HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY

The mood swings

I still haven't found a scanner that'll help me put up the few sketches that I made.

Meanwhile here's a thought: Life's a bitch and I don't want to anymore.

Aside

Dadda(my sole readership), Happy Rakhi!!

All these are due. It's ok , I am on it!

Deceit

I care for an idea. Of who I think you are. But I know that you are not that. It is an image of you that I have built in my head. I like talking to that image. That is the image I care for, not you. That I am decieving myself, perhaps because I have nothing to do. Deep down I know it is an escape.

In another week, I will be hard at work. I will have no time for you. Because, I don't get attached.

Postcards will be back in a short while

As soon as I can locate a scanner. You can always scroll down and read the old ones.

Unreliable, Indecisive, Cynical, Sarcastic, Self Absorbed, Bad tempered, Hypocritical, Self Pitying, Humorless, Boring, Unfriendly, Depressive.

Feel free to check all those that apply to you. You probably won't come across such a list of nasty adjectives again.

Toodles Poodles!

Postcard #6 - Polarity

written to "Don't tell me good night" by Lobo.

A sunset I would like to describe.

Running. I am tired. I stop. I glance up. It’s darkening now. Passers-by stop to see what I stare at. Nothing. They look at me. Some of them laugh as they drive away.

I see little black feathering leaves of tall trees scraping against a deep, deep blue setting sky. Like tiny black rivers. The deep blue is riddled in parts with dark gray clouds, a child’s left, right splashes of yellow and orange, but the blue is dominant. Somewhere in a patch, the sun sinks into red. I also see a silverish grey island cloud in the sky surrounded by pink and white puffy mountain clouds.

In striking contrast, a brown banyan stands in front of me, sending it's infinite roots plunging to the ground, the withered sentinels of it's ageing branches.

Postcard #5 - The Green Lady

Postcard #4 - A Summer Dawn

By parts, a silver dawn on the horizon slips between the folds of night’s dark sheet. Joining the stars by criss-crosses of bursting daylight, like a shiny fat woman filling up her black dress to the seams.

The meadow from where I stand to the foot of the grassy knoll beyond which the sky rises turns from black to dewy green. Shapes are now discernible. The little farm dots are waking up. The wind zips over and around the mustard stalks below. The mustard flowers are dizzy with all the twirling, as if she had put a blanket around them and given them a good exuberant spin and then run away, leaving them reeling behind, a kind of a gypsy dance.

Breathe in the summer dawn. It is not hot. The zippy air of the yellow mustard flowers skims down to your depths. One smiles. She is so happy. The wind I mean.

Postcard #3 - The Desert's Wish

Many days have passed since the desert sand saw the rider first. Like all her challengers, fresh and spirited. Now there is no mount and water is scarce. His shirt has become a dusty brown from a clear sparkling white rivalling the shine of her golden skin. Bright eyes had made her jealous and she had blown a sharp sand laden dart of air into them. Now she feels his shudder against the cold night, curled up, face against her sands. Her yellow ridges that make him squint in the day turn a bloody red in the moon-light, her words of warning. She knows her expanse. Why does he not heed her.

His beauty is like the rush of the water along her skin a long time ago. She sighs at his obstinacy. He feels a dry wind against his face.

She hopes he will turn where the wind blows. There is water there. Branches that end in green swaying spikes against a clear azure sky. A little oval of deep blue in her glowing vastness.