DIGITAL VANDALISM

here I sit on a wooden chair inviting the birds of felony to scratch my skin and choose my nerves as the building block of their domicile here I stand alone on street staring at a dead twig menacingly the tree it left now soul bereft I pick it up and twist it in my knee here I walk with a girl under an umbrella beneath the roof she called me to join in her facade now I accompany the  drizzle in her heart

I saw the nail paint dripping on our mahogany table We bought it yesterday, I think, Sammy didn't let me remove the label We are still setting up our home The house is under construction The photo frame in our bedroom is crooked The refrigerator doesn't function I looked up from my trance away from the brick red liquid We are in this together, he said, Sammy believes we will be forever We are still shifting  The boxes with the word 'FRAGILE' The cupboard is now lined with our clothes The mirror shows me in flannel I can't stop the nail paint the color has now reached the edge We know we won't fight but Sammy will be upset  We are still drifting The table is no longer there The house seems to be spinning The red liquid is all I have. 

It conceals the blue-laden sky   Like a mirror;  Searching into the depths of silver    Painted on its back  A quest for a soul and perhaps more  To be savoured by spiritless self   Shall it find me, standing there   Awaiting the bleak blank of blue  A sight for the heavens or perhaps azure  To be prayed out of pique  I stare at the dark parchment  That is glued;  The window ate the ceiling fan  Hanging by the roof  Just some time before it comes for you  Takes up sorrow, grants nothing new  Will you be happy, asks window  I shake my head in disdain  The water would flow despite stones in path  You took my sorrow in vain  Then, it stood there like inanimate   As if dead;  The graveyard of which is storeroom  That lay in dark  A part of world that stood far, aloof  Filled of things from my past  There is this window in between   I lean...

 there was a knife bleeding with the blood of someone I killed  lying next to a corpse, white like paper I thought he used to be red until I sucked blood from him and now I stare lifelessly at his deadly being eyes open, like he knew it was me and wanted to be I am falling  falling from the standard of sanity I wish I shrieked but my throat was thin dry like I am choked by the sand of guilt there were two people until a minute and now there was one wondering if it deserved to be a l i v e and d e a d could one be? can we even live after we kill? there was a curtain and it was all turned red oh I wish I had some bleach bleach for the floor and some bleach for my head erasing everything just erasing everything      or I could take pills and sleep could I sleep? I will wake up dead like him tomorrow staring the world through empty pupils I will see many walking people again  but wonder if I can kill there was a knife and it was caked with the blood of som...

There’s a bucket full of white paint Right in front of my feet If you ask me, it’s white But they have named it moonlight   I stare at the white liquid Like a queen staring at her crown I ask the walls, would they mind, if I choose to drown?   Hearing all the silent responses From all sides of the room I decide to think of the consequences Before the sickly smell makes me swoon   First, I would enter my fingers, The paint molecules would then subside Like the Red Sea, splitting, into ripples Making way, like wedding guests for bride   Then I would be engulfed in entirety By the black hole viewed in a negative filter I won’t swim but stay still  And let the paint be my shelter   When I come out of the liquid I’ll be a walking white wagonette Carrying the load of insanity And meaningless twenty-six alphabets   I will have long nails painted white With the tips dripping off liquid Like a melting vanilla ice cream, Disappearing every minute   I wonder...

Like all stories, let's start this one backwards. The earliest known writing was invented in 3400 BC, in an area called Sumer in the Persian Gulf. Humans have since then manoeuvred virtually every possible medium to express their ideas to the world. When we learnt that sound travels faster in water, we set up drums near water bodies to transmit messages faster. I always like talking about how our modes of communication evolved over time but maybe we don't need to go that far back to understand my motivations of having a blog.  I think I made this blog page back when I was in 5th grade. I vaguely remember the chapter in our IT textbook trying to explain this concept of putting your thoughts out there on the internet. It seemed really cool back in 2012. Now, it's just a bunch of emails from blogspot informing about deprecated features in my inbox. The point is, if any, that this website is filled with a bunch of poems and some essays that I wrote under the influence of my tee...

sky painted with green, and blue for colourless water she squinted her eyes to see if it got better; a push along the hem of cloth, that hung about the roundabout and she was hemmed into inanity  of all the blending colours; gaped at her numb friend, who sat afar and smiled,  she looked away, and came back, to smile all the time "look, momma, look at Mana, it seems she can't ride, nine minutes on the merry and she is smiling all the time!" jerked her head, held her breath  colours started to waltz and her heart tapped wish, whoosh! and then she fell off the seat the colours went for a sortie while little girl weeped a look was cast upon dumb friend, who knew not it was time to cry she still sat afar and smiled, and smiled, and smiled all the time.