This is going to be a no-drugs month. Strictly. I've got to get my shit together before the gigs.

Life is hard but I always pull through.

You won't see the breakdown.

No one will see the sadness in my eyes.

I'm superwoman.

I can do it all. 

Daily Challenges

So I deactivated my facebook account for a week or so last month and it felt absolutely fantastic!

This time I'm planning to stretch it for a month. I'm tired of too much information about everyone all the time. I don't want to know, it makes me hateful and bitter to see other people happy or worse, content.

I have a sinking feeling that my birthday-depression will kick in soon, although it is over a month away. 

I can't believe it's July 2015 already, time sure does fly when you're leading a semi-charmed kind of life.

They say you do for the rest of the year what you do on the first day. From what I remember that would be playing a gig to end the year and subsequently having sex with my now ex-boyfriend. 

But I guess that saying is not a 100% accurate, I mean I do have gigs lined up in these coming months with GT but I'm not so sure about the fucking bit.

I have not had sex in almost a month now and it's starting to make me clumsyfidgetyanxious and all those things. 

What to do, girl needs her lovin from time to time to stay sane. It's probably my biggest vice at this point and I'm only saying that because drugs are available in abundance, just a phonecall away. 

I can see myself become a coke-head  when I hit my 30s at the rate I've been going for it. Or worse, dead. But I'm far too narcissistic to let that pretty little head of mine go to waste, which I think is a good thing at this point. 

For the next two months, I don't want to think about playing any more gigs. We're on the road September onward anyway. No time to breathe then. I just want to focus on the new stuff with GT+ the other incredibly exciting projects.  If I don't creat now, tell the stories now, then when? 

I want to listen to music, play guitar and just write.

This new Apple Music's got me hooked like a junkie on crack. That and my friends's daily poetry/art newsletter called 'The Alipore Post' which feels like an ealry-morning shot of quintessentially feel-good poetry and some art.

We need more poets.

More musicians.

More artists.

More thinkers

But most importantly, more dreamers.

I'm tired of my constant heartache.

Sleepless nights that never end.

You don't get to break my heart.

No, you don't get to tear me apart. 

I'll abuse you like a muse,

Then abandon you.

I will destroy you,

Instead.

But oh so beautifully, oh so gently.

You won't even know till it's too late.

Goodnight and Badnight

After three nights of being awake and strangely wired, I finally fell into a short but deep slumber in the wee hours of the morning. But it wasn't as comforting as it sounds, I curled up into my usual fetal position and bawled my eyes out till sleep came. I think I may have had a particular song playing in loop, I can't quite remember. This entire weekend was bizarre and just a haze. I was living and breathing alright, but my brain was dead with only its ability to process sadness remaining intact.

I don't remember my blog post from Saturday, I mean I did type my incoherent thoughts out, but my memory of it is fuzzy. Much like most of my misadventures.

I tried to recollect happy times with someone and I couldn't think of one instance where he was affectionate towards me. I don't remember him kissing my face but only my lips. I don't remember him holding my hand, holding me. 

Because he did none of those things.

He never asked me any questions, tried to pick my brain.
He never ran his fingers down my skin.

I waited and I waited, but he never did any of those things.

I offered all the warmth of my heart, but I guess it wasn't enough to break down his cold walls.

 What causes people to be so cold? Will I become like him someday?
It's sad to let people go from your head and your life sometimes, but you have to do it for yourself.

Indifference is strange and hurtful, most people don't even realise when they are doing it. 

"You've got to spend some time with me. I will possess your heart"

Or maybe I'll just walk away before my fire for you escalates like a wildfire that I cannot control.

Bad Decisions

The last line I remember doing was probably at 2am last Friday night with a bunch of my homemen and women. So this is my 30+ hours of being wired. 

But why would people do this to their bodies willingly day in and day out?

What causes one to become so dependent, a junkie?

It's probably to fill a void? More often than not it is to escape reality because we're cowards, we're bored and maybe even a little insane. 

If you wanted, you could write a book out of my life so far. Maybe reverse Sylvia Plath of the modern day, post de-humanisation period. Wouldn't that make an interesting read?

Except with horrendously generic rhyming words instead of real poetry, real art. 

So much adventure, definitely kinkier than Fifty Shades, (shoutout to exboy A for this, yea I know you'll read this) enough to break down even the severest of the conservatives. 

I live for a few things, like an animal. We are not much different from the others. Our needs are very basic- food, shelter, sex. We literally have nothing to worry about except to nurture our body and mate. Money is important, yes. But there will never be an end to that dream, it's a blackhole. We need to connect with each other and live with our universe, not modify it to suit our needs.

Anyway, the drugs make me digress, I feel my body scream in pain at the mindfuck that I have been undergoing. I'm rapidly falling down the rabbit hole and I doubt there's a way back up from this thing.

At some point in life, there will come a make or break stage. If you're the manic-depressive, high intelligence type, this basically means that at some point, you will break. Only two things can happen from there. You could either stay inside the boundary and play safe all your life or completely drop your sense of self and start over again. 

Now I'm what you would call a junkie.  My addiction doesn't always have to negative, it could be something like yoga or reading. I need that constant rush of adrenaline in varying doses. A safe life is not for me. There mere thought of it depresses me. So much that I would rather live a b-grade life in a b-grade city and go about my daily misadventures than whore myself for normalcy, like I really belong.

But the problem with being left of centre is the severe sense of alienation forever looming around you. It makes you want to kill yourself. You're too much of a coward so you choose something less lethal like party favours and maybe the drug of choice of the bourgeoisie: acid.  In your head you have two lists: do, don't do. Needless to say, manure like drugs you would never do. Some you would try once/ multiple times. It's all about remembering that none of it is real, it's all so you can maybe enhance a sense or two, feel a few funny feelings but never to alter your sense of reality for extensive periods of time. That is dangerous territory right there. 

Somehow, these self-made substance abuse commandments that I have developed over the years sound rather loony when I put words to the idea and think out loud. But hey, I need my safety cable in case anything goes wrong, one can't joke about stuff like that.

Substance abuse, for me, has always been easier to control because the addiction concerned is a material object,  right there in front of your eyes. You can see, touch, taste it and something about large quantities, the mere visual, scares you more than it excites you. A whip is cracked, you tumble back to your senses. It's hard, but with time you learn to control your impulses. "Don't give in to the ID", or something like that according my 11th grade psychology textbook.
What happens, though, when your addiction is more deep rooted, perhaps physical or worse, emotional? 

I get addicted to people, I get addicted to their ways, their habits. But my obsession goes away just as quickly as it comes. It's not even about sex anymore, or atleast the physical bit of it.

I crave for orgasms, intimacy and I've said this so many times before that I'm now starting to bore myself.

At 23, I'm stuck at being in the middle of teenage delinquency and sappy adulthood. It's all fun and games to be a part of both clubs till you realise that you don't really belong to either. You're an orphan without a home.

Some people are kind to you, so you love them and constantly want their validation.  But there aren't too many people out there who're willing to make space in their hearts for you. The world is a cruel place, a cruel cruel place.

Whatever designer shit went up my nostrils has made me shaky and cranky. 

So I pick up the guitar, write and play.

Write and play.

Just write and play.

My back hurts from the heaviness but I'd rather feel physical pain than the quintessential sinking feeling in my stomach.

I can hear a song by The National playing in my head, I think this is probably what insanity really is. Drug-induced insanity.

The whole bad behaviour stereotype we associate with musicians is sort of true. There's nothing cool about the sex-drugs-rockandroll lifestyle of ours. It's all just a facade. But you only realise that when you've stepped into the quicksand and there's no way you can take a couple of steps back. What do you do then, stay in bed and cry? But for how long? After a point you'll try to shake it off, fix your face and go out for the night looking for cheap thrills. 

I would rather snort shit through my nose than let some random average mediocre man stick their genitalia in me. Atleast I don't have to fake orgasms that way and pretend like I had a good time, while secretly wishing that he finishes quick and just leaves you the fuck alone. 

Boytoys are a thrill only in erotica. In real life men come with a lot more baggage than you'd think. They want me to blow their minds. They want their thrill, like it's on me to make sure they have a good time.

Everybody is forever looking for a thrill. 

I'm looking for mine. 

Constantly. 

Once a junkie, always a junkie. 

Maybe I spoke too soon.

Momentary ecstasy, endless gloom.

Lovers in monsoon. 

Incoherent Thoughts. Please Bear With Me.

Love, money, drugs.

Ain't got the first two, but the third one is always available in abundance. 

Please don't patronize me, I can pay for my own drugs, thank you very much. I'm probably going to outrun you in all races of your own choice.

I may not be the sharpest or the most attractive tool in the shed, but you'll know how much you need me only after you've lost me forever. Go ogle away, you fool. That's all you're good for anyway.  

Girl in an adult world.

So young.

How young is too young?

They'll include you in the Big Boys' Club but your contemporaries will hate you. Good. Give them a reason to hate you, those assclowns. 

Come back home, still wired.

Plug in and play.

Play.

Play.

Play.

Write.

Write.

Write.

I'm embarrassed of some of my songs all of a sudden, they seem juvenile. I can't relate to the person I was two years back. Not only was I extremely stupid, but cocky about it too. After a while it becomes inexcusable to pass off rubbish as music. 

So many people cheating their way through the maze, breaking the system. That's okay though, fads don't last forever. 

Stand up tall.

Stand up for what you believe in.

I should use that pretty little head for more positive things perhaps? 

But my pity party can wait for another day. I can't say I've been the obstacle to my own success. I'm trying, dear lord, you know how hard I've been working.

I've been pushing myself to write better, more meaningful music these last few months. I've been gathering life experience and holing up in my room like a junkie-playing, playing, playing. Writing, writing, writing.

I write not to have a hit song on the next record that will make people dance. Once was good enough for me.

It's easy to forget why you started out sometimes, you lose your soul bit by bit chasing new dreams, superficial dreams. There is no end-game, a continual process of working for something and being severely disappointed on not getting what you want. 

I don't need drugs to fuel my creativity. All of that substance dependence bullshit is a weapon for the weak.

But maybe I am weak.

Atleast today I am. Or maybe it's all the drugs.

I want to play guitar. I only want to play guitar. My hand hurts but I want to play. 

I want someone to roll me a joint.

I want to sleep.

I want to make out with a good kisser.

Maybe not in that order.

I want to write a love song. Or two. Or twenty. Or twenty million.

I wrote only one today though, for my strongest love. I feel strangely satiated. Bottle up your feelings for obscene amounts of time and your hate will age like fine wine.

I use my rage. I use my rage kick you out of my head.

I don't care much about being loved anymore, it feels like my life has just begun.

Catterpillar becomes the butterfly, remember? 

I am a moth.

Fierce.

Strong.

Gentle, but ugly. 

They lust for me, they want to stick their genitals in me.

"Come"

I open my legs.

They all run away in fear. 

"Sex with you is so great"

"You are the best"

Yea, I've heard these rehashed lines.

I'm not some fucking sex trophy you can display on the mantle. 

They pretend like you are an everyday occurrence. 

Generic lines to further prove that you aren't special, an everyday bang. Ordinary, climax-less.

Performance gives them anxiety.

Fucking virgins.

Spineless.

Passionless.

Indian men. It's always the emotionally unstable generic Indian man with undying love for their mother, ex-girlfriend and that one female friend they won't shut up about. Dicks throbbing for a release. Just that. 

Girls are drugs.

Does that make me smack or pure heroin? 

Lick me and see.

I dare you. I double dare you.

But I will cut out your tongue and gouge out your eyes if you stray.

Don't come to me to kill your time, because you have nothing else to do.

I am not your fucking playtoy.

I will eat you alive.

Spit out the bones for vermin to feast on.

You don't know me.

I am vengeful.

I am cruel.

I am a mirror.

I merely reflect back what you show me.

Narcissists are the worst kind of humans, close second only to the abusive ones.

A lover in every flavour.

Oh my, what fun!

But wrong wrong wrong, all wrong. 

Drug addicts, psychopaths, compulsive liars, abusive future wife-beaters, smooth talking cheats.

But my favourite kind is possibly the kind which douses me with a strange kind of animalistic passion, sets me on fire and watches quitely as I burn away. 

They don't care, no they don't.

Just about anybody with a mouth could suck their limp dicks. It does not matter. They wouldn't be able to get it up anyway. All the details of the sexcapades they bore you with-you feel pity for them. You don't even feel about about being used by them, you pity them and their inability to love. 

Fucking lowlifes.

I'll write that tell-all book when I'm old and senile, because let's face it, I am such a cliche. But I'll never kiss and tell. The As and the Bs and Ys and the Zs- they could all be the same person. Usually they are the same person, although in different bodies. 

Anyway, I can't believe we've digressed from the point completely. I guess I get carried away sometimes, even more these days. I can't focus because my brain is on a drug climbdown.

Agony.

Anger.

Fatigue.

So the young, bright, boys and girls of Calcutta usually gather during weekends. They form cliques. They always do.

We feel like royalty in this slum. Envied by so many, looked down upon by most. Most people can't stand us because they can't quite understand us.

We stick together because in reality we're the outcastes.

Aliens.

Unemployed, on pen and paper.

But we still play our music. 

We keep playing.

Till the sun comes out. 

Pat each other on the back, go home.

Smile.

Try to sleep.

Feel so inspired. Write a bunch of mad new songs. 

Will your song change the world?

I don't care.

Will your song make someone feel?

That's all I dream of.

Chords. More chords. Not complex, but a million different inversions, all with a million possibilites. Every song has a story to tell.

It can be the greatest fairy-tale you'll hear.  But don't try to look for the origins. Don't read too much into it. You might get your heart broken by the reality of average men and the average sex they have to offer.

I smoke my pot and act like my life is a movie. It's all just a figment of someone's imagination where they're possibly imagining the best sex they could, but unfortunately for me, it's not good enough. Midly satisfactory, at best. 

Fuck you.

You stand so tall. You act so proud. 

All these cloaks of security, to hide your flaws.

You pretend every day.

You pretend to be a big strong man when you are just another child.

A brat.

An absolutely generic, average brat.

I have seen so many like you, what new do you have to offer?

So easy to read, predictable, outdated.

You don't have possess the capability to understand and experience pleasure. You're too consumed in your own bubble to enjoy the state of bliss my body has to offer to you. 

Go ahead, think about all those women you've fucked as you stick your dick inside me. 

How does it feel, warm? Tight? 

Are you having fun shutting your eyes and picturing someone's face on mine?

Yeah, please just ejaculate already and close the door as you leave.

I just want to get this done with.

And then throw you out like the piece of garbage you have proved yourself to be.

Standing ovation for you.

Don't worry, it happens to other guys too. As often as you. 

Haha.

No it doesn't, I'm just saying that to make you feel better. 

You may be the star of your show but for me, you are my circus monkey. I observe and I sit patiently. I will go away when your tricks are over. Forget that face, all the details, till you're just a memory. 

Insipid, uninspiring.

Yawn, every time I think about your pathetic sexual prowess.

"Atleast the face slapper would bloody fuck me right"

 

Fuck you and your bullshit machismo. 

You have no heart. You have no soul. You are incapable of love. You don't amuse me anymore. There's nothing remotely attractive about you anyway. 

Just a pity fuck. 

Before your time's up.

Don't flatter yourself. 

I'll suck your limp dick for you. 

Till it's no longer limp.

I don't love you, I don't even give a shit about you actually.

Just like you don't give a shit about me.

But don't worry, I'll play along and encourage you to believe that the shitty sex you have to offer "totally rocks my world." 

Sex-god?

You're a joker. 

I drop them clues around like a master criminal.

Bonobo.

Sex. Sex. Sex. 

Don't forget just yet. 

If I die tonight, you would die with me too.

Wouldn't you?

Stick like glue.

So tight.

Dendrite.

Let's get high.

One last time.

To my lover I ask, 

"Do you love me for I am a girl, 

Or, do you love me for I am a woman?"

He has no answer.

Stick yourself into my vagina

Climb into my womb

And stay there,

You child. 

If I wanted to pet you all the time,
I'd just get a dog instead.
Please don't flatter yourself.


If I wanted to face a beast,
I'd just look in the mirror.
You're just like everybody else.

Force Feed Indifference

I'm off Facebook for a week. I want to keep myself away from the negative shit that circulates in social media.

I've been sketching again. 

Like crazy.

Although it's mainly doodles of faces, memories, body parts etc. My peculiar need to remember the tiny details makes me pour it out through my art. 

Intimate. Imperfect. Fragile. 

I have a date tonight and I'm not really looking forward to it beacuse I don't even know what I am looking for at this point. It's exhausting to be in a field which requires creativity on the daily basis. You're required to play the role of a magician, a wizard perhaps. I get horrible blocks sometimes.

Am I going to use him as my muse then? Nah, I just want a conversation with someone from a different world as mine. 

This tinder shit is not for me, although I hear this is how people hook up these days. I'm not looking for a random fling, it's too easy, there's no challenge involved. You don't even have to know the person who's sticking his genitalia into you. Now where's the fun in that? 

Striped socks and I dropped some acid some weeks (?) back and pretty much lay and watched the stars all night. It made me realise that I'm not who I used to be when I was 18. My needs are different, my wants are more emotional and less physical. 

We talked and kissed. It was nice. Simple, uncomplicated. 

You can fuck all the people you meet.

But after a point, you crave for more.

Intimacy, emotion, a connection perhaps.

It's not easy living in a world so completely detached from their spiritual self.

 But I will never change my ways. And for good reason, the world needs more people who, erm, feel. 

I will kiss you till you feel me in every bone.

I will love you till the point of breakdown, so you can love again.

Like a child.

In all it's innocence.

And fear.

But mostly, hope. 

Dignity

You're gonna badmouth me?

Tell them your dirty lies?

Baby, I'm a ronin,

I will survive.

Junkie

I get raped when I fall in love.
I get beaten.
Bruised.
I am left feeling abandoned when I fall in love.
Cheated on.
Hurt.
And yet I pick up the pieces and shake it off.
"I am a ronin"
I tell myself.
Perhaps things will change someday.
But they never do.

Live one more day.
Die a million deaths.
I can't control my depression anymore.
It's spiralling out of control.
I dream of death.
It makes me happy.
Maybe I'll be happy when I die.

There's no point living this shitty, loveless life anymore.
I don't even want love anymore, I want death.

Striped Socks, Reprise

My bed smells of him long after he's gone.
As do my pillows.
My sheets.
Sweet smell of intimacy.
And endless slumber.
But it's over now.
My heart is strangely broken.

My heart skips a beat,
The joys of waking up next to another soul.
So innocent, as he sleeps.
Unfamiliar lands don't seem like a scare.
Just a holiday.
Just a trip.

But he's gone.
So far away.
I try and forget his face.

Oh, the void.
Kills every time, with every guy.
Why haven't I gotten used to it already!

We frolic like children, without a care in the world.
His mouth open only slightly, as he orgasms.
I take a mental picture of his face.
For I want to remember.
His eyes.
His lips.
His beard.
His hands.
His torso.
I want to hold him forever, for some strange reason.

I kiss his face incessantly.
I want to fill him with so much love that all the dark in his heart goes away.
All his miseries.
Sorrows.
Fears.
Heartache and heartbreak.

I want to share my love.

For it spreads like a disease.

One I can't control.

We're lying on the floor
Looking up at the stars
So beautiful
I wish for the moment to never end
For it is pure perfection
Two souls coming together.
On a summer night.

He kisses me with careless abandon.
I want to keep kissing him forever.
We effortlessly slide into each other's arms.
Like veteran lovers.
Fitting so comfortably, like his striped socks.

Lonely Press Play

Passing through just a phase,

I will be fine,

I tell myself.

I keep telling myself.

It's just a storm

It'll be over soon

I tell myself

I keep telling myself over and over again.

Every day is the same.

I'm sinking deeper

Without an anchor

I've become so good at masking this bottomless pit

That I convince myself there is none.

One day when I'm older and hopefully wiser,

I will laugh thinking I almost gave up.

But my future seems too distant and too bleak. For now.

So 'when I'm lonely I press play' 

Journey

Stretching out my arms to you,

But they only reach a certain distance.

It is up to you to you embrace me,

Open up to me,

There's nothing more I can do.

Than wait.

When I get tired of waiting, I will go away.

And never return.