inertia

today was long and tiring. i missed my appointment with the doctor, and couldnt even inform her. i woke up late by 2 hours and ran really late for a seminar. . and had to keep others waiting on me till i made it. went without food the whole day, got insulted (the umpteenth time) by a professor i hate, after the second seminar. hours of sitting made my backside and back very sore, i skipped all my medicines, have a migraine coming, im very broke, and i just finished a fight with sire and had a fit of tears on the terrace afterward.

i feel very “lame” and equally as angry at myself for being so “lame”. sometimes i dont even know what i think or feel. . and just go with the day as it comes. years of being taken for granted, and not being waited for. . i stopped expecting for things to happen, until i met sire. and despite not wanting to, i began expecting again. . but i still accept things the way they come without retaliating, or questioning. and even though i understand sire loves me, i still sometimes cant help but not expect. accept it in a go if he says no, reason or no reason; if i have a hitch and spend a whole day or days wondering what was it – and if he tells me it was nothing, i press it no more; think everyday that his life is more important than mine. that he shouldnt miss out on anything just because of me. and i know no matter how much i change. . there will be a part of me that will remain this way, kind of dead. undead. even though i realize everyday how much he makes me alive. . and i will always be grateful to him for that. . but other than him, i know i will always have a really hard time trusting anyone. . and for no reason, like now, there will be times that he will have to face the brunt of my acceptance. the dark side of the virtue that its supposed to be.

i felt really bad today, that i took him for granted today. . ESPECIALLY him. and that he wont believe my reasons for doing it, hurt me more. i dont talk of my feelings to others, simply because i dont feel like. but its different with sire. i have been more honest to him, that i have been to my mother. . and perhaps more even than i have been honest to myself. i always talk about literature and the mistake of choosing this course, and i was standing outside a certain library today. . and peered in through the french windows from outside – at all the people who sat inside. . reading, researching through piles of books, discussing over cups of coffee with each other. . and i just stared at them for a long time. . and realised my mistake of choosing the wrong career, many fold. i simply cried secretly, while still staring inside. . and it hurt so much more because i knew i was being plain stupid. “we dont get everything we want” but this has always been important to me. happiness always mattered, and apart from loving sire, this love for art, i cannot live without. earlier finding a poem i liked, would make my day. nowadays, a part of me feels dead, like it accepted the death, and refuses to awake except in rare situations. . i feel afraid of losing that part forever to finance, and the related insults that i try to filter out of my mind everyday, but fail miserably. what hurts me worse is that sire tries harder than me to keep that part alive. . while keeping my feet strong on the ground. its amazing how strong he makes me feel at times. . and then when i feel he doesnt believe me when i say something, i feel like i wont last that night. but i am “lame” and yet he loves me. . how can i not feel embarassed and keep saying the same thing to him everytime. . despite knowing it is stupid, and dumb and lame. and that i am all of that, and that i always will be lame, and friggin’ tactless . . and i must not always take it for granted that he would understand. pandora’s box of 20 years left me indifferent for the world after a point that i could feel no more. . and it now leaves me at a point,  when i expect when i shouldnt, and dont when i must. that i accept without questioning, and cant ask when i have some. hurting him always makes me want to hurt myself. i wish i could learn to be more grown up and unlearn being lame and stupid. i wish i learn to be grown-up good enough for him before its late. and the answer always leaves me scared. . i still wonder how could sire love the person i always hated everytime i looked into the mirror ? and perhaps for the same reasons. for being stupid, tactless, timid, ugly. the me, i am afraid i will never be able to change. i am not afraid of being hurt anymore, but i am so afraid to hurt him and i dont know why it always bothers me that i night inconvenience him in someway. . or his life. like unknowingly hindering him from doing something good that he might ve done without me in his life. i know i have no reason to explain this, except for feeling “lame”. and for the first time i took him for granted, and i cant believe i did. and cant forget and cant forgive.

myself

today after a long time i had this huge wish to write something. . and after a long long time i wished a day had more than 24 hours. . say like, 30. yes. that would be good. but in that case there should be an option too. . like some days it could be 30, and some other long and painful days, it could have been 20. but then oh, the joy of being a wishful thinker has its own sorrows.

its so easy to be accepting. by easy i mean simple. maybe because im a pacifist, do i feel that way. if only everyone could be accepting, and not rebel needlessly against everything. . and not argue, and not have to argue. . there wouldnt be fights, there wouldnt be quarrels nor general disrespect of opinion. no barriers and no wars, to quote Mr John Lennon.

there’s this video sire made me watch today.

http://www.ted.com/talks/jk_rowling_the_fringe_benefits_of_failure.html

i loved it. in 10minutes it brought back so much. watching her speak, i went through a flashback of old days. sitting alone in school here and there during recess cause i would want to hide, and either sit in the chapel in the nun-block far upstairs, or creep into the basketball court in the hope that the girls who played would be busy enough not to spot me. . or else walk past the church behind the convent and sit under a tree in the woods. recess was 20minutes back in school. but some days it seemed enormous and would fade away with my notebook, pen and an apple. . and i would write. simply anything. what i thought, felt, or imagined. mostly imagined. . and i loved how time flew. i loved to see my hands work their way on the paper, the black ink making words on white. . the ink making beautiful rounded patterns and every word glistening beautifully in the sunshine. . and i would sit in class, my head down on the notebook, left ear touching the paper. . and i would hear myself write. . and how i loved listening to that simple sound of scribbling. sometimes i feel sorry for myself. i hate it. till i was 14, i couldnt speak properly except in tit bits to my family. not one sentence, without sounding like i would choke and die, or so rushed that it seemed i had memorized that line out of compulsion, or simply that i was a retard and hadnt enough sense. even having to say something as easy as “thankyou” was enough to make me cringe with shyness, and i would stutter until it was too late and the person would be gone.

i know how i made it right. and i can speak to the world today for minutes without feeling exhausted. but i know me. even though i have learned enough to look composed and almost intimidating to the world, i still am as feeble and timid. . and i realize it every time i falter at the hands of others. its a curse to come to earth. . worse so as a human being. to be sane and rational and live through a lifetime with the soul of an 8year old. . . i remember i woke up one morning to mum, climbed out of her arms, and out of bed. . rubbed my eyes to sunshine and walked out into the terrace. it was a bright summer morning, and the last day of summer vacation that year. and i stood and i saw birds flying in flocks across the blue sky. . and mom’s flowers in the garden downstairs looking fresh and vivid with color, in early morning dew. . and i went back climbed into bed and told mum. . “i dont want to grow up. i like summer mornings. . i like how i feel, and that i can feel so much. .and i know tomorrow i ll have to go to school and then it wont be the same again.”

its been 14 years, and now i know i was right. and i never saw that morning again. except a sunny winter day in an alien place. . i woke up to sunshine beside sire. . and the same evening that i sat leaning against him by the river. . and i knew that old summer-morning-feeling once again. . and felt alive yet one more time.

sometimes i wonder why sire chose to be with me. he is the man of the world, knows so much about everything. . stuff that i had no idea existed. . and he is patient with me, bears with all my meaningless banter. . im not polished, least ladylike. . and there are days when i look like a cancer patient. and worst of all, i am completely tactless, with no filtering system, and almost programmed to lose out on social cues. he on the other hand knows how the world works, tries to teach me what i must know. . almost teaches me unknowingly, to fend for myself so i’ll get less hurt. . tries to smile when i show him the moon or how pretty the sun looks. . and tries his best to be a father figure when im lost and brings me back when i weep in his arms. he understands me in ways perhaps i dont understand myself. and when he holds me, i always go back to that summer morning when i was 8. .

i know we cant have everything. but i wonder why i cant learn to be like others. why cant i say things and not mean them. or blame others, step on them and move on. . or win an argument with all the manipulation that is possible to make. why cant i just walk away without noticing puppies and pretty-big cow-eyes and how the darn moon looks, or how the wind feels. why cant my memories fade. why cant i just forget that summer morning and be a woman and live it through. death is inevitable they say. and everyday we move closer toward it. even though i can accept everthing as it comes, i wonder why i cant accept that its easier to live without feeling so much. . like just about everyone does. why am i so afraid to lose. . and i wonder what it is. even though i have nothing and no one that i can truly call mine.

how difficult can it be for a rational misfit to think lifelong through the mind of an autistic 8 year old. living with autism by choice, throughout my childhood, unknowingly, i preferred. . than having playmates i didnt like, nor growing up with pre-teens who couldnt live a year through without a new crush, and teens who obsessed with their face, waistline and men. the world has meant nothing, but it can do potentially everything to kill a thousand times. i chose once to break free, but i know i will pull through until the next time. i guess with every passing day, i have lesser to lose.

how do i love thee. . . – elizabeth barrett browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

dream – william blake

Once a dream did weave a shade

O’er my angel-guarded bed,

That an emmet lost its way

Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,

Dark, benighted, travel-worn,

Over many a tangle spray,

All heart-broke, I heard her say:

‘Oh my children! do they cry,

Do they hear their father sigh?

Now they look abroad to see,

Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I dropped a tear:

But I saw a glow-worm near,

Who replied, ‘What wailing wight

Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground,

While the beetle goes his round:

Follow now the beetle’s hum;

Little wanderer, hie thee home!’

the forsaken merman – matthew arnold

Come, dear children, let us away;

Down and away below!

Now my brothers call from the bay,

Now the great winds shoreward blow,

Now the salt tides seaward flow;

Now the wild white horses play,

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you go–

Call once yet!

In a voice that she will know:

‘Margaret! Margaret!’

Children’s voices should be dear

(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;

Children’s voices, wild with pain–

Surely she will come again!

Call her once and come away;

This way, this way!

‘Mother dear, we cannot stay!

The wild white horses foam and fret.’

Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;

Call no more!

One last look at the white-wall’d town

And the little grey church on the windy shore,

Then come down!

She will not come though you call all day;

Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday

We heard the sweet bells over the bay?

In the caverns where we lay,

Through the surf and through the swell,

The far-off sound of a silver bell?

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,

Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,

Where the salt weed sways in the stream,

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,

Dry their mail and bask in the brine;

Where great whales come sailing by,

Sail and sail, with unshut eye,

Round the world for ever and aye?

When did music come this way?

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday

(Call yet once) that she went away?

Once she sate with you and me,

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,

And the youngest sate on her knee.

She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well,

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.

She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea;

She said: ‘I must go, to} my kinsfolk pray

In the little grey church on the shore to-day.

‘T#will be Easter-time in the world–ah me!

And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.’

I said: ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves;

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!’

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?

‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;

Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say;

Come!’ I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.

We went up the beach, by the sandy down

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town;

Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,

To the little grey church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,

And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:

‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!

Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone;

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’

But, ah, she gave me never a look,

For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book!

Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.

Come away, children, call no more!

Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!

Down to the depths of the sea!

She sits at her wheel in the humming town,

Singing most joyfully.

Hark what she sings: ‘O joy, O joy,

For the humming street, and the child with its toy!

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;

For the wheel where I spun,

And the blessed light of the sun!’

And so she sings her fill,

Singing most joyfully,

Till the spindle drops from her hand,

And the whizzing wheel stands still.

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,

And over the sand at the sea;

And her eyes are set in a stare;

And anon there breaks a sigh,

And anon there drops a tear,

From a sorrow-clouded eye,

And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh;

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden

And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children

Come children, come down!

The hoarse wind blows coldly;

Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber

When gusts shake the door;

She will hear the winds howling,

Will hear the waves roar.

We shall see, while above us

The waves roar and whirl,

A ceiling of amber,

A pavement of pearl.

Singing: ‘Here came a mortal,

But faithless was she!

And alone dwell for ever

The kings of the sea.’

But, children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow,

When clear falls the moonlight,

When spring-tides are low;

When sweet airs come seaward

From heaths starr’d with broom,

And high rocks throw mildly

On the blanch’d sands a gloom;

Up the still, glistening beaches,

Up the creeks we will hie,

Over banks of bright seaweed

The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze, from the sand-hills,

At the white, sleeping town;

At the church on the hill-side–

And then come back down.

Singing: ‘There dwells a loved one,

But cruel is she!

She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea.’

the last ride together – robert browning

I.

I said—Then, dearest, since ’tis so,

Since now at length my fate I know,

Since nothing all my love avails,

Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,

Since this was written and needs must be—

My whole heart rises up to bless

Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,—I claim

—Only a memory of the same,

—And this beside, if you will not blame,

Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II.

My mistress bent that brow of hers;

Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs

When pity would be softening through,

Fixed me, a breathing-while or two,

With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenished me again;

My last thought was at least not vain:

I and my mistress, side by side

Shall be together, breathe and ride,

So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end tonight?

III.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed

By many benedictions—sun’s

And moon’s and evening-star’s at once—

And so, you, looking and loving best,

Conscious grew, your passion drew

Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,

Down on you, near and yet more near,

Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—

Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

IV.

Then we began to ride. My soul

Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll

Freshening and fluttering in the wind.

Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?

Had I said that, had I done this,

So might I gain, so might I miss.

Might she have loved me? just as well

She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

V.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,

Saw other regions, cities new,

As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,—All labour, yet no less

Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast

The petty done, the undone vast,

This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI.

What hand and brain went ever paired?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshly screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.

There’s many a crown for who can reach,

Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!

The flag stuck on a heap of bones,

A soldier’s doing! what atones?

They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.

My riding is better, by their leave.

VII.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,

Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell

What we felt only; you expressed

You hold things beautiful the best,

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.

‘Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,

Have you yourself what’s best for men?

Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—

Nearer one whit your own sublime

Than we who never have turned a rhyme?

Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.

VIII.

And you, great sculptor—so, you gave

A score of years to Art, her slave,

And that’s your Venus, whence we turn

To yonder girl that fords the burn!

You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

What, man of music, you grown grey

With notes and nothing else to say,

Is this your sole praise from a friend,

“Greatly his opera’s strains intend,

“Put in music we know how fashions end!”

I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

IX.

Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate

Proposed bliss here should sublimate

My being—had I signed the bond—

Still one must lead some life beyond,

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.

This foot once planted on the goal,

This glory-garland round my soul,

Could I descry such? Try and test!

I sink back shuddering from the quest.

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

X.

And yet—she has not spoke so long!

What if heaven be that, fair and strong

At life’s best, with our eyes upturned

Whither life’s flower is first discerned,

We, fixed so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two

With life for ever old yet new,

Changed not in kind but in degree,

The instant made eternity,—

And heaven just prove that I and she

Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

expectation

There are days when i brim over, there’s a whole explosion of words waiting to break free and i want to scream and kill somebody, then shoot myself. But my mouth just stays partly open, no words come out, and i just recoil back to the roots. I hate these days. i long to cry but i cant. and the frustration only gets worse with everything.

I often wonder what happened when Pandora opened that box. If it all seeped out and killed her, like phenol injected into the heart. Or if they spread out far and wide, like arrows with poisoned tips, or bullets. . infected the world with misery in all shapes and color. Pandora perished for sure . . and the box and its contents left us to perish a day at a time, in silence. . forbearing silence.

One of those bullets that has killed me so often, i’m sure was a bullet out of That box. I know i’m not the only one. but then i do live what i live. its so simple to bottle up. . if only i could always keep them corked. . set them out to sail into the sea. . and start filling afresh into a new bottle. they would then be like those secret messages, that no one would find; and in code, so no one would understand.

sometimes i wish i could unlearn. sometimes i hate to wish i could finally reach the end soon enough.

do not stand at my grave and weep – anonymous

do not stand at my grave and weep

i am not there i do not sleep

i am the thousand winds that blow

i am the diamond glints on snow

i am the the sunlight on ripened grain

i am the gentle autumn rain

when you awaken in the morning’s hush

i am the swift uplifting rush

of quiet birds in circled flight

i am soft stars that shine at night

do not stand at my grave and cry

i am not there i did not die.

the lamb – william blake

Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,

By the stream and o’er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing, woolly, bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,

For He calls Himself a Lamb.

He is meek, and He is mild;

He became a little child.

I a child, and thou a lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Little Lamb, God bless thee!

daffodils – william wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed–and gazed–but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.