It’s 3 am and it’s lonely. I have taken to sleeping on the living room floor, squished comfortably between two quilts, a pillow for company and a book for moral support. The setting is going to be changed soon. New furniture is expected, and tiles instead of the soft beige carpet. The beloved window too is being altered. To what, I didn’t ask. Ignorance is bliss. I quite enjoy lying by it every night, twisting my head at a particular angle so I can stare right into the sky. Stars. Twinkling. Shooting. Falling. Sparkling. Breaking. Disappearing.
I just finished watching Little Ashes. I wept. At the death of an artist. Birth of a demon within another. I wept at the tragic losses that a man has to suffer. At the beauty of it all. What a poignantly enchanting movie. The credits rolled a while back but the sadness is still swelling within me. Salvador Dali. A man who amuses me to no end. With his work and his self obsession.
Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure – that of being Salvador Dali.
I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.
There are some days when I think I’m going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.
There is only one difference between a madman and me. The madman thinks he is sane. I know I am mad.
I first encountered him at an exhibition in Frankfurt. There was so much angst in his work, it was dripping anger, desperation, urgency and blood all over the floors, over my feet and right on to me. Surrealism. That element of shock. The one that made me take an involuntary step backwards, my hands flying to the railing to support myself. The shock that had me peering into the strangeness of a man’s mind, my mouth forming a silent oval of curiosity and awe, bending slightly on my knees and leaning dangerously close to understand it better. And then standing up straighter, none the wiser and an insistent ache throbbing through my spine.
Robert Pattinson. If there was a role of his which I could lock him in forever, it would be this one. With his crooked steps, swaying body and unsteady composure. With his outlandish attire, rude hairstyle and splendid accent, he ceased to be Robert Pattinson. Just when I was getting to appreciate his acting, he got a make over and his sharp features and his charming smile took over the screen, hiding away the actor. A curse. These good looks.
It’s late. And my bed isn’t even made. Currently it is a crumpled mess of blue and white, crushed despondently onto the couch beside me. Waiting to be rescued. Waiting to be spread across the floor. Waiting to be slept in. The sight of it is depressing me.
A desk of my own, in a space where no one but me sets foot. A place where I can color code to my heart’s desire. And line all my freshly sharpened pencils according to their shade. And stack my papers in a neat bundle, giving order to my thoughts. A table lamp that bleeds yellow light over my world. And where there is silence. And cold that causes me to shudder occasionally. A carpeted floor so that every step is muffled and there is only an illusion of movement. A curtain that can be drawn completely to keep out anything and everything that might interrupt. And the birds chirp when I want them to. The light dances when I ask it to. The wind comes to a halt when I turn its way, my palm outstretched.
The Age of Shiva. By Manil Suri. First few pages and it is full of promises already. Death of Vishnu. By the same author. Excellent book. So real. So raw. Yet so sensitive. A gentle reminder of everything that is wrong with our society, with us. I remember taking a week to read it. And loving every moment of the time I stole from that book. Delicious words. Sigh. I always like starting a book by an author that I have already read and liked. I feel like I am waddling around in familiar territory, with a friend.
There is sleep. Taking over everything that I know to be real and transforming it into a mirage that escapes my grasp. The days have already merged behind my back. And here I am, lamenting today. Yesterday. And the books that were never read, calls that were never made, love that was never shared, movies that were never watched, things that were never said, hands that were never held… And the same mistakes that will be repeated with every sunrise.