The show.

One puppet. Two puppeteers.
(They don't know each other. 
They don't understand each other.
They want to co-ordinate but can't.)
Each hand attached to one puppeteer.
The strings hang unequally, 
the hands are awkwardly placed.
The movements are unnatural.


One hand slaps the cheek,
the other scratches the head.
The legs hang and hence move
randomly in the air, making the
puppet look like it's in a fit.
Maybe it is.
A state where it gets taken over
by powers that are beyond its comprehension.
Led by no emotion, its movements
are measured by guilt-free fun
of the puppeteers.


One puppeteer thinks the puppet has a mind of its own, because it moves not to his liking.
The other, only a little clueless, thinks he owns the puppet because he moves it.
The puppet cannot think. Can only dance.
Can dance like a clown that entertains.
Can dance like a mad man who only dances to forget his woes.
The puppeteers make his dance.
Because they can. Because they hold the reins.
Because they like to make the puppet move,
to make it look like a real man.


But the puppet can never be real.
The puppet can only act like it's alive.
It can act like it can emote
because its body emotes.

not Black and yet so.

When I think of what has passed,

I see a white light.

Not the type that takes you to enlightenment.

Not the kind that regresses you to a utopian Innocence.

The whiteness of the light is from mixing.

Mixing of all colours that will ever be,

that presently exist

or have existed in my life.

White has never had an existence of its own.

It has no self.

White and Black are colours that are produced from the mix of all colours- I was told.

But I don’t see blackness.

I see White.

Maybe it’s an explosion.

An implosion perhaps?

A collision of emotions

that I have experienced,

am experiencing

or probably will experience.

(The future could be in my unconscious).

The colours could be my universe.

That universe which has now

Folded in.

My experiences have torn me apart.

From the inside, I have collapsed.

All the colours have grown blurry,

have merged into themselves.

There is no Self anymore.

There is only White.

White- uncorrupted and yet blotched.

Bleached with colours,

I have none.

Lost...

Lost in this wilderness

I keep thinking if it was a mistake

to let this tamed animal roam free;

Freedom is a matter of choice 

but finding it is difficult.

The journey that takes you to it

is nothing

but a winding road

back to where you began;

Innocence is what freedom should be

not the tangled vines

that hold you in them

and still, comfort you...

Struggling... To write? To feel? To emote?

My mind is empty.

Blank. ___

No thoughts, no words, no imajpegs.

It's like blank paper (the ones that are never fed in our university "printer").

Only, not that small.

Not any size. Not A4 at least... that'd be too small.

It's almost infinite, the size.

Infinite blankness. Blackness?

No, it's not black.

But, it's not bleached white either, like paper.

Or unlike it.

It's colourless.

Yes! Like glass.

But glass allows you to see the other side.

It's transparent. It's dumb.

Minds are not transparent.

You can't see through.

It's opaque.

It's like the functioning of a prism.

Or just the opposite.

The mind can't be dumb.

It's just filled with so many colours that

they all mix to give white.

But that's only a perceptual way of saying it.

My mind is filled with white noise.

I can't differentiate between the noises.

I've tried. I really have.

Then I gave up.

It's tiring.

It's tiring to think.

It's tiring to try and decipher.

What I feel, or don't.

What others say, or don't.

What I can.

Or can't.

I never can.

But then, can anybody?

Me.

Considering the fact that this is a public blog and that people who don't know me and vice-versa will read this, I thought I should write a teeny bit about ME. Now there's an awful lot I can say about myself but like I usually do, I won't say it all out right away. Most of my writings will, in all probability, say a few things about me so you may as well read them and figure me out.

But yes, point blank, I'm not too fond of myself although I'm in the process of making myself more self-loving! :)

Among other things, I write not because I like to but more because I have to, because I'm more oral than scribal. I can yap my way to glory but when I sit and write, it's mostly shredder-worthy.

I am hardly self-centered, quite unlike what this post might seem to say, but what the hell, I couldn't think of a better topic to start with! And now that I have become aware of the narcissistic nature of this post, I will stop adding any more to this worthless piece of writing.

PS: Also, I can never write more than 400 words at a time.

Plus, for all those wondering why I took a sudden interest in blogging...Paul (the boyfriend) suggested I write regularly so as to avoid the shit quality of writing that my assignments have recently suffered.

The first one. More like a disclaimer.

So, I've just started a blog.

I haven't done it before and I never really cared about blogging much, but I need to write on a daily (or atleast weekly basis) so I thought I should start blogging. I don't think I write too well so if you're planning to read my posts then do so at your own risk. I have no idea what this blog is going to be filled with, although I'm hoping it's a li'l bit of everything! :)

Let's see how this goes...

If you're going to read this blog, then be my guest but do not judge me! :P