Hurt

HURT

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that's real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

You could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of shit

Upon my liar's chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here

What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

You could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

If I could start again

A million miles away

I would keep myself

I would find a way

_NIN/ Jhonny Cash

Once in their life time, if they all but knew...

~`~

n jst wn u dnt c, i bleed.

i cut my wrists, n i bandage thm.

i hang my neck n i luk down.

blood trickles n no drop counts

-Arooj

Jane Doe.

Jane Doe’s dead. She lives in an asylum where nobody knows her. Maybe that’s why they call her Jane Doe. Come to think of it, she was never alive to begin with and doesn’t remember her home. Or house. No difference really. At least now she lives at a place where people don’t try to understand her. Like they used to in the normal world. Its considerably safe over here too. Nobody beats you up just cuz u belong to a different thinking class.

She sits by her bed all day long… but she doesn’t stare into space. The head isn’t bent either. Her eyes are always shut, not even the slight give-away flutter. As if she was born blind. But she wasn’t. She was normal. Or is normal. Who defines normality neway? She just sits at the edge of the bed, not in the middle like most people in asylums do. Not as if she wants to run away the moment the door opens to let the attendant in with a constant trickle of medicines, food and injections. Injections hurt. Just a tiny bit. Not a whole lot. Should that be a relief? In a place that’s ridden with numbness, forced or other wise, shouldn’t a little more of pain be welcomed? Jane doesn’t think about that. She thinks about other things. No, not the heavens and the stars. No, not her family either. Negative.

She thinks about the people she had associated with almost everything in her life. He times, her memories. Like she didn’t need a journal. She had all the memories kept in different sections of her brain. It was brilliant actually. The system. Magnificent in all its glory. Her brain: a work of art. And emotions. But isn’t art a glorified version of emotion? Jane doesn’t think about this either. Her life is a long way ahead of such petty things.

So what actually is Jane Doe’s story? Where does she hail from? What does she do? Or used to do actually? What makes her tick? Does she think about the tick-tocks of her life? Or is she beyond that capacity? Or simply, how old is she?

Nobody at the asylum knows. And nobody knows why they don’t know. Its just a recognized fact, acceptable: because its easy to accept it and because they have resigned to it. Also because, there is no other way out. They have tried. Oh Lord, have they tried. But no results as usual. So they just accepted what they know. And they know that they know nothing. Are they happy in this knowledge? Does Jane know? Does Jane think about this? Lol. U think so? isn’t she too busy thinking about what-we-don’t-know?
Is Jane dead? Yeah, pretty much. Cuz we don’t know.

Living Cheap

Amazing isnt it? The kind of humor tht everybody just LOVES to indulge into.

With no last name

It happened exactly the way it should: like they relate in those trashy romantic novels. My heart ceased to beat and I couldn’t breathe for a moment… a moment that span over an entire century. All girls dream of this: a knight in shining armour on a white stallion. I was no exception. But there were no roses; I wasn’t in a ball gown. And he was no knight... And there was no white mare. There was a railing though; if that amounts to any credibility. And I was dressed a little better that day. And there were a lot of people around, almost like a ballroom. But that’s about where the similarities to my fantasy end. He wasn’t looking. I probably didn’t exist for him: 19, with friends, nothing to do. So I kept looking: His hair, his clothes, the boots. Cologne. After- shave… And that frown. Frown? "Why is he frowning?" ‘Things’ like him don’t frown. They shouldn’t. Those crinkles near the eyes look sexy as hell, but a frown is, after all, a frown. And well… he shouldn’t have to frown…

So I saw him. Spied on him. Got to know him. Made friends with his friends. Forced my friends to make friends with him and his friends. There were so many circles of friends and friends- of- friends that I lost count of all those ‘friendly’ people and gave up trying to remember their names. I finally worked up the courage to say hi, not to his friends or friends- of- friends, but to him… and I mumbled something that he couldn’t hear (just as well) and ran off to the safety of "my own" friends. I couldn’t sleep that night, nor the night after that and for the first time in my life, I took my morning clothes out a night before and found a matching bag and decided to wear at least lip-gloss the next day. He never showed up! *That arrogant bastard!*

And so the sleepless pattern continued and the parade of matching shoes and bags with just the right kind of gloss went on for about a week, by the end of which I had totally given up hope. So the next week, I decided he was probably a figment of my imagination, and dressed like I used to: jeans, kurta, naam- ka- dupatta, bandana, sneakers. No lip-gloss, no mascara and a denim bag *that had definitely seen better days and now could probably pass off as a travel bag* And that’s the day he decides to shows up! I saw him and make a run for the nearest bush to hide behind, and nearly collided with him. He said hi, I looked at him with utter disbelief *he was talking to me! Actually talking!!* , got awfully nervous, didn’t know what to say and instead decided to blush. He got grossed out, didn’t say anything to me, much less a ‘hi’ in the entire week that continued!

Eventually, a year down the lane, he got used to my blushing *or else decided to ignore it* and I managed to string two words together in a sentence and form a decent thread of conversation with him *still getting horrifically intimidated by him knowing about EVERYTHING*. Our only common ground was the verity that there was no common ground. As time elapsed, the horde of accompanying acquaintances began to thin out until eventually only the two of us could sit and talk… or listen to music… or eat…

I don’t think he ever thought of me as intelligent *not for the lack of effort on my part. I certainly tried hard; even started watching Nat Geo and Discovery*. But I would end up saying the stupidest of things, discussing the weirdest of theories *always ending them by, "You probably don’t get it" or "I don’t think I’m making sense", or "Maybe I'm just short on sleep"* and he would never say anything… he would look at me and had this big smile on his face. That irritatingly charming smile. The one that shouted to all within sight. I never could comprehend if the smile was arrogance or care, understanding or mere tolerance. But I looked forward to those smiles every time I built another lame theory *what if the world was a triangle? Would we all fall of it then? Who would live at the edge?*

And then
You know, it’s just not fair when people leave.

I had grown up in government schools, believing in tooth fairies and miracles, reading Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys, listening to BSB and West Life, dreaming of ball gowns and handsome charmers. What could a girl like me possibly do when after losing someone she knew as her faith? Absolutely nothing. Nil. Nought. Zero. Zilch. I was told to keep my hands clasped. One friend said, "You’ll meet him in heaven". I just looked at her and said; "What if there is no heaven?" She got awfully quiet after that. What if there actually was no heaven?? Then?

I have resigned to life. I know nothing can be done from nowhere. And I'm ready to move on. Maybe it was just infatuation *if it was love, I wouldn’t have given up, right?* The turn on was intelligence. Or that smile. Or that sarcasm. Or that bored look on life. Or him… I don’t know… but I can’t share that emptiness with anybody. Just the thought of 'somebody else' puts me off the edge. Another man? I'm not even sure if I loved him. Is love great sacrifice?

I'm tired.

So tired that I gave up on everything. The emptiness and hollowness comes with the resignation and striding that territory is not as ghastly. The idea of being raped emotionally doesn’t seem so hideous now. And hey, I have nobody to blame… not even him! You know why? That’s because he never knew what castles I built in the air, what care-bear notions I allowed to filter my thoughts and what I began to hope against all hope. Hehehee. Its funny in the saddest way possible. We never even went out. I don’t even have a picture of us together.

I'm neither depressed, nor suicidal. I'm just sadly resigned to fate. Whatever it brings, whenever. Growing up, I used to numb myself against thoughts I didn’t want to think, against emotions I didn’t want to feel. And I would never feel the pain. You know what I just discovered? Even numbness aches. And do you know how old I am? I'm not even 23 yet.

I read this on a friend’s blog: "This (heart break) is the only thing that cannot be cured by chocolate and ice cream"

She’s right. I tried. It only makes me cry harder.