Rewind.

I don't have any empirical evidence (sorry, it's the psychology effect) to support this, but I think it's a pretty reasonable assumption that at one point or another, everyone must become pretty damn sick of themselves.

I mean, logically, how could this keep itself from happening? How could people completely refrain from growing disarmingly, incredibly sick of themselves after a while? Do you know what we're talking about here?

Tenty-four hours a day.
Seven days a week.
We are literally FORCED to spend this time with ourselves. Sleeping, eating, talking, fighting, dressing, undressing- every second.

I have spent every waking moment of my life with me. And the truth is. . . I am sick to death of it.

I can't really fathom who, in their right mind, would not be sick of me at this point. My life, after all, never seems to change. Well, it did: People drifted away (for the good, really), I lost my first love, I got bangs. But really, it didn't: More people appeared, someone else likes me, my bangs have almost grown out.

My life really just repeats itself over and over in this strange cycle: crap and tragedy. . .then hope. . .then actual happiness . . . and then, without fail, crap and tragedy again. I'm a tragi-comic broken record- a study in numbing emotional monotony. I'm one very long sad-ass story that never seems to end.

Until now.

Now I am stating it for the record. If I could scream it to this entire pain-in-the-ass city, I would. If I could take out an ad in every piece-of-crap newspaper in India, I would do it. Because I want everyone who has ever known me to hear this and to understand it:

I am hereby changing my life.

I am breaking the cycle. I am breaking it because I can-because for the first time in God knows how long, I think I have a real chance to do it. I have the pieces of a real life staring me in the face and I swear to God, I am going to put them together if it kills me.

My enemies are gone. I have real friends. I don't even know what my friends think of me yet, but I refuse to screw it up. I have a chance to do it right this time. All of it. A chance to be real- a real girl with real feelings- no matter how pathetic I look, no matter how embarrassing my complete emotional ineptitude might be at first.

A new beginning. That is what I have here. That is what this is going to be for me.

A new beginning with a new me. A me that doesn't bitch and moan about her existential woes. A me that doesn't repeat the same fatalistic routine over and over again. A me that doesn't have to be nauseatingly sick of herself anymore.

I've already been given my first test.

I was safe and sound for a piddling year and now I've been ratted on to my mother.

Now, old Sasha would be ranting about this already- launching into some old OMG SHE IS SUCH A BITCH sob story. But I'm not going to be that person anymore. I'm not. I'm just going to recognize the facts for what they are:

- In the long-term, this shit won't matter anymore.

And so be it. I'm not going to cry about it. My hideously lonely days are over. And that will be that.

- NO MORE BITCHING.

I am so sick of it. I am sick to death of the half-assed, boring, peer-pressured soap opera that's been shoved down my throat for the past year. It's not a life. I'm not even sure what you would call what's been passing for my life.
I think you'd call it, "God's idea of a joke."

It doesn't matter. The point is, I'll tell God or the Fates or anyone else who wants to listen:

The joke is officially over.
I am pressing reset.
Do over.
I am starting my life again.

[ Picture Source : ~TheWhiteNight on www.deviantart.com ]

The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

DISCLAIMER: This is an old, morbid post break-up bitterness induced "story". I don't even know why I'm putting this up. Just reminded me of how silly I could be at times! :P

“The truth is,
you could slit my throat
And with my one last gasping breath
I'd apologize for bleeding on your shirt”
~ You’re So Last Summer, Taking Back Sunday

Silhouetted and hunched over one of the park benches is an all-too-familiar masculine form.

I move towards it slowly for everything seems to progress at a leisurely pace. It grows in size as I get closer - but why is it even here? At times it seems to be eclipsed by a seemingly surreal haze, but a blurred outline is apparent. The form seems to shine, even amidst the thick darkness that obscures my vision. I am close enough now to infer its tangibility; so it can’t be a hallucination.
The haze is almost gone as I cautiously approach the form in its midst.

Suddenly, it shatters, melting into the evening, and I still can’t believe who it is. I close my eyes and open them again with a disenchanted sigh that is immediately suppressed. I walk over to him and park myself beside his bench. He tilts back his head and looks me in the eye, and I am submerged within the murky brown seas of his eyes.

“Alex.” I utter, stupidly.

“Maya.” He says, the look in his eyes softening.
An arm’s length away from him and his warmth, I stand. Before I can stop myself, I am reaching out. I still don’t believe he is really here. My fingertips brush his face – it has a definite feel, its own rough, beautiful texture.
A light, a presence- testing me out, seeking my measure.

I am about to withdraw my hand when he grasps it within his own and pulls me close to him so we were one being now. The light within me pulses strongly once more before it immediately implodes.

It collapses and cascades around me in a storm of dazzling white fire.

“Maya, I still love you, a whole lot. Be mine again, and I promise you that we will be what we used to be minus the pain.” He’s saying.
His arms tighten their grip around my bare waist. I knew wearing a crop top would be a bad idea.

Suddenly, my senses return and I feel alive again, although the darkness and the emptiness remains. The feel of life has rushed into me. It is a sudden, explosive awakening, something I have never known. For months since he had left me I was nothing but an awareness, and then, in one infinite moment I am everything I want to be.
I am aware but that is not to say that I am conscious.

I can form no thought.

I don’t know my name or even that I might possess one.

For a time, a moment or an eternity, I know nothing. No memories haunt me.

There is only Alex, Maya and the pulse of the dark.

I was briefly aware that his lips were brushing mine, and I’m having my very first kiss.

There’s an odd feeling in my stomach. Not the butterfly feeling he used to give me all those months back in July, but a weird sort of energy, like something is flowing out of it and rippling around me. He is loosening his grip around my waist now, and as I reach out to hold him again, I notice something that could only have been a figment of my imagination. Sure, it was my first kiss- but I didn't know it was my last one.

My eyes widen in horror.

I finally manage to absorb the sight of the knife protruding from my stomach. The pain is imperceptible at first but ever more as the flow of blood goes unchecked.
In death too, I am happy – for the last thing I see is Alex’s smile.

[ Inspired by "Hearts Collide"- Green Day ]

FlushedPinkCheeksPolkaDottedDressBlackXSApples.
EbonySkinWarmBreathSoftLipsChocolateEyesSkittles.

Thoughts. Sounds. Pictures. Memories. Disjointed snapshots fall around them in a breathtaking storm of bright white fire. A maddening torrent of color and emotion that left them powerless yet fragrant with the joy of life and love. Should you ask if these memories brought them joy or pain, both would answer yes; and that is all that they would say.

When triumph bleeds into bliss; I knew it from the first kiss.
Tonight, hearts collide. Hearts collide. Hearts collide.

Whispers

She pins every last strand of mahogany rain back onto her head under a clip in the shape of a blue and pink fish carcass. With green leaves for fins. The dark waves of her hair are barely contained in the ponytail that cascades smoothly down her narrow back.

She looks at herself critically, as though performing a quality check. An appraisal - she could have been examining her long face for defects. As her eyes run over the high forehead, full lips and high cheekbones; she can't help hearing the words as they echo through the crumbling walls of her memory. All the whispers in the shadows. She tries to evade being overwhelmed by the sharp sting of pain that courses through her veins like poison from a lethal injection.

The too-long socks, the austere expression, the bulky shoes and long skirt. The confident gait; utterly mismatched with the clumsy, too-large schoolbag and floppy ponytail. The uniform that effortlessly and effectively turns her into a circus exhibit. She passes by them, one by one. Sexy hairstyles, short skirts, colourfully made up eyes and blushing cheeks. Wounded hearts, masks and marionnettes. Whispers in the shadows.

She steps into the sunshine.