Weird, weird life. Dislocation issues. 
A different city, then back before my brain had time to say, ‘um, what?’. Everyone’s leaving, everyone’s leaving. Things are falling apart, people are changing. And the One Month question looms larger than ever. There isn’t any space to feel happy or sad, so all I can do now is breathe and clean my room to calm myself down. Scrub, sweep, write, wipe everything out with a moist coat of music. Forget telling anyone I’m back to Vellore for the night, with plans of slipping out unnoticed tomorrow. 
It’s my last day here tomorrow, the last of heat, craziness, rudeness, bristle-ness, crowds of people who don’t like each other but pretend, of people who break each other’s hearts with love and don’t apologize, people who change like it’s nobody’s business. This is it, then. 
This is where I learnt how to forget, and move past people and slights. In the insane mulling, droning crowds, I learnt to walk with my head down, earphones plugged in, excluding everyone, even lovers; in sweltering noons, I learnt it was possible to zip up, shut up, clam up for the better. Vellore, you have changed me. Not necessarily in good ways, because for one thing, you’ve taught me that there ISN’T any good way to live. You’ve made me live past depression, bulimia, self-mutilation, self-hatred and true love. You’ve snatched away all the illusions I gathered about love and friendship and I love you for that. You’ve driven on and on, through semesters and years and boys, speaking so little, and letting me figure so much out by myself.

***

As the sunset sped by outside my train window this evening, I thought it was perhaps nice to gain illusions about love and then lose them all; maybe when you’re wounded, you feel love more keenly, you grasp on tighter once you get past your suspicions and you expect far, far less than before. 
I’m bad at concluding things that I write.

I’ve exhausted all emotion, even love. It takes effort to dig my way out of my own mind nw, to write. My mind, which used to reel off words sooner than I could grab a piece of paper; my mind, that chaotic, irrepressible place I so knew and loved.

Did I grow out of it? Did I sweep it all clear? Did I relocate?

I’m not here anymore. Leave a message after the beep.

Anonymous asked: What do you think about people with bad grammar?

It’s not a very big deal for me. The only big deal for me is my own grammar.

Communication is important. Grammar is overrated.

I miss not making enough, I miss not doing enough, I miss not having more people I am crazy about, in my life. It’s too soon and too sudden and almost vertigo-causing, the way I’m changing and flipping over. I’m coming to realize that I’d cordoned myself away, living in a cocoon, with just one person for so long that I forgot about the world outside, and now that I’ve been reminded of it, I’m forever hungry, clamoring, wanting all of it so bad that it sickens me to the pit of my stomach.

I want the unknown, and the heat and the crowd and the craziness, I want the new and scary and the high. I want the unexpected in people and places. For the first time in my life, I want to write to document, as accurately as I can, rather than for dressing up the truth as I did, because I felt life wasn’t good enough on its own and needed me to make it prettier. I want to write so I can live more vicariously and vice versa. I want to live more, lunge ahead to meet everything that is to come. I’ve hidden away enough. Life is stretching forwards to, meeting me midway, I feel. I’ve met and talked to more exciting people in the past week than I have in the past year. I’ve met S and reached a new degree of understanding with him, an orchestrated, effected truce. I’ve talked with this new guy, who’s amazing and funny and incredibly sweet, and also a new quadraplegic who will never walk again, or hear with his right ear. I’ve learnt how to love an old friend again, and dedicate attention to a more recent one. I’ve been looking, learning, living, I hope. And I want more of this life.