Mad max fury road

Watching mad max fury road makes one realize what awesome actually looks like.  It's a light bolt through a chest, and all you see are stars. It's blindingly fantastic. I'd have to watch at least three four or five times ( and I will) to be able to write something coherent and do this movie justice, because phew!! This movie was high octane from the moment go!

Do I start  how not subtle it was meant to be and yet stayed classy all the fucking way? I could and should probably drivel about the gasoline punk look they had going pat on, and the exquisite detailing they put into each frame. 

Detailing..fuck! This movie was a powerhouse bible of fantastic detailing, in every damn frame. 

Oh, the rugged, rusted, dry, arid, bloodied, fanatic saga that George Miller wove. 

This movie was a pyro orgy, an art masterpiece, poetry, and everything else, the sandstorm scene was symphony played over portrait. 

when Joe leaves to pursue Furiosa with all his forces, everything headgears and leather, he travels with a fucking gigantic truck, strung with speakers on full blast and a fanatic guitarist with his apocalyptic flame throwing guitars. Gawd, I swear I could have punched a hole through this universe that very moment. 

Mad max fury road is intravenous gasoline, complete with warrior bitches and Charlize Theron, cuz no one else could be Furiosa. No one. Amen. 

 this movie feels so well put together because it was all analogue retro.No digital. Death to digital. All those switches and buttons sand washed and rusty; gasoline Punk apocalyptic grunge vehicles.

It was one of those rare cinematic masterpieces that are a league of their own, In that they could put so many elements together and fit it so well like a jigsaw.

 Minimal dialogues perfect philosophy and Even talks of redemption.

Why not redemption. When you do something wrong and you know it, redemption is all you seek. 

You could fight and hate this world, and think you're the crazy person who does not fit, but that's still not going to change the fact that you didn't do right by someone. 

Snakes shed their skin when they moult..and we shed memories,regrets, wrongs, pasts; walk out of what once was and refresh. And make better, replenish, respect, reserve.

Mad max fury road \m/ 

Side note: Only and only watch this movie on a good sound system with good picture quality, or else wait until that day happens. 

Mornings

Another day, another kill, another broken family. 

Headless bodies left at the doorsteps. They're meant to be gifts brought over by our feline hunter. 

Regular as a clockwork, fresh dead bodies from recreational terrace hunts always keep showing up. 

Feathers bloodied and strewn-miniature battle scene. 

What are we to do with a headless pigeon? 

Night sky blimps

I looked up at the sky, to wince at the moon that had started to look like it'd been licked on the top.

I let my eyes stray and all I ever saw was blimps of lights in every which direction. Sometimes few hundred feet above my head, sometimes really far off. 

 Blinking in yellows and reds and bright whites, and blinking to their hearts content. 

Noisy metallic marvels that are clouding my skies, crowding my clouds. Blipping in the air, masquerading as a star system. 

Oft I'd stare and wonder for hours, is this shiny blip moving, or is it a star I've discovered—and I'd feel like it's been hours, but then a fraction of an atom, and it'd blip and steer, and imagine my (I always knew it) disappointment. I'd look the other way, and ther'd be three dots forming a drunk illuminati, flying every which where. 

The sky is full of them, and sometimes they fall. And they fall and fall, and we fly on them, cuz like we've an option. 

But what of my skies? My non existent skyline that's a breather during this changed weather nights! 

The skies are shiny, and I've spotted a many stars and obvious Venus bright planets. But the dots, blinking like phantom alien eyes, studded on an iron clad, robotic whale bird., buzzing with flies. Flies in its stomach, strapped to chairs. And buzz buzz here, and buzz buzz there.

Air traffic is out of control. If I had to fly up straight, I'd probably bump into some aircraft. It's impossible being a super hero of the skies here, unless I were a flying juggernaut; in which case I'd just not care. 

 

But God, imagine if they were to fall over my roof, like Walter white's poolside mess..wtf then? It's a mess alright, up in the air though, and even beyond in the shallow shores of space..junk and junk and discarded metals and cloth and everything that is a scientific miracle on its own. 

All that science to make all that junk..but every part of that junk was a star for a moment..but now it floats.

So look up at the skies for a star and don't get misled by stray lights, kids.

Nighttime tattles

A silver coin upon your floor,

a moon in my sky

will you pick it up

or shall I?

..let us be, we're busy marking virtual territories

With pictures and words and worse and worse..sewing pockets into infinite, filling its black hole appetite. Tumbling, stumbling, blogging, flogging, pinned and skinned, Facebook fucked, tweet twat tweet, slap chat flea, and redfuckingedit, and everything else..goddamit. 

Fill, fill fill, fill this space, put a fucking picture, mark this, own this, throw some more into the air, claim it. 

Everything a thousand times over, each face on a fucking repeat. Every thought heard and heard again, or another selfie, and another selfie as another one. Repeat and repeat, the alternate rat race which needs a new plague, put on a conveyer belt into a photostat machine.

 And oh the books, spiked with hipster coffee stains, unread, unclaimed. Adorning libraries and never read, left for beards and premium coffee roasts. Sigh for them.

The touch of paper is better than a glaze eyed scroll. A mess made out of books is never a mess. It's a makeshift temple of your own religion. Books have souls but screens do not. 

musty smell of yellowed pages that smell like the altar of word God—wire free.

 

Moon tides

T'were an eclipse when the moon shone red—its besmirched white skin, veiled in red silk; it glanced upon its reflection upon the distant seas, where black waves heaved with lunar sighs, their surface shimmering with a glaze of ruby dust. 

The moon saw itself aglow, with cool red light, white and gold. "I'm more beautiful than a star" it thought, "and yet, here I am, stranded near a planet, only to come out at night, doomed to revolve alone"

And so it set on to write a letter, to the high council of stars, where it desired to be known, and accepted as one of their own. 

The moon sent out a letter on a fleeting meteor, and in a streak of light it was summoned to the high council of stars.

Confident, it strode into the spherical chamber aglow with dripping plasma, and glanced at the the three star gods, Sun, Sirius and Betelgeuse seated atop thrones of dead constellations. 

The trio gods of the high council of stars had been in power since the moon was born and it found itself eclipsed by the vastness of these giants. 

"I'm puny, and cratered, and young, but I can shine and glow" yelled the moon, "and so I beg of you, majestic stars, to let me be one of you".

The stars peered at this speck of dust and glanced each other in bewilderment at this strange request.

"My dear child" whispered Sirius in a voice more ancient than time "you're a moon, not a star. You shine because our brother lets you shine, this isn't a glow you own. Be grateful and go back to seducing the oceans and waves, as you always have since your birth".

 "No", squeaked the moon, hurt and angry. "No, I'm the light of night" it screamed, "and I shine bright, I can don several colours and seduce galaxies, just as you"

"Go back, dear satellite", spoke the sun, with a voice like frozen thunder, "go back and delight the skies, and blush for your lunar eclipse, you're not one of us".

"No, no..please, I beg you. Look, I can shine. Look, I'm red and gold", cried the moon exasperated, its tears a silver gauze on the floor"

"You're bright today, but tomorrow you will be but a sickle full of craters, a thin strand of white glow, which isn't your own, son, go back". It was Betelgeuse who murmured this time, a voice that sounded like an ancient foretelling of doom, "go back, or this dust is all that shall remain of you". 

"Then smite me lords, rip me into flakes of diamonds if you must, but know this, that I shan't leave this council as a moon", sobbed the moon, its craters running a deeper shade of red every second.

"My dear child, not many are as fortunate as you"..a wisened white dwarf walked into the plasma chambers. His flowing white beard studded with nebulas, his eyes a dense remnant of every existence, he walked slow, supporting himself on a cane made entirely of discarded planets. 

"Dear moon, you're one of a kind, there are none like you. Why aspire to be a star, whom no one can gaze on? You're the bearer of white light, the divinity of this universe". The white dwarf spoke with the calmness of creation, with an empathy that soothed the moon. 

"You have the ability to look different each day, and you can peek out in the sky during daylight. Majestic as we might be, dear child, we do not exist at night", he said, stroking his long white beard and looking down benevolently at the moon.

"Go back little one, you're a satellite, go shine white, bright, be a moon. Let the stars burn, for they're never gazed on, neither loved. You're a moon dear child, you delight the skies with your new phases, cratered faces, distant lover of the high seas, you're better than a star". 

The moon nodded with reverence, and rode back to its solar system in a flicker of light, gazing back at the oceans rippling red with its reflection.  

/-/

Are we allowed to hate ourselves sometimes? Hate ourselves with such slimy loathing..for the regretful shit ass things we've done? 

And then be cool about it cuz now what's done is done.

What the fuck are you going to do about it? Hate yourself and carry on? 

Nope, just Do it right and make it better forever! 

Lily life

Bud to bloom- in pictures 

Phew, finally played a video game.

My only credential at video game bravado is beating my younger brother at Mario. This at a time when 90's didn't feel as embarrassing, and bad haircuts went unnoticed. 

I found myself steering slowly towards everything that wasn't video games or game boys or play stations or even computer or mobile games.

So it came as a surprise when I let myself get talked into playing an adventure game on PlayStation. 

A game called Brothers: a tale of two sons.

The story goes that a widower with two sons is grievously ill, and needs a drink from the tree of life, and it's up to his two sons to fetch him some. 

These brothers leave on a quest and reach their destination by solving various puzzles, and travel through a beautiful landscape full of trolls, Giants, invisible frost monsters, gigantic spiders and whimsical orcas.

The game play was astounding, and the puzzles were really puzzling sometimes, and the road was fraught with perils. The brothers were meant to interact, help each other solve puzzles, deflect dangers and be a part of each other. 

Being a Swedish game by Starbreeze studio, it had a dark vibe to it, which kept getting darker every time a quest was finished.

Rivers running red with dead Giants. Hacking corpses to make way, rescuing wounded Griffins and when the brothers were finally triumphant and near the end..one brother died (gasp). 

I could have flung my controller in despair—I mean, that was my brother, but it only got worse after that, because the living brother had to dig a grave and bury his dead sibling, sobbing and sniffing all the while. 

I mean how fucked up is that? I literally had to pull a dead body into a grave and cover it with earth.

Other than that, what a fab game. Beautiful colours, music, situations and puzzles. I finished it in three days, and maybe now I'll try my hand at more games. 

Super moon

It's a giant hallogen of white light. 

Light, but no warmth. 

Cold white light, pulling in seas and oceans for a desperate hug. 

White ball of water enchantment, imperfected with craters, carpeted with stardust, soiled by footprints.  

Super moon..superb moon. 

Predator

Tempted to colour this background pink, or something similar, pastel blue? A dead flamingo? Or just as is? Black? Humph. 

Odd pleasures

I know it shouldn't feel as good, but squelching noodles, that've been soaking in water to wash off their starch,  is by far one of the most oddly pleasurable activities.

on souls

More on souls:

 So, some souls rebirth, some stray, some doomed forever in limbo and some reach their heavenly abode.

Different souls, different drugs, different theories.

And adding further to fuzzy logic on soul theory: 

Souls needn't necessarily be some strange paranormal residents, nor even our consciousness. It could just be our mortality, our ability to die, perish, wither and rot.

From this soil we came, and into this soil we must go; giving back, what we took. Made with bits of star, we're a part of this universe, just a carbon life form and we disintegrate to return everything we ever took. 

 And this isn't just about us, it's the trees, the lone horse shoe crab, the earthworm squelched under shoes, the ant stepped over seconds ago, or even a flower languishing in a broken vase..all of this, and anything that can decompose and go back to being a part of earth, probably has a soul. 

You need just look at plastic to know its soulless 😅 

Anais Nin

"I have never found a way to get what I want, except by lies"

- this sentence is the whole essence of this book.

I don't know how to explain this, except that women would probably relate more to Anais Nin's writing. She explores personal emotions that women don't talk of freely, nor even come to terms within them.

The story in itself isn't groundbreaking, but it's loaded with sentences and strangely convoluted multi layered, sensible irrationale, that's so weirdly relatable to a woman who can deconstruct the invisible picket fences around her.

Do I recommend this book?

~Only if you want to read it and want something more, other than just her quotes..though her quotes are good enough too.

Will I read any more Anais Nin?

~probably not. 

It's not a light read, nor something you just idly pick up. The plot isn't really a plot, but a story, an explanation, justifications, questions and confusion. The sentences are short and intelligent, but it's not gripping, nor is it meant to. 

So read if you want to experience Anais a little further. 

 

Slope

Somber mornings

swilling with seas of sad memories

slipping subconsciously

swimming neurotically

Seized each day

with sweet thoughts

of splendid conversations

slick moments

of sinful revelations

Sick with yearning

stranded or drowning

surfacing for a gasp of air

stuttering in despair

self sedation

slow submission

submerged in simulated reality.

Gods are(nt) aliens

Gods could have been aliens, is a theory I'd like to work with.

Maybe they visited our planet and came down through the clouds or something and got to be Angels. 

Or they camouflaged as elephants and turned into Ganesh. Or probably they were four headed, floating on a flower like ufo (brahma?)

Maybe they liked our planet and stayed and did magic tricks for us and had fun for a while. Got to be heroes in epics, and got themselves a maniacal fan following. Inter galactic rock stars.! Minting money!! Maybe we're funding a planet somewhere with all this money, or terraforming one. 

Gods..Some have few, some have many, some have one, some have none. What does that mean? Aliens visited some places in droves and some none at all? 

Vedas are considered written by some deity, superhuman, otherworldly—Aliens or ancient fiction writing? Hardcore fiction writing then. 

Gods, where are you? Come down your ufo's..I can't draw you right. 

--

I want to fling my fists on your bosom

and complaint that you don't write

Watch me..

as I do nothing

but withdraw

into pages of life

and time

every moment

a flickering light

smudged with my fingerprints,

burnt by my irises

Moka pot fangirling

Hell to all coffee connoisseurs. They can melt and meld into the Devils pot for all their worth..and to hell with gold dusted super luxuriant artisan asshole coffee beans, perfumed with civet poop. 

Coffee is good, but tea is awesomer and that's not the point. 

Drink coffee..drink good coffee,  but not at the expense of making bearded hipster filter babies with roasts.

No machines no nothing..just a small Moka pot.

a three part coffee maker, hassle free, wire free. Fill the base with fresh water

Fit with the funnel like basket  loosely packed with your favorite ground coffee

On a stove top till the water boils..

Within moments, you'll be blessed with this dark flavorful fantastic brew. 

This little pot just passes boiling water pressurized by steam through ground coffee; you get cupfuls of coffee that are neither instant abominations nor revoltingly wannabe highbrow hogwash.

This is the third dimension—a really really good homemade coffee. 

Know more: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moka_pot

Mushishi anime

http://youtu.be/sjwlkQd8_4E

Mushishi is one of those animes that makes you feel like your brain is a contortionist. 

It's a next level ultimately superior thought tangent stratosphere mind boggling anime. 

That stuff is loaded with awesome. 

Like if it were a cake, it'd be a cake prepared by a celestial eyed, plant life based Angelic geisha.

Storms

In the wake of storms, when you sit languorously on fresh rubble, a lazy cigarette tucked between careless fingers of your hand, you're thankful for being alive, with irreversible damages to your heart.

Bloodless, benumb, but breathing still. You build a dam around tears, in a dreamy hope, that one day you might run out of water to dip your paint brushes, and that'll be the day you'll need your reservoir.

It's a silly hope though..that dam can never be built. It breaks every few seconds.

Your fingers scrape around your surroundings, and come across a lump of lead. Gleefully you affix it, to where you remember your heart had been, and go about your day..with a bit of lead tucked inside the cavity you'd resolved would only ever belong to your heart. 

 

Night woes

That time of the night, when silence eases itself around you. 

The light hum of ac is audible and calming, and there's nothing but a dreary expanse of muted night to sleep through.

 

Sleep through an entire night! An entire night, shrouded in deepest colour of ink, and at your disposal. 

Sleep is the farthest thing from my mind, though nearest things at hand.

My unadorned modest bed, is an amorous slut at night.

I'm awake in the crannies of www, peeking through small slits and tiny holes in virtual walls; Some I pry open, and some have sealed shut for the night.

Almost that time of the night again, when nothing good ever happens. It's the dead hour, the dull hour, the time when night gives up being overly dramatic about its darkness.

Should I give in to my dreams or stay up for a few more nightmares? 

Tousle my sheets, or slumber in nightly coma?

Sleeping is a good option, but staying awake feels better sometimes. 

Sugar dreams

A diamond necklace of sugar crystals

my life is an incoherent need for coasters

I could wear my jewelry to a party

and dunk it in my coffee

And on a sandalwood table

seated with forgotten fable

I lick my ring like a lollipop

a big fat jade,

a gigantic sugar rock

Stirring it in my drink

drowning in my coffee

Looking around dismayed

there are no coasters. 

Discovery and Amnesia

I'd started with this odd doodle sometime, and forgot about it. 

It's resurfaced again, like old memories, and I don't remember what I was thinking while I scratched at this paper, with my pens and pencils.

Cat preys

The cat brings me gifts galore

Pieces of brains and bits of gore

torn up little babies

and mothers with crushed skulls

Splotches of thickening blood

a mess of mortal feathers 

-:-

Need a software to update my life. Or is updating softwares all that's left of my life?

Should I start rebelling against updating? Switch to a rock? Or should I let myself assume a protozoan existence and go with the flow? 

 I can gear up and fight to stay obsolete, or I can update my gadgets and be one with the evolution. 

Even if I start rebelling against it, evolution is inevitable..or foreordained (?)

We're evolving, just the way we were probably meant to, or even if we're not, we'll be the reason for our own extinction, if our planet and stray meteors are merciful enough.

Why'd a planet want us anyway? It's probably oblivious to our existence. 

How homo fuckin' sapien to feel so entitled. 

Does this planet have a soul? It breathed life into us, like no one could.

The planet made us and we made crap, but it doesn't judge. 

I owe this planet my evolution.

I'll burn my eyes if I have to, sacrifice my placenta to the gods of web, and gather my gadgets into an update orgy.

LOTD

Probably better than the movie.

Weaponry

Knife shopping or even knife window shopping is an oddly de stressing activity.

Sharp steel harmlessly hung in cardboard and plastic casings, that comes to life once you own that steel and make it yours, commanding it at your will..to shred, slice, slaughter, tear, shear, peel, chop,  pulp, mince, sharpen..never let your steel stay blunt or rust.

Garden

I've a rose garden

lush and luxuriant

wrapped in velvet petals

of deep dark maroons

perfumed like exotic secrets

Of Arabian Nights

I've a rose garden

and it has a thorn 

one that grows inwards

right into the soil

burning it with regrets

salting it with pain

I've a rose garden

I'm its thorn

I water it and poison it

Love it and hate it 

embrace it and curse it 

nourish it with ache

I've a rose garden

exuberant in bloom

Flamboyantly plumed 

dense and rich, the petals open to kiss the sun

the thorn inside, a thrum, throb, burn

a burn that nourishes from within

venom that is an elixir

I've a rose garden 

it's a carpet of syrupy maroons

a garden of satin blood moons

pristine from above 

and soiled from within 

Forbrydelsen (the killing)

There are hundreds of really good murder crime investigation books/scripts written, but Scandinavians do it better.  Ponderous, calm, efficient, gripping, with a brooding dark vibe; there's a touch of grey to their colours which makes everything real and serious. 

 Forbrydelsen (the killing) is a fantastically well made Danish murder crime investigation drama.  The mood, the darkness, the minimal dialogues, The subtle aggression and the efficient investigation is done just right.

 A not so intricate, yet deep plot, set in Copenhagen is perfect, with politics, and general life goings in the backdrop.

There was another glossier American version but it doesn't do this Danish artwork any justice. It just doesn't have that touch.

Petri dish battalion

Fresh bread from yesterday, left on the countertop overnight and still decently fresh today developed fungus, which went unnoticed until I'd eaten it for breakfast. 

Now what? Will I die? Or is this normal? My mother didn't think it such a big deal..but how many breads have I eaten in this lifetime which've been fungified? Does this fungus get in my system and get to meet cells and various other microscopic awesome? 

Did this fungus just experience life better than me? 

Does it know more about me than me?

This is not a good weather to keep anything outside. Too humid and weirdly warm/cool. 

Tuesday tittle

What is it about Tuesdays that feels so wrong? 

It's not the first day of the week, nor the mid, neither the end. It's an unloved second day of the week and somehow exceptionally morose. 

Maybe it's the residual Monday mourning that somehow bleeds into a Tuesday and turns it into a full blown catastrophe?

Mondays are for breaking the momentum and Tuesdays for realizing the complete  magnitude of your woes..(weep)

Tuesdays've been an unloved bunch

characterized by bad television

and awful office lunch

Hotter, sunnier, brighter

my lethargic inner fighter

gives up and goes home

stays sullen with an oily T-zone

——

If you're looking to clean a metallic surface or in fact any kind of metal, use baking soda. 

It'll shine your silverware, sparkle your steel kitchen sink, and scrub away all the grime from your kitchen chimneys. 

Mix a pinch of baking soda with your shampoo, and your hair will feel so much more voluminous.

Baking soda for all your cleaning needs.

Hmm

Hmmmph.. The more I look at it, the more it looks like some sort of celestial uterus topped with some sort of vajayjay.

Is this you Freud? 

I don't like this anymore, or do I? 

The ship isn't sailing

This is an experimental Orga spaceship.

 I'll make a full blown organic spaceship soon, complete with battle guns and intergalactic radar —and even a warp speed view mast.

 

Coffee pot

You can't ever make a bad espresso at home, if you've something that looks like a dainty art form.

Brewing coffee in the comforts of your home, on the ease of a stove top, in a device that looks like it was kissed by Andy Warhol or, really rather something that is known as Moka pot.

If you are evangelical about your caffeine, then this humble looking Italian coffee maker can provide you fantastically brewd manna, and add a whisper of retro authenticity, without the hipster bit, to any kitchen.

Moon

The name of our moon is Moon.. Sigh.

We've just the one moon, precious and alone, and we name it moon; while other planets have moons that sound like GoT characters. 

Europa, Mimas, Triton, Hyperion, Rhea, Ganymede, Moon...moon!! 

 Probably cuz it belongs to the entire planet or perhaps just trying to be secular, democratic and politically correct.

But then every language has a word for moon and that still doesn't resolve this issue. 

Cleansing

Buy of the month: 

a nail cutter that doesn't make my nails feel like they're being slaughtered by a blind paraplegic— but rather, like a kindly guillotine of surgical precision; the pink enamel on the device adds to the poetry.

Pussy post

I see,

I see the thick viscous of your soul

spiraling out of control

Coagulating your insides

I see,

I see the ignorant glint in your eye

Like you don't care if you even die

But seriously stop shitting yourself..yawn..I'm so bored..get the fuck out of my face.. your house is haunted..meow..give food..fuck off. 

A morning note

Each day is an endless cycle of morning and night.

We'll see thousands of mornings and nights and grow old.

And one fateful morning, or night we'll be rigor Mortis.

Maybe in this lifetime, there might come a morning which I'd run out to embrace, instead of shunning it behind dark curtains. 

Maybe in this lifetime, there'd be a night that I'd want to sleep through entirely, instead of melting my eyes, trying to stare at the moon through my ceiling. 

Antonement

There will be no heaven, nor hell. You'll find yourself with a number emblazoned on your back. A numerical value which'd indicate the number of ants you've ever killed between birth and death; either accidentally or purposefully.

Your surroundings will be dank, dark, claustrophobic. Working your way around your existence on all fours, squelching beneath your frayed limbs, a floor, slippery with worms and a constant trickle of water. You'd hear nothing, see nothing, and all you'd do is crawl, crawl forever, till you burn through this universe. 

There's no way out. You're to crawl and keep crawling on a path of nothing, till the ant kill numbers on your back get systematically reduced. A number for each eternity. Each eternity, an unbearable throb of pain that the ants went through when you killed them.

And all you can do is crawl until you're zero. 

Gravity hates us all.

Wait, wait, go..fly, fry, die.

I'm waiting to hug you, collect each piece that falls.

I hug everything that falls. Not always a gentle warm embrace, but a loud thud, a soft splotch, a smatter, a crunch, splinter and smash. 

I'm an unbiased hugger, a relentless collector.

Steel, stone, concrete.

I masquerade as the road beneath your feet.

I'm your ground

polished tiled floor

jagged footpath

If you fall, you know we'll kiss it out.

Fuck yeah

I'm foraging for food, under your skin. 

Who am I? 

-a goddam maggot 

I'm foraging for food, on your skin.

Who am I?

-a goddamn lover 

Say yes to Drugs and no to Bras

There's a mirror in my room. Long, Rectangular, mismatched, misguided, misplaced, miscellaneous..stupid, done with, wooden, welded, wasted, sullen, smitten, stricken, shiny!

Le cat

My cat cares for nought,

save feast on souls

then barf them out, 

and shit on them 

but keep looking cute 

|-||

Looks like a sword but bleeds like a pen. Come riding on a pink elephant.. I'm a petal that blows in your wind. A pollen that glides in your air. 

You're jade, I'm despair. You're silent empathy..let me introduce myself,I'm apathy. 

You're resilient, I'm a dough. You've loved, and I've been a foe. 

litter

My bed is littered, and yet it assumes the air of one that's merely strewn..
It's a proud bed, clad in mauve calm with plad shorelines; or loosely heaped purple sheets, for those who aren't familiar with ways of the whimsy.
My usually withdrawn bed, stays mostly littered with matte pieces of white gadgets, two books..one of which I've only half read, and the other I read halfheartedly. Wires, wires, a myriad of wires. Tropical rainless forest of charging white cables, and a remote? for ac (it's white too). I live with them and they've begun to form a rather integral part of my bed eco system. A self sustaining eco system, fueled by everlasting batteries of daily delusion.
There's a wearisome ipad, a tireless iphone, two bookmarks, peeking out from between the pages, with dashed hopes of ever being rescued, an asbestos sweater of badly knit and forever intertwined charging cables,  an ac remote, a pair of keys and yet, not a single crease on my mauve bedsheets.

Most of this litter will never decompose, and might be in a decade or so, it'd turn into cancer perfumed fumes in some dying village in Arica, and then, it'll l be a part of another eco system..but that's another story in a different magazine.

This bed ecosystem extracts nutrients from my boredom, and its right to thrive from my will, and I'm only too happy to oblige. We share gentle assurances, midnight laughter and dead sleepy bored browsing.
My books have pages, and pages make me feel like I don't care all that much about trashy virtual fix. Books work to maintain a balance in the system, emanating intellectual facade that cloaks dependence.
My daily bed eco system and I, we meet each other mostly at night, its roots embedded in life; It disappears for great stretches of time, and returns on nights when one end of the shoreline is empty.