Remnant of a love

All that remains of us is that fragile phial of perfume at the top most corner of my chest; of drawers.

Well not so fragile I believe, lasted more than us. A tiny bottle of golden liquid packing away the golden sunsets from the chad, the never ending walks and the ever discovering talks.

Bottled away.

Sometimes I would open the drawer and the smell would overwhelm me and make my eyes smart in incensed pain. But hiding under mundane trivialities of life it is only a remnant of an unfinished love.

Greetings from Planet Mars : |

My last post in this blog was published on 29th December, 2009 and then again today. Had been not a math retard I would have tried to calculate after how many I am writing. Within this year, well a lot has happened I have been in and out of love, have been officially declared as incompetent in English by my university, have found a few friends and lost many more. Why am I making this feeble attempt to write? I think it’s largely because I have an exam coming up and I’m so blank I feel white inside.
When I read my former writings I feel as if someone else had written them. I would like to believe I have grown a bit (maturity wise I mean don’t snigger) and wouldn’t be blogging my weird theories and corny jokes so randomly. Besides I realized studying literature was a mistake as I would never understand what good it does to shred and look for meanings within the text. Oh yes… story books have now become texts. More story books have translated into “reference reading”. For someone who has self trained herself to read storybooks to go to sleep, make bus rides more interesting, long journey trains pleasant and to shut out bitter waves in the house…storybooks as text is indeed a difficult thing to accept. Good literature is plenty in this world is something that I have understood hence I should at least blog to increase the number of crappy reading material available.

Yell

I have never been able to ‘spell a rebel yell’ and I never understood why… sometimes the lack of conviction and sometimes the cold fear of losing or loss. Not that I don’t want. I do. In fact more often than not I even initiate the yell; then the gathering dust seems much more inviting, the calm of following and being the contented sort takes over. To demand for an ear and to urge for a glance seems obscene and loud. Thus opinions get thwarted and people drift away.