The Girl With No Name

There was this girl last year, she always dressed in black and had the deepest eyes. She seemed to have no friends, she was always walking alone. But she had this amazing sense of...self, I guess. She knew who she was and she didn't care what anyone thought of her. I always wanted to talk to her and then one day she was gone. And so was my chance to ever get to know who she really was.

*

Once there was a girl who kind of liked someone. And he liked her back. Then they got scared. Fear changes everything.

*

When everything ended there was a girl left alone, picking up the pieces. In the picture, you can’t see her face because she's got her head down. There is a storm brewing somewhere in the distance, but in the horizon the sun is still shining.

*

There was a girl who was anchored to something once, but she never wanted to be anchored to someone. Maybe that made her driftwood but maybe it made her, her own person.

*

Today she saw all these business men crossing the street at lunch. They all had the same suits on and the same faces on. She just kept thinking about what they were like when they were younger. Were their faces always this serious?

*

She's different. Late at night, when the phone has stopped ringing, the cars have stopped driving by outside, that's when she feels best. It's when she feels most like herself inside her head.

*

There was once a girl who wondered why thinking you've lost someone makes you realize you love them. Decisions made for the wrong reasons don't last. One can't let impulse, jealousy, override reason.
But then again, what does reason have to do with love?



(This is incomplete, because her story is. Sorry.)

Begin the Beginning.

“So tell me your story.”
“My story?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Yes. And this time tell me the truth. Why did you really push everyone away? Why did you really become like this?”

I looked at my drink blankly.
My mind fumbled for the right words while I pretended to idly look at the condensed water droplets slide down the smooth surface of the glass that held my soda. I traced the slithering rivulets with my finger. 

He looked at me intently.

I set the glass aside and looked into his eyes. Brown. Like limpid pools of molten chocolate.
I remembered telling him that once. Almost a lifetime ago.
But today there was something old and haunted in them. Something knowing. Something wise.
 I looked away, suddenly shy and eager to unload my story onto him.
“Are you sure you really want to know?”
“More than anything.” He reached out and took my hand in his.
I looked up at him, surprised.  Then I smiled sadly. And began.
I spoke haltingly at first. Then my words came faster and faster, I couldn't stop.


“Life changed, after you left. I wasn’t the same. Nothing around me was.
Over the months after you left I made myself strong in such a way that my walls were impenetrable. I didn’t let anyone get to me. Or through me.
I stopped talking to people who wanted to help. I pushed everyone away.
You were the only person I wanted. But you weren't there.
And soon enough I realized I wasn’t left with anybody.
Every time I looked in the mirror, I knew I was looking at someone who wasn’t sure she deserved to be loved at all.
I had no friends. Maybe I never had any in the first place.”

 “Your definition of a friendship is very different from mine, Tofu”, he interrupted.
I smiled. We both knew that only too well.

“I couldn't find the motivation to search for people I could invest my trust in. Besides, that would be incredibly absurd, wouldn't it? Making new friends only to burden them with stories?
The word 'Relationships' had begun to scare me.
And that's when I realized I'm scared of attachments. Because I believe that every attachment that I have will finally break my heart or leave me.”

“But what happened, Tofu? You were one of the strongest people I knew. You were MY strength. You should have just gone back. They're your friends. They would have understood, I'm sure.”

I laughed out loud. “What happened? Really? I can't believe you're asking me that.”

“Well, I am. Tell me.”

“You.” I said quietly. “You happened.”
“I got scared of losing people after I lost you. I don't have any friends, because I'm scared of losing them. I live in the perpetual fear of breaking ties with the people I love.
I know I'm the one who shut everyone out, but the funny thing is as much as I know how to say sorry, I can’t get myself to say sorry.
As much I love hugging people, I can’t hug old friends and ask them to come back to me.”
 
“Why? Why is it so hard?” He looked desperate to know. Like a little child craving a piece of candy.
But his ignorance exasperated me.

“Because I couldn’t do it with you.” I answered simply.
“I hugged you and I begged you to come back to me, but you didn't.
You went away and with you, you had my heart aching on a leash, bumping behind you, lurching over leaves and small stones. Bruised and almost broken.
I can’t do it anymore. I've lost that quality; I've lost the ability to call people back.” 
I slumped back into my seat, sated and exhausted. 

For a long time neither of us said anything.

The many voices in the cafe began to swim into focus. Some in slow moving conversation, some raised in argument. The place suddenly seemed small and dark.

“You know, sometimes you have to be apart from people you love, but that doesn't make you love them any less. Sometimes you love them more.” he said carefully.

I processed what he said. 
I felt empty, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was a nice feeling. A feeling of buoyancy. As if I was finally ready to start again, to begin filling myself with good things. Things that were of my own choosing this time. 
I looked at him and laughed. A happy laugh. He joined in.

“I love you”, said he, in he midst of peals of laughter.
“I love you too.” I echoed woodenly, wondering if I really meant what I said. 

Then I laughed some more.

I like you so much better when you're naked.

Say what you have to say.

The number one rule about getting into a relationship with someone is giving them their due respect. Respect (and expect) their loyalty, respect their boundaries, respect their opinions and respect their decisions.
Keep your hands clean, your thoughts cleaner, and your wounds covered.
The second rule of a relationship is when you start finding rule number one, too restrictive (and being as nosy as we are, we are bound to), stop right there. Because while loyalties and respect are right in their own places. I have a massive issue with prolonged barriers people set up claiming to shield themselves from emotional blows aimed at them in their vulnerable state.
In my opinion, setting up defenses, building boundaries and  erecting walls around your head to filter people out is a bullshit idea. Yes, BULLSHIT.
Because sometimes your partner needs you to intervene and save them before they're too far gone. Whether they know it or not.
It feels cruel and against common sense at first, but it works.
Sure, you could always argue that after bringing your guard down something might whirl in to hurt you, leave you wounded and scarred all over again but hey, that's that whole point of life. You learn. You get wiser. And you learn to fend for yourself and not repeat your mistakes.
You can't keep burying things inside, you cant keep running from the world and building walls to keep people out. Unless of course you want to wind up alone, old, in a room full of cats. Then, yeah. Go ahead and knock yourself out.
Picture a garden. Lush. Green. Now, picture your mind as that garden- Full of whispers and the scurry of ghosts. Trecherous vines glisten with sparkling dew drops as they curl themselves around you with invisible cords, cutting into your skin and sucking the trust out of you. On the outskirts ancient walls, streaked with moss, buldging with supressed memories like a dam nudging you impatiently, waiting for your permission to burst.
Isn't it easier to just let yourself flow? To not worry about the consequences of evrey little action you make? To not disect every situation and contemplate on its inevitable results?
To unentangle yourself from that choking vine?

Strip off your insecurities.Shed your fierce defenses. Stay emotionally naked, not with everyone, but with people you trust.
You're so much more attractive that way.

The healing process begins with simple words, an effort, the tearing down of long guarded walls. You have to expose every little shadow of negativity to a world of probabilities and fresh beginnings.
You risk exposure for the sake of healing, and when it's over, once the long caged demons have been freed, trust me love, you'll thank me.

- A rather pissed off Tangledtofu.

Staccato anthology of dreams.

*

As soon as I enter I become aware of the dog smell that fills the house. A hot concentrated odour that's different. Warm, sweaty, meaty, vinegary all at once. I wrinkle my nose not sure if I like it but unable to dislike it either because it smells so natural.

*

Hers is a strange face- at once young and old, firm and withered. Wrinkles fan out from her nose to the edges of her lipsticked mouth, spread along the sides of her cheeks and down her neck, making the still young cheeks look like islands in a choppy sea. She waits, hand on hip. 'Have you finished staring at me? Or is the menu written on my face?'

*

I like to watch the office crowd go by. Standing by the street, I suck in the air of their worlds- The dry metallic smell of the air conditioning, the salty smell of dried perspiration, coffee, cigarettes and then something I do not recognize. It brushes ever so slightly against the nostrils, so fine and delicate that it is hard to pin down. The people don't notice my quivering nostrils, and even if they do, they don't care.

I long to make myself a part of them. To wrap myself in their arrogance, my feet keeping time with theirs. To me, they seem like gods, and I long to be as invulnerable as they are.

*

I held the glass beneath my nose and pulled the fumes straight up my nostrils. The wine smelt sweet and spicy, like cinnamon and nutmeg, and sour and earthy. There was also a slight hint of chalk that hung back, almost out of sight. The smell filled my nostrils, delicate but well formed like a gazelle.

Then I took a sip.

The wine slid across my tongue like oil, and slipped effortlessly down my throat. Underneath its silky coat I could feel the muscle that held the various elements of it together. The smell gathered force after I had swallowed it, the warm juices that had been hiding beneath my tongue rushing into it., lifting it up and warming it so that the fumes rose to my throat, and once again, climbing up the dark nasal tunnels to my brain. I sad nothing and slowly took another mouthful.

Excepts from Smell.
-Radhika Jha.
(She's brilliant)

Hey Jesus, call me maybe?

Carter Road.

So, because I'm a passive-aggressive misanthrope I like spending time in solitary confinement, encapsulating everything that is fundamentally wrong with our society and wallowing in my own  mad world of childish hyperbole.

The other day, I sat at the promenade drinking in the faces of the many different people who passed by. Beautiful adolescent girls, old couples taking brisk evening walks together. Boys with their bikes, collectively checking out each girl that sashayed by and occasionally, ever so subtly, whistling at a few.

Pigeons flocked all around me making loud flapping noises, probably noticing the bag of bread scraps in my hand. I scattered a few crumbs around looking vacantly at the plump birds. I looked at the massive sun drowning in the deep over the horizon, and tried to think of something profound and philosophical, but couldn’t. I felt deflated. So I just sat still. The tranquility of the spot seeped gently into me. I sat still, afraid to move, lest the feeling escaped.

After what seemed like forever, I decided to get up. It was getting dark and my rear hurt from sitting in the same position for so long. I got up, turned around, and suddenly ran into a man, dropping the packet of bread crumbs in the process.

When I was a kid, I was sent to church every Sunday. In Sunday school there, the teachers would read us stories about Jesus from the bible. 
This man was exactly as I had imagined how Jesus might have looked like, with beautifully shaped eyes, the colour of wild honey and flowing, albeit short brown hair softly blowing with the sea breeze. I looked intently at him, unexpectedly bereft of speech. He removed the earphones plugging his ears, smiled understandingly and touched my hair with his long graceful fingers.

"Is everything all right? Can I lend you a hand?” He asked apologetically, as he surveyed the damage.

Suddenly every little detail of the moment became vivid-
The indifferent and loud crowd around us, the cool smoggy air that indicated the oncoming winter, the smell of the briny sea, the piquant smell of the spices from the nearby makeshift chaat stalls that had been set up post sun-down.

“Gosh. I… um, no thank you. I’m good.”

“You sure?” He grinned as he confirmed.

“Yes.” I smiled back shakily.

“Well, we’ve created quite a mess.”

“Yeah, but I just saw cleaner sweeping the area a while ago. She’ll return.”

“Yeah, but I just saw cleaner sweeping the area a while ago. She’ll return.”
“Okay then, I better leave. See you around. And sorry again.” He smiled and started to walk away.
I looked down at the scattered crumbs, hoping to find something he had accidentally left behind so that I could call out to him and resume conversation.
Nada.
I looked ahead but Jesus was swallowed by the darkness and people around.

SO YEAH. I WROTE THIS ABSOLUTELY POINTLESS BLOG ENTRY TO LET YOU GUYS KNOW THAT I'M A SLOW IDIOT BECAUSE I LET MY POTENTIAL SOULMATE SLIP RIGHT THROUGH MY FINGERS. UGH.

Sniff.

We don’t know where we belong. So we hide. Hide to save ourselves. Save ourselves before it’s too late.

But for most of us it’s too late, already. There’s no place to go. Nobody’s listening.

We’re all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever climb out. 

We scratch and claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch. We’re just trying to find our paths. 

But it’s getting dark already and we’ve hopelessly lost our ground. We don’t have anyone to take our hands and show us the way. 

We are the children who were cast away. We are the children who fell from grace.  

·

It was close to midnight when I finally arrived at the party.  I couldn't decide what to wear. I knew I had to wear something that would make me look a part of the foreign crowd.   I finally picked a safe LBD to go with a new pair of stilettos I had bought recently.
At least some of the Frenchmen would notice my legs in this miniscule black dress, I thought wryly. 
I reached the entrance. A tall redhead in a beautiful gold dress threw out an arm with a long cigarette attached to the end of it. It hit me in the chest and I smelt, rather than felt the burn in my silk dress. She turned around with an apology on her lips. Then she realized she had hit an outsider and muttered something like "You shouldn’t stand so close."
I wanted to make a devastating reply but couldn’t find the words. Her entire group seemed to be sniggering at me. I turned sharply and walked away. The close press of people made a black shield around the entrance. I was tempted to escape, but the arrogance of those long straight backs made me determined to stay, to breach their defenses, and make them notice me- somehow.
People were packed into every corner, flowing forward onto the bar. Men and women stood back to back, knees touching, elbows knotted, heads moving back and forth as they talked.
Music thrust its way through the burr of conversation plugging holes in it with its steady pulse. Tongues and hips moved ceaselessly. The place stank of smoke, sweat and the smell of new leather shoes.

Pretty soon after a few shots of neat Jack, I found myself roped into a group just like everyone else. The pale faces looked at me with glassy, unreal gleeful eyes and thrust a bowl of some white powdery stuff in my face.

“Go on then, have some! It’s really good stuff!”

Not wanting to be ousted, I sniffed some. It hit me hard. I took some more shot my hands up in the air and screamed happily. Everyone cheered.

The conversation moved back and forth between them, sometimes a third or fourth voice screeching in. After each sentence, everyone laughed hysterically. The bowl kept going around too. Five minutes later or maybe it was half an hour, I had laughed so much that my mouth felt stretched and tense. My head felt like a heavy rock. I could feel twin lines forming, linking my mouth to my nose. Everyone in the group had them. I wondered whether it had something to do with the muscles that were used in speaking French.

One story followed another about people who could have been the names of streets for all I knew. In a little while I could no longer tell whether they were talking about people, books or exotic dishes on a menu. I could add no story of my own to the stream of anecdotes that fell in layers upon the conversation, over the laughter that bubbled incessantly beneath it. I remained silent. But nobody seemed to care.

I wanted to breathe in some more of the white stuff. Where was that bowl?

The sudden laughter cut into my reverie. On cue, I joined in.

Found it! I inhaled some more. My head spun with unintelligible happiness. The rush was exhilarating. Lifting. Invigorating. Stimulating. I took some more.

I needed to sleep, but the dress was too itchy. Water. I was thirsty. No water.

I felt myself suddenly start to down in an endless black abyss.

·

A little girl, playing alone with her dolls, her father comes home after a long day at work-

“Daddy!”

“Go away, not now, child. Is your mother home yet?”

“No.”

“Hah. Must be a special assignment with the boss again. That whor- Huh? Stop crying girl. I need some peace in this house. SHUT UP.”

·

A little girl, chest puffed proud with a beautiful self-made drawing in her hands, runs to show it to her mother who just came home.

“What are you doing at home? Shouldn’t you be at Aunty Leela’s house?”

“Maa?” she said, confused.

“I’m busy with this man now. Important work. Office. Go away and play with your dolls and don’t bother me again. Oof. Yeh ladki bhi na. Such a headache.”

The girl looks at the blurry shape of her mother and the stranger as they disappear into the bedroom with unshed tears in her eyes.

·

A little girl, now not so little, in school trying to catch glimpses of a boy fugitively in the school corridors.

“Stop dreaming bitch. He’s out of your league.” A pretty vixen, whispered in her ear menacingly from behind.

Tripped her purposely, and then walked up to the boy linked her arm with his, and laughed blithely with the rest of the kids around.

The girl gets up slowly, silently fighting the urge to burst into tears.

·

She moved to Paris to study.  The girl is happy. She finally has someone who loves her.  Her world is a better place.

She walks up the stairs of her building, softly humming a happy tune, reaches her apartment door, fishes for the keys in her handbag.

The door opens unexpectedly, with her Pierre, wearing only boxers, in an unmistakable embrace with another man.

The girl is speechless. She walks away.

·

Tonight was my night. I was noticed. I was appreciated. I was loved. The white powder is my miracle.

I need some more. More, every day. Every day. Every night.

That is my savior. That is my happy place.

My entire life I’ve been shunned. Ridiculed. Cast away.

If the white powder can take it all away, I want more of it. More and more till my world is exactly like how I’ve always imagined it to be.

·

The girl was found on the footpath the next morning. Dead, from the overdose. Clothes missing. Money gone. And bereft from the dignity the nameless girl had.

Because all our dreams are gone, and all our hopes have faded.
And as sunlight fails, we’ll watch this world slip away.