psychosis, nutcases and the lochness. in that order.

always thought psychosis was a fancy name for plain lack of sleep. and nut cases just an important genre fodder for celluloid. smirked at the idea that one day, i could be staring down at self-inflicted lacerations. counting down people who'd mourn my loss. betting on being forgotten and relegated to somebody who once was. somebody, who could have been. self-importance is a chemical superior to lsd. that heavy rush of adrenaline that cloaks brittle susceptibility with an inflated sense of your invincibility? i just didn't know. that someday, I'd be painting my masterpiece on my wrists. set alight by the red of my leaking ego. the pain drummed out by lack of hope and loss of faith, and the screaming armies of blood thirsty scavengers of your broken spirit. that a sense of loss could deliver spine splitting blows to your wanton lust for a personal triumph. i complain of too much light, fighting eponymous demons in pitch black darkness. where dignity takes a bow, deprivation rings in. of course, you can't have a second helping. of course, there's no such thing as a benevolent super-power. you can only laugh, when the joke's not on you. fair dice is a matter of chance. i don't blame my luck.i should have known better. that you could be a perfect example of a living, breathing, dreaming specimen and still be smelling of formaldehyde. that suicide is more than a simple act of cowardice. to voluntarily submit to the loss of your own life, is to conquer the natural fear of your own death. to give up on survival is to embrace peace.life after death? good. death being truest form of closure? better. miss her. like crazy misses madness. love her. like crazy loves madness.

the impossibly fulfilling knowledge that you deserve to be loved? i feel loved. beyond any scale of reason and logic. she swears she'd be there. for me and for us. she is my only promise. of a lifetime of proximity. till endearing senility takes over. she convinces me its only for the better. that staying away is only a sign that we'd be together. that the two year old lump up our throats would only end in an omniscient melody. that crying everyday is preparation for a better perspective.that mourning every moment lost is a precursor to an endless celebration of life. i want to believe her. keep wishing i could chip in with some form of encouragement. and i fail miserably. i want us to be real. wish we could live some place beyond row houses with IP addresses. its too early, she maintains. we are still a work in progress, she assures. she says the fatigue is self-induced. and the sadness, a necessary evil. i beat myself up. for not being able to see her. beyond the pre-programmed pixellated images, the web cam delivers.but only just. bad lighting and white noise included. when cue of speech is a luxury, you can only say so much. and hope it means something truer than it seems. i have degenerated, she says. from the starry eyed kid who spoke in movie quotes to the whiny little monster with a penchant for sad songs. i wasn't always like this. unmitigated self love has given way to irrevocable self loathing. and i hate being who i am.

i am waiting for the wait to end. when happiness is not spelled impossible, when i don't have to stand in line for peace. that nameless someday. when we step down and stretch. when we arrive and rest. that nameless someday. when we hold hands and sigh. when everything's behind us,and everything else is ok. i resent the fact that these are our best years. and we are losing them to the mechanics of a better life. i could be wrong. this could be the start of a brighter than sunshine life. i don't want to live like this. but it could just be the best i can have. i want us to be happy, and stay at it. i hate my life but i still love her. i mull over death and the afterlife but i still want us to grow old together. i shuttle between stark reality and selective imagery. and i still want to picture us in the same frame. i don resent her planning for the bigger picture. but i want her to notice the little things. and the vanilla sky. that life cannot pause and resume. and that I'd love her,before and after. the best part of pain is that it'd either go away, or you get used to it. i am used to it now. and when it finally goes away, psychosis and nut cases, may just get back to what they were.

aishu baby, love you so much. forgive me. and I'll forgive myself.