broke but happy

The last few days have been, to say the least, atrocious. Justin Bieber's age is greater than my bank balance. I hardly read any book and am ridiculously behind on my reading challenge. I screwed some crucial presentations. My to-do list is longer than Deepika's legs. Hostel mess has been closed. In other words, I have been neck-deep in shit and broke. In add to to all this mess, every Arijit Singh song I hear for reasons unknown it reminds me of Bhisma Pithama. And I am totally going freudian crazy on this Arijit-Bhisma connection that my neurons are forming.

Also when you are broke and hungry I guess you become mature and start talking to yourself. Like those village crackheads who roam around the village mumbling to themselves. Well, kind of. So I have been thinking lately a lot about life and its purpose and stuff. Like how someday I am gonna die and things that I am really concerned about arent really that important. How easily I forget that life is lived in moments and moments form a life. How easily I get sensitive about insignificant things and how easily I get scared of uncertainties of life and how easily I suppress my inner voice. How easily I forget death and and thus how to live. No people, no smile, no money, no home, no career no Priyanka Chopra, no competition, no blog will matter after the event called death.
"Yahi end hai yaar! Ab picture baaki nahi hai dost".

"I understand"

It takes sadness to remind you of yourself. And sadness, like any other word, can be defined vaguely by all, and specifically only by you. I understand.

Sometimes you have to go. You don’t leave, but you vanish. When you go, you take me with you. When you turn invisible, I become transparent. But you had to go. I understand.

Sometimes I hear noises when it’s lonely and lazy. I fear you. I see you waiting for me, watching over me through little wormholes, faraway. It's not you. You won't do anything absurd like that. I understand.

I know I can not mount siege over your neck anymore and raid your collarbones for the polite screams and clamp my fingers on your hair. I can not. I understand.

You know it and I know it too that I don't. I am saying it all trying to make myself feel better. When I see you, the body I recognise but cannot claim my own. Some days it makes me sit and makes me sad that there is nothing I can do about it. I sit quietly, in melancholy for hours and days. I wait. And I wait. And no I don't understand.