Strangelove and Olympics

Strangelove, what a name for a movie so peculiar. 'Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Bomb', is Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece. Yes, this is what a masterpiece is. Not Pollock's spray of colors on a wide huge canvas or Picasso's 'modernistic' sketches of himself and women he loved. Kubrick re-established the power of destructive events to trigger truth, how people fall and rise. Symbolism at its best, from the ex-Nazi Doctor Strangelove to Captain Jack who launched doomsday. Funny way of treating life and death. There are very few movies that make me laugh, and silly humor just repulses me. Movies like Scary Movie are bulls crap, I cannot fathom the success it has been making all these years. Humor is not running around naked and making a joke out of yourself by having sex with busty women, humor is not people getting drunk and committing nonsense, even if it is, its the lowest form of it. Humor, I believe lies with the clowns. Shakespeare's clowns who mumbled words and juggled ideologies like second-hand jokes, how Marlowe's Wagner is understood to be as important as Faustus himself. Humor at its best, tickles you with its cleverness and lays you back with a punch.
And this is what the deal is with 'Dr. Strangelove', its foolish and satirical, and its amazing how the final scene with the world burning into ashes makes you smile and laugh. Vera Lynn's iconic number 'We'll Meet Again' is the best choice for a cinematic genius like this. Kubrick has presented his outlook on politics and war with such colors that it's impossible to ignore the layers. An eccentric suicidal officer triggering the end of civilization, an over enthusiastic indulgent commander keen on waging a war, a President who is a pussy, a Russian Ambassador who despite all the chaos decides to spy and then Strangelove, whose one hand seems to be still in control of his Nazi duties. The struggle between Strangelove's right hand and the the enritre body is quiet a spectacle, where his mind tries to provide a solace for human kind post nuclear war, his right hand covered by a black leather glove tries to kill him. I don't think I will be able to grasp all of it just by one watch, but what I did understand was the timidity of human mind in front of its own foolishness. Drunk Russian president is rather reluctant about taking any decisions and expects to be talked 'nicely' to. A struggle goes on between idea of achieving immortality and greatness, and trivial means of survival. The pilots on the bomber are so determined to follow their orders by an insane captain that one of them launches a bomb while siting on it. I always thought and believed that humans were so malleable and gullible. They'd believe everything that is said if promised with glory. This struggle is not a modern phenomena, it has been prevalent from the times of Greek epics and Indian warriors. Somehow mankind has always been fascinated with the idea of sacrifice, they fight for glory and attain immortality through sacrifice. Though I cannot criticize or contradict that, at least it is way better than killing yourself over a boy/girl.
It is fascinating how over the course of five decades priorities have shifted for people. Take the example of London Olympics Opening Ceremony, how amusing. Given the death match industries are playing with environment, I seriously doubt the credibility of glorifying Industrial Revolution and that too with Mordor like towers and poor people laboring, for the first time I thought of our Commonwealth Opening Ceremony to be superior. Voldemort and Black Plague? Really? It isn't some kindergarten orientation, where fictional character tell stories to make little kids understand history. But anyways, I managed to ignore this lack of culture, only till a bunch of punk-dressed jazzy kids started tweeting each other and dancing on electro music, they might have asked David Guetta to perform as well. Whatever happened to Danny Boyle.
Anyways, I am always left with a question whenever I watch such movies, that focus on greater events. Whatever happened to common masses? The people who will be bombed and burnt alive during those blasts, the people that Bane kills and Batman tries to save over and over again (though I wished they all died but still), the people Kevin kills so effortlessly in 'We Need to Talk About Kevin'?
How insignificant are these lives? People and the World is moved and governed by a bunch of neurotic eccentrics. Only the insane can drive the masses for long. Example, from Adolf Hitler to Gandhi, two  of the messiest masterminds that are a household name.
I guess we need someone now who is beautifully bonkers!
;)

My Women

I hold the hard bind book in my hand, flip the pages through
Words get bigger and bigger, shade my mind and hurt my eyes
Swiveling my fingers through brown sheets, my hair cover the sides
Blinded and lost in the graphics of so many worlds.

She would long for a sleep, and she would stab her kids to death.
Shutting the room with tape and towels, she would suffocate herself to death.
Depressed and burdened, burdened with the weight of her genius
Lonely and unhappy, her blood will then flow through veins of generations.

I see her walking to the river, done with a letter to her husband
And ready for content, she seems to be walking slow.
Long before she said "Death makes you heavy", and now
She fills her pocket with stones and drown.

Little, timid and mesmerizing, her beauty shone through ages
Through hearts and times. She was grabbed and rushed away.
Cornered and mutilated, fought for and abandoned.
Numb with sedatives, and deaf with childhood howls, she made history.

I heard you put on her favorite coat and thought of another confession
The garage didn't shut down on its own. She took a leap
And flew to a corner, sat and waited for relief
Not bright as others, not sane like many. The last breath was soothing.

The words echo now. They tell a tale of my women.
Hollow and unreal, it broke them down and made them surrendered
An oblivion, promising the calm they long sought.
I promise to follow you there one day, until this hard bind book holds me.

The Last Ride.

Holding her by the waist, looking closely and trying to find a freckle. Her skin, so clear and clean, smooth and slippery like a fish. Though I just met her couple of days back, she feels magnetic. I know its inappropriate, I know it will be wrong. But from what all she told and how she told, this doesn't seem wrong.
Accompanying me quietly and submissively, we enter the room. I feel confident, though I seem to be unaware of her being, her perspective, her world, but this growing urge inside me asks me to bother not.
We had talked earlier, for a little while. When I saw her for the first time, I wanted to hold her. Not the innocent romantic way, but with a motive to devour.Grab her and consume. She walked fast in front of my car's headlights and I felt sickly aroused like Brando in Last Tango in Paris. Oh god! Worse thoughts, now I am recalling that scene, girl lying on her stomach, and Brando grabs some butter to do anal. This is profane, I should not be thinking that, but while I see her walking away, such scenes oscillate in front of me.
Tightening my grip around her, I reach for the lips. Her repulsion or reluctance once occurs in my mind, but I am disappointed. Instead she reciprocates, moving her lips fast and strong, a passionate hungry kiss. My hands move away from her waist and over to her chest, kissing and exchanging bites, I grasp her dense, fluffy breasts.
Taking my mind away from her back, I look back at the steering wheel. Its hard to focus, but I remind myself of her age. She is young, very young, almost half my age. But how ripened. The stride and sway of her hips had me salivating, so I call her. She is still in my vision, I see her stopping and picking the call. Answers, starts walking again. Trembling voice, I invite her for dinner, surprisingly, an acceptance. Denial was so prominent in my mind, that I hadn't imagined my reaction after acceptance. The heat in me gets stronger and deeper.
Her bosom fits perfectly in my palm, squeezing and pinching, she allowed my playfulness. Unbuttoning her shirt, I pull my mouth away from her face and push it right between the breasts. I felt ashamed, i felt disgraced, I felt extremely aroused. The blood in my veins was pumping harder than ever, I could feel my member getting harder and preparing for a feast. "You disgust me.", I say to myself. But I continue the devouring and leave her wet all over. Her hair fall open, on her shoulders and face. She wasn't just an epitome of my lust or erotica, she was very beautiful. Somehow it made me feel guiltier. Seeing my face, she took in charge. Grabbed my hand and pulled me up, turned around and sat across my abdomen. Moving softly, higher and lower, upwards and downwards. Then slowly moving down, down to relieve my pumping blood.
I pick her up on time right outside her home. She wasn't dressed up, the usual. Walks inside, crosses her legs, and I let myself observe her careless sexuality. As we reached my place, none of us talked, maybe because we knew what the night was bringing. After plating up and finishing the necessary formalities, I reach for her hand. I wonder why doesn't she pull it away. Further and forward, I keep making moves, she keeps allowing. As soon as I get up to take her inside, she walks towards me and whispers in my ear, "If this happens, tonight will be the last you see and hear of me. Your choice." It was like wind to me, slightly tickling my ears, no heed given to what was heard, instead her closeness turned me on and intoxicated slightest bit of sanity.
As she came up, it was hard to believe her age. The pleasure was beyond anything I had ever felt. Now that she had proved herself, I get on. Trying to ignore flashes of Lolita and Last Tango in Paris going like a slideshow in my head. One of them reminded me. I hold her arms up and tear open her half-unbuttoned shirt. I feel amused but in rush again, The scene proceeds like the movie. I pin her down and fill her up with my lust. Moaning and screaming, there came a time when she asked me to stop, but I had forgotten myself and went on without resistance. I tried all I could on her, and when it was done, her mutilated beauty overwhelmed me. I stared at her for an hour and she pretended to sleep. Regaining conscious, my monstrosity sat timid in front of her. Quiet and calm, at dinner she heard all my stories. Of childhood, of older times, not once did I ask her about hers. I move forward for a kiss, her finger are placed softly on my cheeks and kisses back like a lover, a partner.
Morning comes, and I bid her goodbye. On the way back we talk and laugh like a couple,. A couple in love. She gets off at few places to wind up some errands and then I drop her home. She left a smile on my face and a guiltless heart. All throughout I was captivated, and the excitement of seeing her again left me restless. I felt like a renewed man. Picking up my phone I giver her a call, it rings and rings and falls dead. Once more. Once more. Once more. I keep trying and the call is not received. Strange worry fills me, I rush to her home, where I dropped her. But it was nothing but a long road branching out to many more. Night falls and my gut hurts. I crave her. A hunger, an insatiable thirst takes over me. And I recall. The whisper.



"What drives me insane is the twofold nature of this nymphet, of every nymphet perhaps, this mixture in my Lolita of tender, dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity. I know it is madness to keep this journal, but it gives me a strange thrill to do so."

An Ideal. Some Relationships.

Movies, people and million other little pieces. Not being able to feel permanency in life is a rather strange feeling. I think, something has changed. Inside me. I have always been a strong believer in human relationships, I cherished movies like Blue Valentine, Restless and even Crazy Stupid Love for that matter. Movies where the focus is on relationships, not just the one between a boy and girl, but more.
But now, I seem to be losing that passion for people conducting and functioning in bonds with other people. I don't deny that it is quiet lovely. I have a friend who has been in a long distance relationship for last  7 years, my brother in fact is quiet an epitome of functional love.
I like feeling love around me, even the kind you feel from a friend. But an instinct inside me screams out its transiency. Maybe it is a transition, the one you feel while stepping into a new house, and then entering into a room, the moment you see it its yours. Maybe I have stepped into a new house and found my perfect room.
People are driven such small things, the greatest men to almost insignificant one. I have watched movies like Persona and Everything is Illuminated, there is no greatness about them, maybe that's why they appeal so much. Though need of companionship may seem unnecessary, but it is required. There are times when shutting yourself and doing nothing helps, but has the greedy heart ever been so innocent? Talking and communicating adds and removes various things. I might feel these trivial relationships are meaningless, but the truth is that they are mandatory. Who would want to travel the world (happily alone) and come back to an empty house? We want someone to tell our stories to, if not always accepted, but just heard. Though beauty of such little aspects feels fading, in the world all around...
Dark Knight Rises, I can talk about it for hours. But what I feel really is, how magnanimous and courageous, does love make some. Bruce Wayne fought the hardest to fulfill the dreams of his father for Gotham, caretaker of the people. Alfred, the most amazing character, sticks beside Wayne family even years after the demise of his real masters. Even while standing in front of their graves, he apologizes for failing them. Where did such beauty disappear? We all are puppets of our childhood, a series of events that lead to form a man or woman. Catwoman lacked a family, and she changed with just few words, "There is more to you". And how Bruce reminds Gordon of the day he lost his parents and what gave him hope was Gordon telling him that it wasn't the end of the world. Its not fantastical, its a story behind every soul worth looking at. A bit of love when you have your first fall, forms you and an ignorance of some innocent need is like dominoes falling.
Jung wasn't wrong. There is a collective consciousness that binds people, keeps them in a grid. This worlds needs a larger emotion, but even when they do feel it, they'll probably grab someone closest to them and make them a part of it.
I don't appreciate the state of our civilization, it is very close to being a disaster. And this, it doesn't apply to all. One needs to be aware of oneself. Happiness, is the ultimate aim for everyone. From Batman to Christopher (Into the Wild), in their final moments, they seek for a home. But to understand the beauty of it, a disaster is needed. A big one, that induces fear and a need for survival. All of us should put ourselves out there, feel threatened and beaten once in a while.


I would like to conclude this with a quote by Ra's al Ghul-

" If you make yourself more than just a man, if you devote yourself to an ideal... you become something else entirely. A legend, Mr. Wayne, a legend!"

Like the Movies

An experiment, it all feels like an experiment

From success to love, from happiness to sadness

Is it a hive of past recollections or is it the absence 

Men Women they pass like blurry villages seen from a train

Images don't leave anything behind

Believing in absolute distrust and failures.

Get out of home, walk, reach work,sit

Talk, laugh, giggle, return, love, listen, sleep

All felt and seen from a frame not real.

The body, it seems to melt. Eyes see into an oblivion

Unreal and never ending. The people aside don't matter

Neither do accomplishments. It is a state of numbness.

Watching and moving, like a movie star.

But waiting for it to get over.

Higher and higher, spending nights in smoke.

Feeling? Neither happiness nor regret.

Believing? Neither this nor that.

It is not something great.

Neither should be heard.

What it is, is absence. Absence of anything at all.

The vicious cycle of monotony.

The world around will shatter, and will reveal

Reveal us to something better. Something to feel.

This isn't real. Neither is anyone true. 

Dream

Its a cycle, a dark thorny cycle of cruel monotonous events. I would wake up every morning, half dreamy half scared. Nightmare and dreams are like drugs, one learns to feed on them. I have been a vivid dreamer, daydreaming monsters and animals in a cabin. From late night escapes to early morning comfort. People who indulge in daydreaming seem lonely. But he wasn't lonely, he was successful and ambitious, people swarmed around him. His ways with women were unorthodox, but they worked. How amazing can someone be in this game, this art, coping up with surreal needs! Though understanding this 'hero complex' in him was not hard, but he carried it beautifully.
I believe we fell in love, for some time maybe. But I remember I did. It was not perfect, when  is anything ever perfect, maybe in the imaginary world where reciprocation is never unequal. He had a warm and superior air about him. Feeling of inferiority around those you are not competitive with, can be disturbing.
I'd wake up every other morning, feeling lesser and menial, it was those dreams I had. One after the other, the way all this affects is unexpected. He would not say anything, rather laugh at my jokes, listen to my blabbering with sheer amazement, make fun with/of me and give the most beautiful kisses. Unusual things are felt when you are insecure. The  most trivial things, they grow, expand inside you and alter. Alters emotions, alters behavior and increases the defense.

I take him to meet a man. A man who has been a part of me and my conscious. I believed I loved him, with all I had. Grown apart by different cities and many years, that man and me held unusual places in each others life. I had taken my superior partner to meet him for no relevant reason, it has been years and I have been happy, so probably I desired an amalgamation of past and present. How foolish! We reach, I see my ex-lover sitting and waiting. Before I approach him my mind goes into flashback. Every little thing was now standing in front of me, a little pendant,  a notebook, childhood cards, reminiscence of an innocent, naive love. But i shake myself and move forward to introduce him. Looking much older than when I saw him last, the ex greets and smiles. Just then, after that instant, like a flash, he pushed me aside and started shouting.
He called me names. Names I never expected to be heard from worst of my enemies.
He mocked me, grabbed me and shook me. I had gone deaf, I just saw jaws moving and eyes widening.
He went on and on. The reminisces, they fell one by one, vanished like smoke.
He took my hand and made me stand in front of the man I had brought to see him. I tried looking in his eyes, wondering if his touch is still that warm.
Vacant. Everything.
We left our ex and left. I tried grabbing his hand, but he shook it off. I tried reaching out to him, but he shrugged me away. He called his friends and told them about the things my ex had told him about me. I was standing right in front of him. RIGHT in front. He went on. Then he went quiet, probably his friends were calling me names too.
I had known that I didn't deserve him, I had known he was superior, but we managed so many years together that I forgot about the complex. I asked to put the phone down. He did.
We were now at the airport, he took his jacket off from me and started walking away.
Just before leaving he said, "You don't deserve me." He was very polite, and smooth. The hand on my shoulder still felt comforting. I had seen that coming. It was obvious. But still I sat in the waiting lounge, wondering what had gone wrong.


I wake up with a jerk, a shock and a pain in the chest. It was 7 am and my alarm would go off in 10 more minutes. Was I glad it was a dream?  Was I relieved that none of it was real?
But such dreams have always moved me, made me do things that I won't even think of attempting.
That was some day, and now, I sit in a cabin, trying to daydream some monsters and animals. Every morning I wake up with either a nightmare or a forgotten dream.

Fragments.

I am going through old pictures, not very old but of a different time. And that's when I feel it. A punch inside my stomach, one after another. I almost grabbed the table to not fall down. sometimes I feel I am living a serious of hallucinations like in Stay. And in reality, everything is just coming to an end.
I kept going deeper in the past, fragments. Fragments of fragmented relations, little pieces and then a complete whole. Friends and lovers lost. With the music in the background, I try to feel good about myself. I seem to be running out of thread to tie those fragments together, they cease to make sense now, but I am trying. Rewinding back, I think of the first man I met and then the last man I left. there are such strange similarities in people separated by almost a decade. Then I think of the only one I thought I loved, but oh the relief its absence gives me. There are times when I can't breathe, and then I feel free.
My Week With Marilyn, a beautiful movie. Marilyn Monroe lived like a disaster, and such a lovely one. The third assistant director falls in love with her, but what he doesn't realize until the end is that he was a fragment, a little sip of alcohol she took while crossing hundreds of bars. He intoxicated her for a little while, so she doesn't fall apart. It made me think of how relationships are in general. It's getting very common now, people leave. Like just abandon and leave. Drop others somewhere and just walk away, without a care in the world. I wonder if it even hurts them to see someone suffer now.
I do, sometimes. What's hard is to erase the touch, there's a warmth or cold chill that's left behind somehow. Some have been cold and disgusting even after years of efforts, and some just engrave themselves in you. Its like a mark left, a drink too strong a night a bit long. But you cannot forget either of them. Not even the fearful escapes and neither the guilty walkaways.
The poignant beauty of tragic endings leaves an impression. The Lover was unusual, very unusual. Its not glamorized like Lolita, neither does the girl wear bright red lipstick with heart-shaped glasses and sits under sprinklers reading fashion magazine. She is sad, just plain sad. Maybe that's why the movie seemed less appealing to many, because the sex encounters between the Japanese man and her were in a broken shack somewhere in a fish market. It had a way of defining and characterizing love. Nobody murders anyone, nobody dies...just an encounter of a 15 year old with a man much older. It is of course not for those who have a judging eye, and will discard it automatically as a pedophile romance.
I am in a pleasant state right now, busy working and making sense out of things. But there are some times when I look back at the people in those fragments, and wish for a comeback. But one learns to get comfortable with their messy arrangement. Its too comfortable, but things linger on. And maybe, just maybe, a decade down the line, I'd still be in a pleasant state, looking back at pictures and not feeling devastated. Instead a memory of those lovely warm touches will still seem fresh.


Though I wonder at times, what and who will I end up with, whether I will end up with anyone AT ALL. And then I am reminded of 25 more articles to cmplete!
Argh!
:-|

Absolute.

Television and cinema seem to mould and effect our minds, change the filters through which we perceive and understand things.
Yesterday, I saw Gangs of Wasseypur. Interesting and entertaining, but since I had seen City of God, through out the movie I was looking for differences between the two. To an extent they both seemed very similar to me, but Anurag Kashyap added a new dimension to "seemingly communist" gang wars. This was the picture of love and family, though  love was really sex but this crude raw and chaotic movie pointed out the gory monotony of Wasseypur. A cycle of revenge, an ignorant civilization completely unaware of any emotion or motive outside of blood, revenge and rivalry.
This need of control and power, a hunger of fulfilling egos and quenching thirst, is this any different from where we stand? Human relationships are simplified as long as they stick to primal and basic concepts.
I don't understand this need in me to criticize every young kid or old man around me, ask them, question them and defeat them. Treat them as minors and insignificant insects who are no more productive than pests and pigeons. Things will be a lot easier and sorted if people stopped prohibiting themselves in order to be liked and please everyone. The fight for feminism, the quest for love, the pain of separation. Why? How?
'Like Crazy', another highly romantic, slightly realistic and strangely imagined movie about a couple. I will confess that I saw the trailer and felt sad, so I watched because I thought it would make me cry. That little love I have felt, it made me miss that. But surprisingly, it made me quiet glad for leaving. I liked that this incomplete love didn't ruin their lives like some pathetic jerked out od-ing couple on the verge of killing themselves. But that's all. I wonder that what is it that i seek to achieve or feel in life, I always dismiss half the things that upset people by saying it's too little to hurt. Then, its too little to please? Maybe I am too sexually frustrated, but even when I was having a lot of it, I wasn't very happy too. Now I suddenly feel like the kid from Its Kind of a Funny Story, but its not.
Back to human relationships. Money, it's a very wicked thing. For me at least.
Brother, I have a brother, and amazing clownish one. He has been a father, a friend, a punching bag and an ass. Sometimes I feel that my relationship with him is a bit like the one shared by Carrey Mulligan and Michael Fassbender in Shame (obviously I am not comfortable standing naked in front of him). He is not a sex addict like Brandon, but he have his idiosyncrasies. We both have separate identities for different people, and the moment I see him hovering around my made-up presence, I feel threatened and turbulent. Its like a shaky feeling, and I know he feels that too, as he told me about it. People feed on each other. For love, for guilt, for happiness and for sex. Its sick and is almost parasitic, but its amusing to see how content it makes them, how satisfied people are in these relationships. I am not saying that I am not, but all of this seems like a colossal social experiment.
And I do all of this, start conversations and giggle, smile and joke about other people, make fun of things around and criticize some more..what is the truest emotion then? The one felt when you are crumpled on a bed like sheets and the man with you seeks nothing more than one night. Its not love, he is not asking this question to please me, my answer won't impress him. Either this or the sheer high of grabbing a knife and stabbing someone to death. You have to be truest to do that. From absolutely justified to absolute stupidity, this absolution is what I seek. How? Where? When? I don't know.

Not too late.

This entry after more than an year. Its not that i have stopped writing. I am kind of incapable of that it seems. Its the way i just judge my sanity or the opposite. Poetry has been the only outlet, i did start doodling something with colors earlier but i seem to have lost a penchant for that.
So, yeah. What made me write? Maybe the fact that all day at work I am writing non-sense on automobiles, soccer and some other irrelevant stuff. I need to feel a bit more productive. Though that rambling helps me make money, but it is highly boring and pale. I don't want to be stuck in that. I am kind of liking it there now, and this is it how it starts isn't it? You start liking that shithole. It makes you feel comfortable and getting paid for procrastination does change your mind. There were things I wanted to do, i am doing them still. Or maybe its a lie i tell to console myself. I am reading, I have started Mrs. Dalloway. Watching movies is going pretty fine too. Like yesterday I saw City of God (its pretty amazing, i think they should add that to our course. Will be a nice take on communism) and today 'Its Kind of a Funny Story', the story in itself is a bit mainstream, but was told wonderfully. It tried bringing back the grayness of psychiatric wards in a peachy jovial way. Times in cinema have also changed, there was 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', and now it's a child under depression due to peer pressure. I mean, SERIOUSLY? The edge or say the breaking point, the entropy level has fallen to mundane and capitalized duties that they take up as loyalties to deify themselves.

Stories that my parents tell me, do move me and make me think of the shifting parameters. But i have always compared times and cultures through cinema. 'Girl Interrupted' wasn't so long back, but the reason it was so wonderful then and what it conveyed and propagated is too mainstream now. Cutting yourself has become a trend and trying to commit suicide is a way of getting away. Nobody has a real reason anymore. Norman fucking Bates didn't try to kill himself, THAT was being freaking messed up, not whining over some douche you left because he asked for sex (no, seriously there are some people like that). I don't even want to start on the feminist front.
I agree that issues today are different. Yes, some people are really trying to keep it up and catch up to whatever state of happiness or stability suits their mental frame.
Anyways, the point was that has it become mainstream to hate a 9 to 5 job? Yes, i don't like the environment. Mainly because i belittle them, and the highlight of their conversations make me nauseous. I see the way they smile and laugh, making all those faces that scream " I WISH I HAD DONE SOMETHING BETTER". They are practically on the verge of zombying out. I think this is what the greater minds of our generation predicted a Zombie Apocalypse to be like. The leviathans (wrt Supernatural Season 7) will feed drugged cornflour to masses and turn them into fat incomprehensible vegetative beings.  But when i go there, I make my own jokes and have people laugh at them. Its amusing how malleable they are. The whole point of this discussion is, Why am I getting comfortable? Is this how human mind is supposed to react when it finds itself in a group of people, indulging in an occupation? But there is no sense of familiarization or comfort that I share with them. . I will have to think more about it.
Now, sex! I am at the peak of my desperation. I have never been without it for more than two months and that limit is crossed. I am having dreams and wild imaginations. its horny, slutty, gruesome and bloody. Ah! that reminds me of my renewed fascination with blood. i don't plan on cutting myself of course, the act makes the thrill too dark. So, for this revival a guy is to blamed. He heard my stories and told me his. So, passion and fascination with wounds was overlapping. My relationships have always been strange. When a man and a woman generally converse they find common interests like music, art, dance or may be even some fantasies .
(But then again, I judge myself for this cheap indulgence I want to enjoy. My real charm for wounds can only be tested when I get a real one. The kind that lands you in a hospital or gets you stitches. This particularly hasn't happened so I'd stick with a safer word for my 'peculiar interest' in wounds and blood.)
So, with this man I share this peculiar interest. And like normal people wanting to experience similar interests, I want to do so too. I want to have an intoxicating crimson evening with this man.
Let's see if this materializes. But if it does..oh my my!
:D