Something Stupid

I do not want to be a well considered choice. I don't want to be the best bet.

I want to be the impulsive decision you know you might regret having made, but cant possibly stop yourself from making while you stand here in this moment.

Is that too much to ask for? Or is a person you are almost addicted to too high a price to squander on a naïve, unrealistic whim?

Someday I shall be able to decide. Today is just not that day.

.....

As it turned out, I survived well enough without him. And he without me. Though sometimes there still is this nagging feeling at the back of my thoughts that it would've been a glorious life, had he still been a part of me.

A tangle.

A gossamer tangle of cobwebs.
A million threads tied in a knot.
Infinite lines radiating from this standstill;
Diverging, converging, entwining,
Yet each leading its own separate way,
Laughing at the ineptitude of crossroads.

If only I stood at mere crossroads
And every picture were cut black and white
With none of these confounding shades of grey,
Would the choice have been any easier then?

3rd April, 2003
At the back of a tattered physics notebook

Blue

Blue.
Not entirely though…
Purple?
Possibly.
A royal one.
Pink?
I wish.
Fuchsia maybe. A blotchy red-purple-pink.

Yes..
That Is how I feel.
Red.
Blue.
Purple.
Vivid shades all. No tempering china clay to dilute the gaudy brilliance of any colour.

pain

At the centre of my being,
Like curling wisps of smoke
Or rose-green tendrils too delicate to touch,
They reach out;
Seeking,
Finding.
Clinging lovingly.
And in vain do I shut all these doors on them.
Pouring in through gaps and crevices
They shall melt all that stands in between
And slowly rase all barriers.
Spread to caress me, devour me, consume me.
And this knot at the centre of my being
Shall be all that bears witness to the end.

incomplete verses

Incomplete
         verses,
                 for my thoughts are a psychedelic swirl
                 which crumble like crayons on paper.
         letters,
                 for to find an answer to this riddle of us
                 is to gather silver in a pail from starry seas.
         sentences,
                 because the hapless paupers my words are
                 cannot give you all I want you to know.
         conversations
                 that hang in the void between us,
                 now tread on only by a taciturn silence.
         distance,
                 for it is littered with disjointed fragments
                 of incomplete letters, sentences and conversations.

Papercuts

28th Feb 2006, Mum's birthday