From the diary.

18th january, 2019.

With regular practice, pretence becomes an easy craft. Well, that goes for everything in this world without saying, the point is, pretention is a very handy tool for the tricky situations one finds oneself more than often and more than necessary.

After a point, pretention leaves a big room for improvement and sometimes healing too.

I have been pretending for a while but now I think I am fine. The only cost is that I am now more disconnected and distant than before, almost for a lot of people. I however cannot judge it's merits and demerits without being biased towards a favourable outcome and that is just wrong.

In a way, everything is!

Rishiraj. 

Marlboro Man

I wonder how many cigarettes will it take

to build a mound of ash,

big enough to fill the grave of multiple

corpses, it won't be easy. 

Everyone sees the packets everyday I buy,

a slender tube dangles from my blackened lips regardless of time,

the sides of my fingers are yellow

and yesterday I spat some blood. 

Everyone's a doctor now, everyone's playing 

Dr. Phil, I cannot make them understand

the unresolved points my life has seen

or for the fact that I'm not the one who dies

I haven't done that yet. 

So I steal the song from Fool's Garden,

"I wonder how I wonder why..."

making it a maxim I'd hum along,

maybe a little Phil Collins

if I am in the mood.

I drive in my matt blue car 

with a cigarette lit,

I kept the last one in the dashboard

along with her last one, with the lipstick mark which she left there before flying off

for a new life afterwards.

So I keep wondering, I wonder

how much cigarettes will I need,

before I finally make it all go

or before I finally make it.

Overt Thoughts.

So you say 

that there's still hope,

for me, for us, for you.

I can live with that.

I see the minutes trudge away, 

leaving marks and

scratches, redolent of histories 

and songs of us; the detriment

has a progression, only matched 

by my hubris of going on,

what else can I do?

I can live, as I have, and as I will,

with the relatable facts and venal

fictions, with dates I cannot forget

and words I don't want to remember,

as you say, there's still hope,

as you'd know my inane volition

has ever been a little bit confused; 

I don't know where to stop. 

Intent's tendencies are all about tomorrow

and for all we know, I still have remnants 

of you left, for my most own moments.

Because there's still hope,

not of you, not here, not mine, never anymore; but of me.

Acerbic afternoons and corroding 

evenings will be my routine

and I know things will fade, as I have

from you, but since I still can write

lambasting or loving in the livid moments,

I know, there's still hope. 

Rex

For a moment as it were,
I was a king.
Of rubbles and ruins,
of prosaic sepulchre
and of the warren lanes of
the same tenacious exaltations.
Yes, I was a king, of things and dreams,
of nightmares; but my robes were clean.

I lost my throne, my crown forfeited,
a long time ago my kingdom corroded.
As I walk the winding halls, clueless and empty I leave traces only so
I can go back.
I leave a trail of blood, my robe is dripping red everywhere I walk.

For a moment as it were,
I was a king, and I ruled.
No more, never again.
My castle fell and
my robes are not clean.