Had Imagination let me be, I’d be less greedy.

I haven’t ever sat down before this,
To tinker with my beliefs and related;
Because who ever really shelves those in?
Or checks on how what they believe is rated.

We believe what we want to believe,
Later flex our beliefs, just to grow.
We don’t stop or pause to make eye-contact;
Fearing the bad wiring might un-stow.

I myself don’t take out my measuring tape,
To size up that what endorses to appeal.
But I do nibble and gather the after-taste,
So as to agree with the disbelief ordeal.

I believe I can believe baselessly,
As long as I believe in me;
Considering that there’s the available option-
Of crediting miracles and serendipity.

After miniscule experimentation itself,
I’ve learnt that believing in the ‘other way round’,
Connects points A and B, managing just as well-
As the lines drawn on the ground.

Lines of belief may converge or diverge-
From a point that appears to float;
But if it rose from the very surface,
(Mustn’t it?) It must have mustered support.

I believe in trodding back-trackable routes,
And following arrows that vibrate;
I believe in additives and extracts,
That struggle to enunciate.

I believe in faith and patience-
And in effort that goes miles without praise;
I believe in recycling concepts and notions,
That have a clotting history of disgrace.

My beliefs find themselves in amusing places-
A gurgling gutter or a clogged chimney,
Places where I find people napping;
When I take walks with curiosity.

I believe in investments of passion,
And in expenditures of skill;
I believe in all jaded kindergarten concepts,
Like show-and-tell and then, goodwill.

Appreciation and feedback,
Seem to fervidly contribute-
To my beliefs of better expression,
Despite the languages in which we commute.

I subscribe to eagerly optimistic beliefs,
But keep myself tied to a practical’s yawl.
I believe that Humpty-Dumpty,
Wasn’t just about the great fall.

I believe there’s an embedded purpose,
In every movement that I can link.
Like how my eyeball widens, drawing tangents
With each fascinated blink.

I believe in zealot observation,
And attention to detail.
I choose to keep myself hungry,
As crumbs are an expertly disguised entail.

I believe that love and despair,
Are monochromatic shades.
Mixes of bright whites and black blacks,
Greys of varying grades.

I wander into underworlds,
To find more to believe.
Enlightenment, and in darkness,
That death and dying heave.

I counter disbelief with,
Experience of disbelief.
As till one doesn’t trust and fall;
There can’t be wisdom embalmed relief.

My beliefs also reside in-
Inspirational nothingness.
It’s tempting how there is a point,
And then the same point beyond which you may digress.

Constructivism fluidly travels,
My belief channelling nerves;
And comes jolting out my fingertips,
Stewing idea conserves.

I seem to some a dreamer,
And simply immature to some;
I come across as unreal,
For the quantum of beliefs I hum.

System Failure.

When I’m done writing a post, it sort of becomes the only thing worthwhile during the day. I’m Van Gogh and I’m watering my Tournesols.

If you get a paper knife or a scissor as you sit down to unwrap your presents, I must have beamed at you telepathically. The perfectly rectangular pieces of cello-tape and the crisp folds were thinking of you as they were employed. Your reaction, their paycheck.
And those punch-doughnut stickers from office-stationary stores. That bandage the holes you punched in your sheet? It’s amazing that someone actually wanted to doctor paper.
The jumpy seconds hand in clockworks, to give a soundtrack to wait and excitement.
The ‘Refresh’ button, to absorb your haste as it knows your results should be out any minute now. Your cursors been bouncing in its lap.
Alarms with the ‘Snooze’ button. They give you the understanding blink.
Safety-pins; sharp headed clinical-tailors with the noblest of intentions.
Punctuation marks, the verbal nods to your convolutedly enthusiastic statements.
Bank slips and receipts with their alphanumeric codes, to comfort you with their senseless (to you) but business like demeanours.
The ‘Redial’ button that understands that you had looked the last number up in the fat, yellow paged directory which it heard being slammed shut.
Wordpress with its ‘Howdy..’ greeting and the graphical ‘Stats’.
Nail-heads with the gash across their faces, so that the screwdriver likes its workplace.
Trousers, shorts and jeans with back-pockets, so you know your money’s safe.
Music systems with the volume knob. The quick access to impulsive wildness and discipline.
The ‘Recycle Bin’ with its huge-heartedness, because no work can be a waste.
Maps with the water-bodies coloured blue. They realise that you’re writing an exam, all panicky.
Dictionaries with little black squares along the flippable side, to explain how ‘A’ brisk-walked from an a to an azure, how ‘Z’ had a zygote in mind before it logged out.
Spiral binding sees to it that you manipulate without a trace.
Margins on sheets of paper that know how pricey the question number is.
Staple pins with limbless arms, that hug the importance of the two sheets with the content in continuation.
Photo-paper which knows that memories evoke emotion.
Abbreviations, to universally acknowledge the rush.

Effort and intention submitted to sedimentation in the ‘Untitled AD’. With layer upon layer of the ‘latest’. The world earned a new steely nameplate as the fingerprints on the many surfaces were fossilized. The Appreciative Hormones were removed with the Appendix.
And the world started its bland, mechanical journey.

Sara Crewe wasn’t faffing. The inanimate come alive every night. Because the mechanical human race is now plugged to cushioned, horizontal walls- plugged to charge; It’s the ‘non-livings’ nightly chance to emote, to live the fluid curious life that spilled in the lanes between the stamped fingerprints.
The remnants of the human touch.

Yours hastily,

The oven doesn’t ting when the baking has begun. It tings when all that had to waft up your nose has wafted. Up your nose.
Its about complete sentences and about acrylic paints that understand the General Impatience Syndrome.
The bar graph made by the colour pencils in their cardboard box asks to be read upside down. “We’d now request sky blue and black of the horizontal axis to come on stage and share their experiences.”

You count on the last minute and the bus drivers generosity as you extend your nap.
You hope your hair will be nice and dry in time; that humidity will be running late with its sinister plans of smuggling sweat in.
You yawn and convince yourself that the rest of the chapter is destined to be revised during your bus ride.
You think your mother knows you enough by now to not have fallen for your ‘feigned morning illnesses’ to actually have let you skip school, as you blink at the clock now chiming 9.
You hide behind the girl with broad shoulders, your brain focussing on dodging the teachers radar, the stubborn bell, and on pretending to have the book.
You hope that your father doesn’t get thirsty tonight, to find you still up at 3.00 AM studying for the exam you told him you were thoroughly prepared for.
You’re convinced that your turn to answer won’t come in this period, as you paper-talk with your partner at the back of the last row.
You socialise on your way to class with the confidence that your class teacher socialises more than you do.
You curse the Book-Shop for not opening before the Monday Test.
You start writing in pencil on the question paper in the unagreeable 15-Minutes-Reading-Time.
You run like mad to the canteen in want of being one of the few applauding the pattys’ 15 seconds of Fame.
You prepare a 20 minute assembly with the conviction that its amazing enough to earn the extra 10 minutes.
You buy a lic-lolly at the end of break patting yourself at your smart strategic plan of missing the first few minutes of class.
You dodge it. You play with it. You gnaw or nibble at it. You count on its agreement all the time. And Time, as you see, always gives in, leading to the making of these moments.

“The school authorities are proud to announce that your ward has been cooked golden-brown and can now be served on a sizzler plate.
You’re cordially invited to the much awaited buffet.”

And now you fidget with the overwhelming willingness to give all of those discounts back. To rewind to the point of ‘being half un/cooked’ -with the conviction of having enough vouchers to make almost an extra scholarly week.

As it shrugs instead of smirking like before, and continues to prepare for the bookish ‘meant to happen’ ending, the paperball of realisation finally hits you in the head.
Time this time has a different set of loyalties.
Or maybe, you didn’t confirm your bookings with Time in time.

The clamber topples down.

Inhale.

Endless has the hissing s’s. You can roll the endlessness of the word on the tip of your tongue.
Books have a last blank page and sometimes a ‘Also in the Series’ mention.
Blogsites have a ‘Publish’ button.
Sentences have the full stop.
The 59th minute has its 60th second before the fall of the last hour.
The stage has her theatrical curtain on wheels, as the last act. The last character to come on stage from the wings.
The coffee cup has his drugged dregs. They cling to the high.
The wedding has its ‘piled-chairs, rolled-carpets’ moment.
The restaurant has its feedback form. Served with a greasy ballpoint pen.
The filmed cult has its credit-roll.
The painted canvas has the spirally bound stare.
The ear-ring has her butterfly.
The lock has its last bump against the latch.
The hands have their dust-it-off clap of finalty, before supporting the back. The stop-to-look-at-whats-done pose.
The serving spoon has its last clang against the containers rim. A drop of ice-cream trickles back in.
The paintbrush takes a final dip and makes a last intimate exchange with the bottle of paint or with the palette, by brushing against it.
Endless has the hissing s’s. You can roll the endlessness of the word on the tip of your tongue.

Exhale.

Pronounced like ‘Found no results for your search.’

The diagnosis given was Tanglued’air.
That’s what they decided to call my situation.
And. I choose to skip the first one-marker of your RTC.

” “
You shouldn’t just pick up any comb and put it in your hair, silly. That proximity is of a sleaze. And at the most, know how wide-toothed a comb suits you.

” “

Ahoj! The clutter welcomes you!
A board next to it, “Keep off the dust.”

Special offers here for entangled headphone wires, dust clouds, the crumples from the author’s/scriptwriter’s bin, paper planes from the muddy puddle and tangles of hair!
Books. Judged. By. Their. Cover.
Considering the number of ‘views’ the counter announces so boldly might make one want to call it a tattle-tale. But then, let’s not lay emphasis on the honesty of things and on what one likes to call them for now.

There are so many maybe’s and so many (more advanced) probably’s that it’s difficult to come to a point. Landmarks don’t help as you’re new here; and I’m told about being inaudible, once I finish my-so-lovingly-crafted sentence.
But isn’t THIS a point now? Not hospitable to my hospitality. Tendency to come dressed in formals and to sit too straight for my uneasiness to stay in her rumpled bed.
The glove-type. It’s all laid out straight and simple. The thumb goes here, the index finger in the next.. and the last one for the pinky finger. Ah. So convenient.
I know about the trials to go underneath, but what is with you and looking for an ENTRANCE? Grope around, you’ll reach the scalp. (Sorry, I didn’t have the heart to nail a board outside with instructions.) But did Agatha Christie kill curiosity with herself?

HEADLINE: ‘Acrylic paint is a brush-bristle mass murderer.’
They come together in a cluster with acrylic ‘fur balls’ like in a woollen sweater living it’s third winter.
But I see them like drops of perspiration that froze. They had the audacity to raise an eyebrow at hygiene. The bristles have been waltzing with the canvas fabric for two hours now. The Sunday cover up class.

Oh yes, I was out exploring last night. Yet again.
The want to explore and to be explored exists out there (refer to my dog-eared pages), and so the horse walked up to the brook.
I made room but, unlike the glove, my clutter-like structure wasn’t too alluring. Maybe it was all that dust. Or maybe that when you rattled me, there was no clamour.

I think I was a bad idea.
But then God decided to book me a ticket.

`Elasticity of demand`

The way the blank screen and the keyboard look at me right now reminds me of the amiable darbaan at the entrance of a restaurant; of the tiny table set up by me with my pallete, brushes, oils and oil paints and the untouched canvas; of the question mark at the end of a proposal; of the blinking cursor; of the dessert in the refridgerator; of the portion of the answersheet which you left blank because you didn’t know the answer, looking at you now as you revise.
Expectant (in the trying to allure you way), and smiling.

*Lets not forget that the smile sometimes is a morphed version of a smirk, a grimace, a leer or it can be Umbridge’s simper and sometimes Malfoy’s sneer.

+

|Expectation|- (absolute of expectation) I believe breaks the law and purpose of the modulus. Its not always positive *We’re talking holistically- cause AND effect.
And Expectation/ Expectation doesn’t get cancelled. It equals ∞. Strap yourself yaatris. The plane is now taking off.

Lets say expectation is a constant. We’ll use the symbol ‘;’ (semicolon) as the notation for expectation. A little peak into the semicolon’s agenda:
*Used in the English language to give a bigger pause than a comma, when a conjuction is ommitted and also for listing items.
*Used inverted by the Arabs (؛) between two phrases (Reminds me of how we’ve all once held our piggy bank by its ankles and rattled out money from it, quite like a bully).
*Greek and Church Slavonic use a semicolon to indicate a question, similar to a Latin question mark. To indicate a long pause or separate sections.
*Mathematics uses it to separate the variables and the parameters of a function.
*The Computing Language uses it to add comments and to mark the end of statements. Emoticons use it for winking.
(Majorly, a semicolon serves the purpose of cleavage.)

So, ya. If we’re using the semicolon for the notation of expectation- there definitely is an invite lying somewhere in semicolon’s office which has a line “We’re grateful for the time you took out for us”. Even as we’re honouring it, we’re expectant.

Coming back to the gist of it all- we’re all hormonally expectant.
We expect returns before we’re done sealing and addressing the envelope. We expect the waiter of our favourite coffee house to know it by now that we’re diabetic and like nothing sugary. We expect the the owner of the shop to never notice what we shoplifted. We expect the hamster on the hamster wheel to never realise that we’re pointing and laughing, as he runs his destination-bereft-run (a hamsters wheel actually looks like a ladder coiled end to end ["Are we there yet?"]). We expect the world to figure when to notice and compliment and when to overlook. We expect the sequel to not disappoint and the movie for the first book to include each detail from each chapter. We expect no one to honk at us. We expect time to slow down when we’re enjoying and speed up when we’ve licked the ice-cream off the paper. I’m expectant right now as I expect you to be reading between the lines. We expect that no one else expects. We expect, and expect disappointment to keep its distance.
But we’re all disappointed, on schedule.
And this schedule that disappointment follows has never seen updates under arrival and departure, owing to how we’re so easy to frustrate.

We are MNCs of elastic demand and inelastic supply.
Imagine yourself sitting at one end of a long elastic string. I tied the other end of this elastic around my head and started walking in the opposite direction, assuming that you’re following. But you, were busy cleaning your nails. Suddenly-wham! -the other end lashes you in the face and your cellotaped nose falls apart once again.
And now as you’re reassembling your damaged nose, I’m standing at a distance, expecting (yet again) for you to undo the internal injuries you just caused.

The dot from the fables.

We’re talking about a dot here.

There exist the hollow dots and the filled dots in this world.
The hollow ones like to sit on their own edge and look at other dots. They walk over and converse.
The filled ones like to stay indoors. They mix with themselves, like milk does in coffee. And when there’s coffee, there’s conversation.

The dot can label, point and enlist.
It can be a city, a state or a country in the kingdom of cartographs.
It can be the point where x and y draw a consensus.
It can be where the compass places its stable leg and pirouettes.
It can be the third point under a subheading which carries one whole mark.
It can be the runway of the airport from where an artists idea took flight.
It can be you; when the arrow pointing at it says ‘YOU ARE HERE’.
It can be an accidental blot on a skirt that carries a moment in its’ fist, an inside joke, a work of art.
These are all filled dots and have always stood for something important.

Although they say, ‘It’s just a dot. Nobody will notice.’ -
We, are talking about a dot here, and IT IS important.

This dot is white and beautiful. The same white as its’ foster home- the paper. It’s true to its’ roots.
It stands out as all the other dots are black.
They were mostly hollow dots originally. Some were alike, others worked on being alike; and in the process they filled themselves in (black nailpaint identity). You could see it- the blacker black of their boundary.
So they clotted together to make a sea of black. They were happy like that, and glue starts drying up when it sees you happy.
They lost their secret lottery ticket which god gives each being he makes.
They became the background.
The background on which our white stood. Neat, round, clean and crisp.

The dot won all the lotteries- her own and those of the others. It couldn’t see gods’ effort being insulted.
Its’ name was seen on the books given away as prizes.
It was sought after and consulted- as it was the only one still in touch with paper.

We’re talking about a dot here. A crisp white dot.
An epicentre whose tremors are seen by a few, whose impact is chewed by a few.

No ink was used to make it, but it left a blot on the page that followed it.
And the page will never see the enamel white fluid, I promise.
That blot, I call, My Dot.

theylocution. wemulation.

It’s as if the universally accepted expression for THE emotion when it’s at its’ max is ‘I love you’.

As if the makers don’t realise that males can’t use that expression with their male friends, for some reason which I already know is supremely lame.

As if everybody is everybodys’ relative.

As if it is easy to say it to your relatives.

As if we’ve all not seen it in the movies, that people keep a slap hidden under their sleeve.

As if they don’t realise that they made it difficult to say, even when the emotion has been felt for a long time.

As if they don’t remember doing THAT on purpose.

As if they don’t realise that the phrase is one cliche which is really hard to avoid.

As if they’re pretending that the conference that banned the making of an alternative phrase never took place.

As if THEY never said it for the first time.

They gloat and rub their hands in glee like the bad guy from our bedtime stories did, so that we knew that he was the bad guy.

They watch us twitch as we try being indirect.

They follow us around the bush and out so that they don’t miss it when it happens.

They’re looking now as I’m trying to say bad stuff about them.

“Yes, I know thats a point in your bag.”

But then, they’re popular. They have a bustling showroom. And I was and am one user of their product.

I don’t find it difficult to say ‘I love you’ but then I do.
I think that was the crux of all this jangle I created.

But then if you knew THAT, you ought to have guessed the rest.

“Oi! Were you watching?”

I You He/She(/it).

The cookie jar was hit by the giant again.  The last cookie is now dead. Its 9/10th is taking a trip down the giants intestine, trying to hurt him as much as its liquid-adulterated form can manage.  The other 1/10th, the survivors, are presently in crumb form but still in the danger area. An NGO will get activated once the giants sibling tells the giants parent. There may be a rift. The garbage-heap will become the refuge camp, but who knows whats coming for them next.

The hair strand now lies dead on her shoulder in the comfort of stray wool strands of her sweater. It was just yesterday that the murderer was lovingly oiling him and the others. She shampooed them later in the day. Rumours claim there was something going on between the hair strand and the fingers. The fingers used to gain access with the excuse of laundry or dry clean and meet the scalp hostellers on a daily basis. Occasionally they made a subtle exchange with the 18 month old hair strand. “They’ve always dated the seniors”, they say.
The girl with the head has spotted his body.. her eyes are giving their condolences.
She will perform the wicked ritual now. Coil it around her finger and leave it for running water to take away. That was the last of him we’ll see.

Protected: I breathe from my mouth and they don’t.

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