when in truth, hearts don't break, not for ever. But something dies. Gradually. Inside. And there's a huge load on your chest and a lump in your throat and defunct lip muscles. And there's no reason why you should wake up the next morning just as there's no reason why people should tell you to forget, when everyone knows darn well it isn't easy to forget when everyone is actually helping you remember, rather than forget. And then one day you do. You wake up and go about your ways and don't even realise that you haven't thought of him/her even once. Wow, you think, you've moved on. Moving on comes easy to girls -some one told me once. I wish you were true. It'll hurt baby, It'll ache. And I can't do anything to take it away and I won't try. Just let it be. Sometimes when you need to cry badly, for no apparent reasons, blame it all on this one quiescent pain. And cry.

So there, I've lost a friend, a friend, a friend, a friend and a best friend. Mustn't have been worth it? But I have you, and you, and you, you, you,you. Thank God for you.

p:s- erm...mush, crap.Whatever!

I admit. It's my fault. I cross lines too easily, trust too easily, believe too easily that people will reciprocate my feelings, expect witha stupid conviction that they will try to understand me like I try to understand them. Serves me right! One doesn't have any right to stay this naive and stupid anymore. Time I grew up.

I've got such a lot to say that the enormity of the volume of words that seethe inside puts me off the track, benumbs my fingers and makes my key-board recalcitrant. Will write later.

Nothing ever gets better. Never! If I could only run away from everything, everybody around me. Because I try and try and in the process forget spontaneity but failure chases me. Not a moment of being what I am, without a feeling of guilt and defeat.Nothing remains.

If there's something I desperately want now, it is to write. To write endlessly and without a care or even a thought about what I'm writing. And write a poem after what I think must be ages, and a good poem for which I wouldn't have to try hard at all...easy like ink flows from a nice gel pen...a smooth green ink that shines a little against a white paper pregnant with possibility and breathless with anticipation...winding letters, small upright letters, little letters. Whether writing should be for the sake of writing or a cathartic exercise I haven't been able to decide. Just a series of words, side by side, sibling like, lover like, discrete, disparate, lonely...connected by an imposition they can only silently and mostly ineffectually rebel against. Does a smile and a laughter seep inside and travel deep inside through the narrow glacial arteries and reach the head-quarters of all emotions 'the heart' and down to the little toe nail? Imposition and appropriation and alienation are not just heavy sounding common words, they are the aftermaths of colonisation...mainly of intellect. I hope my resistance holds.