ramblings of a bored 14 year old

i am bored. incredibly. there really is nothing much that i need to do at home. and volunteering to help, does not fit my p.o.a.

i am bored. been an hour and a half since the damned power failed. i hate power failures. i hate darkness. it somehow stifles me. like the darned heat in kolkata.

i am bored. i am dying to switch the x-box on. its only been a week since i managed to force mom to buy it for me. i am not bored of it yet. i wouldn't mind my i-pod now either. i can't seem to find it though, i must have lost it. thank heaven's... maybe its time for a nano.

i am bored. i have spent the past five minutes, counting each line of sweat that trickles down my forehead. sad, they weren't too many in number. that could have kept me busy. for a while.
i am bored. i am only 14, i hate adults. what difference does it make? my 18 year old sister has gone sashaying off to the mall, spoilt brat couldn't take the heat within these four walls. i wasn't allowed to. i hate adults.

i sometimes, contemplate murder, when i am bored. i perhaps am not a violent person, i perhaps would not kill a human grotesquely, but i contemplate. i respect those who kill. they have power. over people, who beg, in front of them for their lives. i sometimes, wonder, do they replay it in their minds, when they are bored? for the rush of adrenalin? when they fuck?
i hate my sister. the giggles. her friends. the mangy kitten that pooped on my bed. her delinquently multi-coloured fish.

i am possibly haapy she is not home now. i am possibly happy, the rest of the household is on the terrace, orgasming over the non existent brilliant breeze. i am happy the candle is flickering, slow and steady. i am happy for the stainless steel ladle.
i like holding the fish. i often to it. see them squirm out of water is funny. their fins flapping hysterically, their dead eyes appearing deader by the second.

i really cannot get myself to like gave, he has to be the most ridiculously colourful fish in the aquarium. how my sister named all 14 is a surprise. not a very pleasant one though. he's small enough t o fit in my palm and the water filled ladle. he is stupid enough to try to move in it.

i burnt my hand last week. i did not realize that the stupid twat had left the geyser open. i cannot understand the importance of warm water in summer. i guess gave realizes my discomfort. the water can't b that warm though... candles test my patience.

i like seeing the little bubbles appear in the water. it took a long time, but i like the smoke emit, ,almost translucent. i like seeing gave squirm the way he does, trying to escape. his gymnastics to flee the gradually rising temperature seems funny.

the futile attempts he makes desperately to prevent himself from getting scalded against the now hot stainless steel now seems funnier. i smell singed fish. rather unpleasant.

gave seems no very grateful to receive the sudden splash of cold water on his fins. guess, he wants more. the light dims. slow and steady. hissing noises emit from the ladle.

this is better than cutting fish. there is no blood to deak with. no goop to clean. the ladle has stopped vibrating from gave's movements, for a while now, i think. its hard to keep the track of time in the ridiculous darkness.

the slow put-put-put of the generator next door dies down. i hate the suddenness with which the lights flash back on. momentarily blinding me, making me drop the ladle. i hate being distracted.

thankfully, the sticky gooey mess, that now symbolizes gave has not spilled out of the ladel. its amusing to see the once colourful gave, a sticky smoking mess.

i hate household work. i hate the rough green soap that apparently makes utensils shine. i hate having to try too hard to scrub off the black grime off the base of the ladle.

i hate having to pretend nothing happened. i hate missing out on the chance of gloating as my sister realizes the mysterious disappearance of the precious gave. maybe she will cry. maybe, just shriek shrilly and get on my nerves. maybe go out buy a new one. maybe, she won't even miss him.

thank god, the lights are back. i think i will plug in my x-box now.

sad endings

all love stories, end sadly... that was what juana believed. at 49, she seemed rather indifferent towards her unmarried friends as they went berserk trying to get married. and of her married ones, she had no high regard. with every new dawn that greeted her, her scorn grew stronger. she believed that new day began, to remind the unfortunate ones of their bleeding heart... each new day began, to thrive on heartbreaks, to usher new ideas of dishonesty and distrust, to nurture hatred and bitterness, to give life to cruelty, to drink from the fresh tears that sprang to the human eye on the slightest provocation...

not that she had never fallen in love... indeed she had. she had serenaded him in delicious moonlight as he stood abashed at the hostel window; she had whisked him away to a delightful weekend by the beach as he smiled, surprised; she had toiled in the kitchen, perfecting recipes of the heart and he sold his soul, she made love with uninhibited passion, emotions and expertise... and they were swept away. oh, she had loved, deep, she had loved true, she had loved innumerable times, each time with the same passion, the same honesty and the same fervor, but alas, never had she allowed them to turn into stories: with a mind and life of its own, with emotions, with sentimental tentacles overpowering you, squeezing from your eyes droplets of pearls and then, finally, leaving you, a broken heap on the floor...
she had loved, felt the unique happenings of each time embed in her mind, felt them stir feelings experienced and unfelt in her heart, felt immense attraction, turned into a possessive woman, jealous and unrelenting and played the coy mistress, seductive and intriguing.

yes, she had felt it all. she knew every action, every move, every emotion by heart now... as she sat in front of a huge mirror, mechanically dabbing powder on her neck, her face, feelings of disgust overtook her mind... somewhere in the dimly lit recesses of the alley outside, thunder clapped, loud and menacing. her hooded light eyes rolled lazily towards the worn couch at the end. he was sprawled all over it, his hairy paunch visible through a tear in the vest, large sweat stains adorned his shirt, draped limply over the edge, covering a large rip in the upholstery, a dribble of drool traced its way towards his fleshy jowls, trembling slightly as snores filled the room.
he was the only man she had allowed to form a concrete existence in her life. pale skin, yellow eyes, a beetle stained mouth, he constantly smelled of perspiration and cigarettes, repulsive, yet in some perverse manner she loved him. loved him for all he was worth, perhaps for all he wasn't. a loafer, he had no income, but expenses he had innumerable. vices clouded his existence and yet, he was master and juana, beautiful, intelligent and rich, was slave. bound to him with an invisible cord, she worked tediously, to meet his demands, too keep up with her schedules, to earn and to see her hard earned money be siphoned off systematically, invested in alcohol, drugs and gambling.

a liar, a scoundrel, she had found him following her home as she walked back through the dingy lanes, the applause following her faithfully from the theater. an established actress, she had reveled in importance as directors kissed her feet, artists paid her handsomely for a smile and cheap tabloids thrived on her fast paced life. she lived alone, by choice, in a small apartment, not far from the theater, the idea behind her existence.

each day, as she woke up, she stepped in a different skin, of different hues, of different ideas. she lived through the night, sleepless, trying t o remember of her past, reality that seemed blessed with fortune and frivolity, yet with the new rays of sunlight streaming into her room, she forgot. drunk on the idea of capability, she forgot , as she comfortably stepped out of one skin into another, she forgot, with every character portrayed to perfection, every dialogue uttered in dillusion, every song, sung to distraction, she forgot. she lived by the lines, settling into lives that were so far from her, each leaving a distinct scar in her mind, each telling a story of love and betrayal, each, discouraging her to write her own. until, she met the man...

how she had loved and why she had sympathized, no one knew. no one knew why she refrained from communicating with her friends, why she retreated into a shell, impenetrable, cold and suffocating... no one knew who he was, and they cared... tabloids pried for stories, directors demanded answers, artists begged for a smile. but juana didn't speak. unknown to them all, she was writing, a story she had longed to write, forever, a story that was gradually taking over her senses, driving her into delirium as she craved to know the answer of her life, steeped deep in thought, she sat steady, painting her lips.
tucked away in a discreet corner or her little town, the rundown apartment was bought to enhance her creativity, and alone, in the dimly lit rooms, damp and depressing, she scribbled pages after pages. over the past year, five years into her longest ever relationship, she had developed a maniacal urge to capture in writing every thought, every emotion that plagued her mind. she obsessively scribbled his words, his habits, she scribbled theories and philosophies, slowly drowning in them, and embracing them as reality.
tonight, she would know, if love stories did have happy endings, tonight, at the sky above wept copiously, cleaning the dreary town of its pollution, she would know all about endings...
she gazed into the mirror, long and steady, a thousand words appearing in her mind, a thousand sentences forming, giving shape to he story, meaning to her life... she stared at herself, long and hard, flinching inwardly as beads of sweat traveled down her her forehead, cutting through layers of powder and colour, threatening to expose her wrinkles... she gazed on as a the yellow light of the room flickered on and off, complimenting the brilliant show of lights from the skies above...

she soundlessly rose from her seat,knowing her next moves by heart... her long trailed fluttered behind her helplessly as she advanced the sofa muttering,
"Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I'll call them back again to comfort me:
Nurse! What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone."

she stood steadfast, facing the man, who lay peacefully asleep as she smiled serenely,
"Or, if I live, is it not very like,

The horrible conceit of death and night..."

her slender finger squeezed the trigger gently, the bullet pumping out, straight into the heart of the man... his eyes opened in shock one final time, seeing her drop the gun in slow deliberation as he breathed his last. ragged hiccups filled the room, she clutched to her heart her precious pages, tears streaming relentlessly down her eyes and silently made her way to the door...

tonight, she knew, it was special, she was ready to return to the stage after five years of silence, after five years of boring dreary jobs, after five years abuse, five years of trauma and five years of learning... tonight, she would know how to portray loss as it is, unadulterated and pure... tonight, she was ready to play juliet.