Dancing dreams

What happens when you don't know what you want to make decisions for?

What happens when you stop caring for the distinctions? Between love and hate, between day and night, between right and wrong.

Because you don't care, for now atleast. Because you cannot decide whether you care or not.

Because all you want to do is feel.

Not think.

When you sit in that darkened room, twilight streaming in through the windows, watching the empty chair in the mirror, what do you want to think about?

Don't. Just don't.

There's that little green light blinking in the corner, it's too dark to see whereof the light is born, but it's alright. There is no need.

Blink. blink. blink.

You sit there, knees to your chest, watching the blinking green. Your fingers tap out a rhythm you can't remember the name of.

Tap. Tap, tap. Tap.

Somewhere there are voices, and laughter. You smile because you like to hear laughter. It's something you have not indulged in, for a while.

What is the need to laugh?

Faint music accompanies the staccato your finger tips play on the floor, and an unknowing band is formed, if only for a few minutes.

There is a whiff of perfume on the breeze that's teasing the curtains, and it makes you remember a night in the garden, under the moonlight.

You don't want to, but you do anyway.

Laughter, music and that perfume. Snatches of conversation, a smile and warmth.

Warmth that makes you colder now.

You stare at your feet. Feet that moved in tandem, in that garden, under the moon.

Feet that danced.

Feet that you didn't need to run away from something you didn't want to run away from.

But you did anyway.

It's cold, but you like it this way, because you don't like it warm. Especially when the warmth is not from another body.

You don't know because you are living on auto pilot. Being alive doesn't need thinking. Life is an automaton anyway.

At this point, it is easy to be this way.

Because thinking leads to memories, and you have no way of forgetting.

That garden under the moon.

Your vision is blurry, and your eyelids are heavy, and the cold is making you sleepy.

The green light is blinking still. As long as it is blinking, you feel alright.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The curtains are still being tickled, and you think it's the wind laughing, watching the cloth squirm.

Your eyes close for a blink, and green light is gone, replaced with the August moon. Your lips curl into a smile, while your dreams see you dancing.

Laughter, voices, smiles and warmth.

Music, perfume and a garden in the moonlight.

You dance the night away.

Savior...Sadist?

warning: expletives used liberally.

"There's something about you... Like you're hurting too..." -- House, Season 3.

In my recent list of addictions, House has ranked highest. When a friend recommended it to me months ago, I brushed it off as another medical series that would be filled with large words and complex sentences and innumerable shiny gadgets that somehow is available to a general hospital, meaning available for little or no charge to the poor and suffering public. It was only a matter of coincidence that many months since that recommendation, I stumbled on 5 episodes, and out of sheer boredom, started watching "House."

And the addiction started.

It's been days. I've been hunting down all the episodes that I can get my big hands on, and absorbing all the things I can. Hell, I even learned some fancy words.

And I found Dr. Gregory House.

What attracted me to the series was not the fact that there were sensational cases being solved, medical mysteries pondered upon, and split second decisions saving lives. It was just House.

House, a broken, bitter and brilliant man, who never for once stood out like a shining hero, saving the day. Who was remembered by the people he saved as more of a jerk than a joy.

A true Godsend with a grumpy exterior, and a prickly interior, surrounding a heart that had been hardened and had no hope of being melted. A genius nonetheless.

A man who cared nothing for those he saved. All that mattered to him was results and finding the solution, and the best part? He never pretends otherwise.

A breath of fresh air, a break from the usual sticky super heroes who stand with cape billowing in the wind, while people applauded. I tip my hat to the creator of the character.

I think you will find no surprise in the fact that I love the character of Severus Snape too.

I have no time for idiots and fools who dabble around wasting time on unnecessary things such as sugarcoating the situation, creating deception and a sense of false comfort for those affected by the situation.

After all, feeding a man dinner at a 5 star restaurant and then telling him he had 24 hours to live is hardly necessary.

I'm not twisted, to believe that these are nice characteristics. Merely necessary ones. I find the naked truth a lot more easier to face than someone simpering and lying, only to take the long road home. It's rubbish, it's useless, it's stupid.

And I detest stupidity, especially if I am in a position to be sporting it. Ask my friends, and they will tell you that I am the one to be the bearer of bad news, because I'm more comfortable telling people they are in a truckload of trouble, rather than hold their hand and tell them that it will all work out, when I clearly have no clue of what the future holds.

An interesting opinion I came to hear was that it was being cowardly, to be unable to lie to people on their faces, and create that phantom cocoon. No no, I'm not laughing just yet. I'd really like someone to explain to me why it is more cowardly to tell people the truth, when by lying we are only misusing trust that the other person has in us, not to mention delaying the fall of the blade.

Moral support? Hardly. I think moral support is worse when you hear people saying it will all be fine after you've lost your first born. Absolute bullshit. How is Circe's name do you know what it is to lose a first born that does not belong to you? Even if you have lost your own, how is it the same as this?

That's the trouble with humans. They tend to oversimplify the situation when all that is required is clarity. Clarity is not necessarily the same as making it look easy as pie.

Pie is not even easy to make. Ha!

The point I was getting at is, people have trouble facing things as it is. We always look for an external factor to place the blame, the easiest and the stupidest being "luck."

I do not believe in luck. I believe in probability.

I'm not exactly disabusing anyone of the notion of luck, merely disregarding it, because it makes no sense.

You get hit by a car, bad luck mate, never you mind the fact that you were jay walking on a busy street. Someone infinitely more stupid than you gets the job that clearly someone of your intelligence should get, bad luck mate, probably bad karma, regardless of the fact that you probably didn't fit what they were looking for.

It's stupid.

Why make excuses? Why does a dog lick himself? Same difference. Because it can be done.

Because we do not want to feel shame, guilt or defeat, or any of those myriad negative emotions that result from calling a spade a bloody spade.

Because we are cowards. Luck, my very large arse.

It's not that I can explain why something happens, but I loathe people who put that reason as luck. It's not damn luck that you survived the accident, it was timely and accurate medical help. It's not like by chance the people dialed 911 and the ambulance got there on time. It happened because there was no delay in the traffic, no bumbling idiots instead of ER doctors and because your body responded well to medication.

If you didn't then it was a mistake with the system, the doctors screwed up, or that annoying 80 year old hag at the wheel of a broken down fiat was cursing in Italian and refusing to make way for the ambulance.

Now where in that scenario is luck playing a part? It's just people being people.

Imbeciles who say "you were lucky you lived or unlucky you died," ought to be hexed and ridiculed by someone like House, Snape or me, or hundreds of others with straight attitudes.

Doesn't mean I condone being a jerk, I just find it unnecessary to be nice, and amusing to no end, of course.

Didn't you know, we who speak the truth are unmitigated evil bastards and bitches?

What does it matter? I'm going to rant, you're going to read, people are going to whine, and the world will go on as it always had.

More screwed up than yesterday, but the world does move on. With or without you.

So suck it up and grow a backbone, and the sadistic ones who are in heaven because they saved lives or did great noble things may just let you play in their pool just yet.

Maybe.

A moment of weakness...

The click and the tone on the other end indicates that the conversation is over. For now.

Flicking the phone closed, I take a moment to stare at the screen, convincing myself that this is the right thing to do, the right decision to make.

I almost believe myself.

I try not to spend too much time thinking. I'm sure that will do no good at this point of time. What's done is done, spilled milk and all that.

A prickling sensation and a tight clenching in my chest has me gasping for breath, and it is not the first time I damn my stupidity, my sense of impulsiveness.

My strong principles, my pride in self.

I wonder why they are stupid things in the eyes of the world. Everybody seems to have the same thing to tell me. Maybe I should have held on a little longer, maybe I should have borne the degradation a little later.

Maybe I should not be hesitant to lick someone's boots to get my work done.

I wish I understood. I wish I knew why it was bothering me so much if what I did mattered to the world at large. But I live in the world, and not for the first time I wish things were easier for me.

I think about the starving orphans in the world. I should be grateful for all that I have. It only depresses me further.

I don't understand why I'm supposed to be thankful to be better than starving orphans. It only makes the whole thing seem more preposterous.

Everybody has it the same. Same difference.

A sense of panic grips me as I think about the things that have happened, and I sink to my knees in front of the idols I follow in my religion.

I've already been brought to my knees, my pride crushed when I borrowed for the first time, and admitted shamefully that I needed help. I lost faith in myself when that happened.

And I don't want to lose the only remaining faith I have at this point of time. I would be lost even worse than I am now, and I cannot bear the thought.

My chest clenches painfully, and it feels a little harder to see good in the world. A little more, my shoulders slump, a little more I die inside.

It really can't be this bad, can it?

I get no answers from the empty room. I rarely panic in front of others. I am glad to be alone, especially when I am falling apart.

It gets harder every morning to wake up to a purpose. I idly think how it would be to go to sleep one night and never wake up again.

Would anyone miss me? How long would it take for someone to realize something is unusual?

I shake my head, such thoughts never helped when I needed to assure myself that I need to fight another day. I need to be strong for those who believe I am. It worries me that my voice is tinged with bitter regret and wariness in place of the usual confident drawl.

Fortunately, I am yet to lose my touch in making illusions seem real, to be the person that the world expects me to be. Happy in times of difficulty, thankful in times of despair.

It bloody well makes me look masochistic, I think.

I'm still on my knees, my head is bowed in deference or shame, the difference between the two have been blurred a little. The ache in my knees seems almost welcome.

Small punishment for my sins of indulgence, within thoughts of self loathing and harm.

It hurts that I can no longer respect myself, to the point that my reflection is ashamed to look at me. It burns that I can no longer look at someone and think I'm better than them. It's humiliating that even my own mind hates this person I have become.

It will be alright, it will be fine. Things will get better. The only way left to go is up. The night is darkest before the dawn. These have become my mantra when the darkness threatens to engulf my waking mind. They are working, my mind feels better.

I almost convince myself that it is the truth. Almost.

I briefly consider getting mindlessly drunk. I then realize I can neither afford it, nor would I appreciate not being in control of my mental faculties.

It's still a thought, I mentally shrug.

I don't know how long I have been in this state of mental merry-go-round, and I'm startled by the door opening and closing somewhere in the house.

Honey I'm home, I think to myself and smile mirthlessly. I better get cleaned up before my friends see me. It would not do to look anything less than the severe self I maintain.

I get a little extension of my privacy in the small yet comfortable bath chamber. Only the redness of my eyes and the purpling circles under my eyes give away the tiredness my soul experiences, and lately my body has been reflecting.

A splash of water, a little miracle face wash, and I look much better. I could easily blame it on having worked all day on the laptop. I walk out to greet the boisterous bunch that has returned after whatever they do all day. I would do for now.

I would have to.

Love letter for the Unknown...

It is a thought to have, some words to say, but all I feel is a longing. This longing, bittersweet, I know not how, to translate to something more tangible.

If it were to be, then I would write for you, immortal words, great in number, to move hearts and mountains alike. If it were, many a happy tear, those words would inspire.

Yet all I offer is simplicity.

I know not your presence, at this moment, though I feel your existance deep within my heart. For I know it is you, who will lead the way into lands I fear though I fear not death.

It will be you who may be the one to truly set me free. From shackles of mortality for my love, and chains of lonliness for my soul.

It will be you whom I shall live, for you are my need, and want, life has no meaning beyond.

I long for the warmth of your voice and the brilliance of your smile. Like the sun on a spring morn, heralding the end of a cold winter. Although I would have an experience of none other were you by my side, be it December or May.

I yearn for the tenderness of your touch, were there tears on my face, or the gentleness of your embrace, were there joys to be shared.

I drift among the days like wisps of clouds in the wind, ever waiting to share what is pure. Ever waiting for you to share with.

Were you beside me, I would know no days or nights. Only you.

I would wish upon a star, and hope you were here, if there were any that remain to be wished upon. For I wish only for you.

Would it be foolish? If it were, then I am a fool, and lest I be condemned for it, were love a foolishness.

A fool am I, to want for you. You who are yet to grace me with a sight or sound of.

You who are unknown.

--Your Love

Man in the window.

The weather seemed to reflect his mood this night. 

The wind outside howled, and tore apart tender things. It swept through the gardens, mercilessly crushing fresh blossoms as they slept the night. Murdering them in their beds. 

He envied the wind, on this dark night. He could not howl and rip through with no thought on consequence. 

However much he wished to. 

He stood at the window, pale slivers of his face reflected in the glass like waning moons. Moons that were trembling at the power of the wind. The panes rattled and the frames threatened to fly loose of the hinges. 

He didn't pay heed. They held. 

He caught his reflection and started. The face staring back was not his. It was that of a corpse.

Lifeless, hollow, frozen in stone. 

The fire in the hearth had died, he did not know when. All that was left were dying embers. An occasional crackle, as if the fire was holding on to the last strings of life, knowing it would not last. 

Just like he was. 

He walked around the darkened room, lit only by the eerie moonlight, reflecting off the silver in his hair, and the polished surfaces. 

This night, it was suitable. This night he needed the darkness. 

Caressing the gold engravings on the rich leather spines, he spoke to the books. They were his only friends. The gave all and asked very little. 

They did not judge. 

They could not judge. 

For a moment, he thought of how it would be to be one himself. A book of good value, in good hands. Tender touches, reverent readers, a place among peers. 

To be oblivious to human apathy. 

To never be aware of the world outside. An eternity in rest. 

Lifeless but contain life for those who learned to look. For those who earned to look. 

Oh, to be bound in the finest leather, carved upon with the purest gold. Passed on as heirlooms. 

To last as long as time itself, till day and hour forgotten, and fade away. 

To be oblivious. Ignorant and truly blissful. 

He flicks off some dust on the sleeve of his jacket and turns back to the room. 

It is still dark everywhere. The moon seems to be waning. 

How long has he been here?

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the darkness. 

He picks up the half full glass of wine, black in the night, watching the man in the window do the same. 

The glass hovers a hair's breadth from his lips. Watching himself is strangely hypnotic. 

His breath fogs the glass dangling from his fingers. Elegantly careless. 

The image disappears for a moment. The moon hides from him. Quickly, he sips the bitter burning liquid, and revels in a private moment of exploration as his senses respond to the heat. 

He shivers. His image does not watch him. The broken image of an animated corpse. 

Eyes closed, he feels the burn settle in his core, warming him. It is pleasure he can enjoy alone. 

Pleasure. Alone. 

The inferius is back. It grins at him from the window. 

He hates it. Leave me alone! His cries are lost to the howls of the wind outside. 

He cannot even know if he spoke aloud, he does not care. 

The inferius smiles at him, and it is not pretty. It is nowhere near pleasant. 

It is scary. 

He cannot take this anymore. The image still smiles, like a predator, and raises it's hand. 

He knows what will happen. He must not let it happen. 

The glass spills the liquid as it flies across the room. It is almost as if time has stretched to let him watch this. An arm comes up to cover his face as glass shatters and little pieces skitter to a halt. 

He has won. The inferius has missed. 

The red-black liquid has splashed on the walls, leaving trails towards the floor. The carpet has a stain spreading through it. 

Glass crunches underfoot as he makes his way back to the window. 

The inferius is laughing. He hates the damn man in the window. 

Cracked face like cut up pie, and yet the bastard laughs. 

This must stop. 

It's extremely satisfying to see the face crumple in pain moments before the window shatters under his fist. 

The window has broken. The inferius is gone. 

He knows the laughter is now from within him. He had won. 

There is something warm dripping from his hand, and he takes a moment to realise that the pain is also from there. 

It is alright. Blood is life, and pain means being alive. 

He is alive, with pain and blood. 

He is alive as he feels the skin tear, when he carelessly pulls out the tiny pieces embedded in his flesh. 

He feels the warmth of the blood flowing down his arm as he examines his sliced skin. 

He has never felt this alive in days. 

His lips curl into a feral grin, as he raises his bloodied and battered fist to the new man in the window. 

His laughter is lost in the howling of the wind. 

A few faces of a flower..