Today I painted with my blood. I wonder if other artists have been tempted to do that. Made me feel calm. Temporarily. Everything is temporary. Except this unending pain from the tentacled clot that has gripped my innards and keeps twisting them, all the time.

I just keep discovering new levels of messed-upness. I dont know what to do about them. Although I was briefly bothered about my sanity, I think I have really given up on doing anything about it. Somehow, giving up on myself makes me feel, at the very least, peaceful. That's good enough, for now.

Its not like I want to give up. I try to chit-chat with people to distract myself from what goes inside. It works most of the times. But the truth is, most of the times, people are really busy. And I see myself spiraling down.

Writing it out, will hopefully, be able to substitute, the need for friends.

Of the bastardly deeds
The eyes were aware
Blinded by faith
They chose, not to care.


Yet, for all the sins 
Of thy vice
This blind fool
Will pay the price.

Oh well, I watched the famous first episode of SMJ. And when everybody is debating how right or wrong our society is in allowing female foeticide, all I could debate on was whether my mother's decision was ultimately right or wrong. People would see not killing me before I was born, to be right... somehow, I cant agree.

Was it really the right thing to do?

That's all I can think of. Probably very selfish of me to think so, but then we don't really have much control our thoughts, do we? At least I am allowed to think.

There are times
when I realize
that Darkness is
my only friend
Its the only one
to understand me

I can let this mask
slip off me
I don't need
to pretend to be happy
I don't need
to put on a smile
I don't need to
think of anything

I let Darkness
wash over me
like a cold sea wave
Within moments
I get lost
in Darkness
I lap it all
Like a thirsty dog.

In the end
all that this
Darkness wants
is me.
There are no walls;
I don't fight against it.
I know
it will consume me.

But that's not
so bad because

Darkness is
the only one
to whom I can turn to
Darkness is
the only thing
to want me
Darkness is
all that I have.

On the tip of a dagger so fine
I want to crush your soul
The way you crushed mine.

Here I go again
On this ride of seething pain
Seasoned with
numbness
dumbness
confusion
and self-destruction

How many times is it now?
Oh, wow, I lost count.

People keep telling me, I am not like others. Most certainly not like other girls. Many tell me I am crazy and laugh, while I agree and I laugh it off. Especially when I tell them that I sometimes enjoy watching weird fucked up movies. They give this weird look. Am I ok? I ask myself. Well, at least I am functioning on the outside.

The truth is, I watch such movies to distract myself, to make myself numb, temporarily. After going through such movies, I feel numb on the inside, at least for a few minutes. It gives me such a relief to feel nothing, for a change. And I desperately try to hold on to that numbness, as long as I can. This numb feeling, helps me to hold on to my sanity.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.... oh wait, that's a train coming, right at me.

Fakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefakefake


Fake is thy name
Fake is thy word
Fake is thy worship
Fake consumes all.

How is a person supposed to react, when he or she becomes suddenly famous for whatever good reason? Happy? Far from it.

First of all, you get unwanted attention, from people who a few days back, didn't give a fuck to whether you were dead or alive.

Second, your colleagues scowl and start spreading nasty rumors about how totally undeserving/stupid/slutty you are.

Third, honestly nobody is happy with your success. It feels more like as if its some sin that I have committed.

I want to coop up and hide somewhere. Not show my face, or even the fact that I exist.

I just want some peace. I aint getting any.

Please leave me alone in my loneliness.

Blue bird

"there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.


there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do

you? "

-Charles Bukowski

Forgive me for trying to be a good human being, which I thought I am.

I think I am going to totally separate myself from everybody I know.

No longer human.


I came to know of this story through an anime called Aoi bungaku. As usual, my attraction towards the darker elements of life made me desperately want to read the original.


No Longer Human  is considered Dazai's masterpiece and ranks as the second-best selling novel in Japan, behind Natsume Sōseki's Kokoro. Mike Lew has praised the book for expressing male sexual trauma.

No Longer Human tells the story of a young man who has felt since childhood utterly alien from others around him. Since that time he has learned to put on a face to hide his alienation. He feels incapable of belonging to the human society, especially so by society's refusal to take him seriously. He then follows a descent into alcohol, drugs, and suicide.

It is an extremely dark and tragic story. But it also contains one of the most honest and stark monologues I have ever read. 

"I could never think of prostitutes as human beings or even as women. They seemed more like imbeciles or lunatics. But in their arms I felt absolute serenity. I could sleep normally. It was pathetic how utterly devoid of greed they really were. And perhaps because they felt for one something like an affinity for their kind, these prostitutes always showed me a natural friendliness which never became oppressive. Friendliness with no ulterior motive, friendliness stripped of high-pressure salesmanship, for someone who might never come again. Some nights I saw these imbecile, lunatic prostitutes with the halo of Mary."

The story is divided into three notebooks written by the protagonist Oba Yozo. The main character, is gray. At time one could easily identify with, sometimes you felt pity for him, sometimes you genuinely hope that he can find happiness and some other times you hate him and wish he could be less passive and weak. The character suffers from  complex post-traumatic disorder, making him feel he is a failure as a human being. But is he to blame? Or is it the society? His family who failed to help as he faltered? Is it the fault of his friend who introduced him to the pleasures of alcoholic stupor? The character honestly records in the story not only his own failure but also the society's, which condemns him as a failure.

"I am convinced that human life is filled with many pure, happy, serene examples of insincerity, truly splendid of their kind"

From his childhood itself, he faces intense alienation. He has an overbearingly dominating father, suffers abuse at the hands of the servants, and learns to wear a mask of buffoonery to hide the battle that raged inside him. He perfects his mask to such an extent that even when he expresses his need for help by reciting from the Rubiyat:

"And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky

Where under crawling coop'd we live and die

Lift not your hands to It for help- for It 

As impotently rolls as you or I"

he is never taken seriously.  He joins underground Marxist movements because he felt "An attraction for its odor for irrationality" and he "felt so much more relaxed in this irrational world than in the world of rational gentlemen that I was able to do what was expected of me in a "sound manner"

Over time he experiences several tragic incidents and turns to self destruction.

The story  is believed to be semi-autobiographical in nature. Dazai took his own life shortly after publishing the last part of the book.

The author keeps asking the reader, what is it that makes us human? But instead than being depressing I would say that the book reflects life, most of the time too clearly for comfort.

Mess being off, I went on another round of loitering in search of food. Feeling gloomy, I went to Chedi's for a Tinku (a nice spicy and juicy egg burger). But what I saw only added to my gloom. The shop was closed. Having only Rs. 35 in my pockets, I couldnt afford to eat something fancy to dispel the gloom. I headed towards Billoo's and ordered for an aloo paratha.

I chose the chair farthest from everybody else, sat and decided to stare at the light-studded tree till the time I could stare at my food.

Ten minutes were over and no food had arrived. My order number was 16, and number 13 was the last to be served. Reluctantly I glanced over the other side of humanity. I saw the owner of the shop missing. He was talking to the men in the kitchen and pointing at my direction with his head.

Within three minutes, a man came with a plate in his hand. With my aloo paratha. I smiled at the man, but not for too long; and pounced upon the paratha.

It was kind of you Mr. shopkeeper.

Somebody else's poem for a change

These few months have been a kind of strings of  painful eyeopeners for me. I realised that I had been purposefully numbing myself and unleashing it all out upon myself. I wanted to avoid looking so that I could be able to see properly sometime. Well I guess I am seeing properly now, maybe.

I have realised that strength can sometimes become a double-edged sword. If it could really be called strength. Is there strength in silence? Is there strength in pretending to keep living as if nothing ever happened? That strategy can only go so far. You cannot keep running away forever. Most certainly not from yourself.

What do you do when nothing you do can retain the torrential acid flood of negative memories keep seeping and searing through your brain?

I used to think that I was a strong person. I could face anything. I just needed to have faith in myself. And somehow, I couldnt see that I was actually destroying myself. Well, I could see, but I believed whatever I did to myself would not really affect me. Or may be I couldnt care less what happened. Because it some how kept me sane, kept me going through, kept me capable of dealing with the day to day life. It helped me keep myself numb to whatever was going on the inside. It seems pretty insane now, but then, that was all that made sense. Scarily enough, it still makes sense.

I had been strong enough to destroy myself in one go, without even knowing it. My faith in me has taken a blow. But what I need now is a strength strong enough to hold myself back. Even if it means to become weaker in some ways.

After all, I have come face to face with this brutal truth that I have no one but myself.  A person with no helmet cannot afford to throw hammers at his own head.

I probably needed this self inflicted slap to wake up, to pick up my guts to really deal with what was wrong, instead of denying it away.

My life doesnt make sense to me still. Long time ago, I had struggled to find a reason to keep on living. There is no sense in living if you dont have one, isnt it? At least it seems so to me. I sometimes slip back into that searching mode, and I feel it probably would have been better if well I never existed in the first place.  Its scary, to feel there is no need for me to live at all. Its scary to know that the dreams from which you derive peace, should actually be nightmares.

But even though my life doesnt have a meaning, I will have to find that meaning. And if I dont find it, I will have to give my life a meaning.

It has to make sense.