"one of the best beginnings i could have asked for from this year,
one of the best continuations...one of the best progressions and
gradually, one of the best moments that have turned into some of the
best memories ...
like - rain, sudden or planned...and clouds with their own stories...and skies and birds and roads and rooms...like - a very dear song in a very favourite version...like being tucked in a warm corner with a soft blanket and softer sunshine and sweet oranges...in happy tears and sad smiles and some memories that were, some that could have been and some more that can never be...
like - rain, sudden or planned...and clouds with their own stories...and skies and birds and roads and rooms...like - a very dear song in a very favourite version...like being tucked in a warm corner with a soft blanket and softer sunshine and sweet oranges...in happy tears and sad smiles and some memories that were, some that could have been and some more that can never be...
2014. What a year that was! The amount of affairs I had and the clarity of closures. Look at me now. I write like an author, with proper punctuation even in utter thoughtlessness. And am I glad that I have made the "i" redundant. I am glad I was your lovingly loved whore. I found shades to myself and tried various shapes. From 2014-2016, and the hours in between that I have always been, Yashodhara.
The hasty clouds are chasing the lightning, while some stars are still shining. The day is done like a burnt out cigarette end. Dunhill Switch. Press the switch to alter taste. All my life, all of now, I am changing. Look, the elephant does have wings to fly to the duck which swims in the sky. You don't believe me? How could you. If only you looked carefully, my plaits are etched with memories too. In one hand I hold an aim, in the other a duty. My danglers make me no less different than the dots on my ears, yet I do not care if the smoke kills me or you, it makes me feel alive, the cigarette between my fingers makes me gorgeous.
A neatly dressed man came in with this diary, claiming to be my husband. I smiled. That is where the Mitra must have come from. I spoke to him cordially about the bitterness of medicines and the sweetness of sleep. He seemed disturbed, touched my plaits, and left. I cannot decide if my Doctor is no less my husband! Yes, you see, I am funny. Tomorrow I will draw some shapes and paint them in shades. Of my life. Is this that life?
The only time I have gotten angry is when they engage about me as 212.
I am Yashodhara, 2016.
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