Goodbye.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary thickness gallops in.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grew old and I forgot your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again,
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I've never wanted anyone to large extents without having a vague sense of respect for them. But, I can't get him out of my head.
His arrogance. His awful hunt for power. All that I dislike. And he stays in my head.

Ive got a pimple on my forehead. A new layer of fat right above my waist. And my pubic hair has been falling in unnaturally large quantities.
A months done here. The city has been kind to me. Its quite charming, really. Once you get used to its innate need for constant movement.

A month of complete abstinence. No alcohol. No nicotine. No sex. I feel like a strange covering of selfishness has set in. Comfortable and protective.

The people who like the bomb are back. Forcing the rest of us to view their display of stupidity.

And all I can do is complain.

Abhishek Bachchan has a woman. And like a 12 year old I feel personally betrayed. Damn the world and its beautiful women.

This guy I recently met asked me if I had any friends. For his usual tactless ways, he manged to put it fairly non-offensively.

The annoying bit was that I could'nt think of how to answer his question. I mean, there are people I meet often. I drink with them, or watch a movie. But, there's hardlly any talk that takes place. And then, there are people I meet just so I can talk to them. Although I hardly ever do anything that could qualify as a social activity with the second bunch.

This strange dichotamy that has set in disturbed me for about three seconds, before I decided to pretend I hadn't heard what he said.

Not a very long walk they tell me. Not a very long walk. Its merely up the mountain. Easy for them to say. Im the one wearing their jewellary. Pride of the nation. All our riches. You are our queen. Give it a powerful name and the act of insolence becomes one of respect.

This gold is repulsive. Yellow and ugly like the damn sun. They don't let me talk. Cut of my tongue when I used my first curse word. that was three yeas back. Before I was made queen. Of course, they'd choose me. how much harm can one do without a tongue?

The pure virgin. Untouched. Innocent, they call me. I look at the four men behind me. My protectors. Made sure I remained pure. Innocent. Of course they would. It would kill each one of them if I was to be touched by any other. They protected my body. Peed around my body as if to mark their territory.
Laid their protection on my every part. Protection. Imprints. Fucked me till I came. They did.
Of course, I remained a virgin. For I could never talk about it.

We're close to the top. Their finery cover every inch of my othewise naked body. People behind watch with awe. They've made a bloody ceremony of it. Of their desire to have me killed before my tongue grows back.

The loud chanting begins. Prayers to the Gods. I walk to the burning flames. Just one more step. I need the courage. It can't be worse than the man who tactlessly stuffed six of his fingers inside me.

Virginial. I laugh. My final laugh.

The voice of the prophet came out loud,' When the virginial queen is given to the Gods, the rains will fall'

And the clouds opened up their insides.

One step forward. One step back. I want to curse, but Ive been told its rude. Rude and wrong. Rude and wrong like the man who strips me in his head. Wrong that I want him to. Wrong the way I like my erotic literature. Wrong that I place those two words together. An oxy-moron they'd laugh. Those elitist pigs.
Confined. Confined in my little cell.Im unable to make associations with sentances anymore. Its been a year since they let me in. I passed their exams. They call it the slaughterouse. I used to wonder why. Now I know. They cut meat in here. Dark Red Meat. For the rest of them to eat. If you get their questions right, you can cut meat as well. I passed their exam. Felt elitist and above the rest. The exclusivity of it all. Happy that I got chosen over certain others. Now I cut meat.

They tell me what to think. Nudity is forbidden. Even in the head. They have those monitors. The thought-police they're called. I had his body in my mind for a wihle. They've erased it now. Quick and easy erasing. Like they cut the meat. Now I can't see him even when I want to. Its a good thing, they say its required for closure. Removal of the person. He hasn't gone. I still talk to him. Merely his body left when he said goodbye.

I see the man walk up to me. The damn mind-reader. Spy undercover. I slept with him before I found out. He was so busy trying to read my mind, couldn't give me an orgasm.

I must get rid of these thoughts before he sees me. Must think happy thoughts. I remember the 'Don't think of pink elephants' tale my dad used to tell me. Happy thoughts. Pink elephants. Dont think of him, fucking idiot. It could get you killed.