SO LONG

Lately, I have been on a frenzy of bereft and shaken, with my term at its end. There's this swerving amplitude I'm on, with endless wave points, stretching out to form a loose silhouette of all those seconds that won't ever come back. I can't help feeling afar and dreadful.
Beginnings are difficult, I believe. They always make you do things you wouldn't do otherwise. They make you feel the heat of the rostrum at a height enough to make one acrophobic. Everyone and everything looks odd and ugly. You hate it. But soon, you are gathering memories. And then, you realise that like everything else, this will end too. And because it will end soon, you hate it all over again.
Endings are more difficult, I have come to believe. When finally you have a good corner for those years in your 15-inch, your 5-inch, your cupboard, and your heart, you are dropped off at a new station wherein new trains, new passengers, new hopes, new mindtrips await you. You don't want to remind yourself of all those imprudent times, but you do remember it all, and vividly, as the clock ticks day and night. You have absolutely no control over this empty feeling which gives you nightmares of nothing-to-do days and nothing-to-crib-for nights.
You wish you could live it all afresh because you'd do it better this time. Only if that could happen. So there stands the chimera, waving back at you, and you're suddenly wrapped up in the umbrage of the ever-haunting runs to the next Maggi, the hold-ups for the next coffee, the last-minute-panic during the exams, the spilling-the-beans chats in the lecture-breaks, and the chortles and titters thrown in every minute of the day. Makes you go weak in the knees. Makes you gulp your heart. Makes you feel nothing's right, and will never be. Because you don't live in the same world anymore.
I worry the same, and they keep telling me that I'm naive, precarious, a worrywart. That, I don't see the good behind the fog of goodbyes. That, I don't look for opportunities coming. That, I don't wish to change. And, I don't deny. I do tend to lean on to people that I barely know, to things that I just happen to do. I latch myself to even ordinary moments because all of this has been a part. And leaving it behind would dig a hole within. It would fill with time, sure. But time needs time too. Till then, I wouldn't really look forward to moving on as much as I'd look forward to going back.

It's all black in here. And I'm still searching my way down the sneaky walk, with short, really short footsteps, looking for an incredible fix. To cradle it for so long that I'd just forget all about the gloom-and-solace is what I keep hovering over. The realization is plain and hard.
I have always hated the beginning. But today, I hate the end more.

MACHINES

There's this line between what I want and what I don't. I call it screw-you line. Every time I try figuring out, I'm screwed. So this line, it has a fixed chair inside those waiting walls. And though it never leaves, it doesn't come to me either. And I, I never really seem eager to kick it out of that chair. Because it has always, always got something along its huge plane, that gets to me whenever, wherever.
Then there's this another line between what I need and what I don't. I call it screw-you-part-2 line. Every time I skip figuring out, I'm screwed. This line is that weird shadow which breathes, light or no light. So you know, I'm never on my own. There's my head banging, my heart beating, and this line - brawling. I try avoiding it, yeah I've got some guts. But it's hard to beat your shadow. Harder, if it's a sucker shadow. Always telling me to do and don't, it never really comes to a point easy to choose from. The line, little by little, becomes my life. And life a burden.
Then there's this third line, between what I do and what I don't. I call it screwed-up-already line. Add a thing, whichever side, it's pretty much screwed. And it pretty much sums me. It's like that crane which goes up when told, goes down when told, goes nowhere otherwise. No? Then maybe that AC which cools when told, dries when told, fans when told, all stiff and up on the same wall for years. So I'm a machine? Rephrase. Humans are machines. Running on what they need and what they don't, for what they want and what they don't. Simple math. And I thought humans ran machines. I guess, we're busy running ourselves then. So much for being a human.