To Vomit the Undigestible

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Weakdays and Weekspots.

Because sometimes music is colour. And there's ruby in headlights, and sometimes peppermint is more than a flavour when the sun's coming down. I've been addicted to those Splenda mints that Lara bought me. They dont let me breathe easy and they sting the tip of your tongue like a last kiss.

I decided to take a walk with pink skies yesterday, my Nike's grey from trampling the pavement with rubber soled 'health' slogans of the past. Hands jammed in my pockets, hair tangled and dancng with tender breeze of February. I usually walk after dark where it's easy to be alone but yesterday, I was happier being human with the rest of the world than a slave to the old '01' early-evening interface. Plus, I wanted to defy routine on a day that Determination had earned itself a capital letter.

Too many of 'them'. I wanted to I slip-slide my way through the icy footpath drones while ducking my head and batting my lashes to shake them off. Microscopic snowflakes. Germs even. Undfortunately it was impossible. We are the fleas of a thousand camels that have infested the armpit of India. Theres no such thing as 'myspace' unless youre referring to a dot com.

I passed by Barista, the official 'expresso bar'. I would usually be seduced by the smell of caffine but it seemed bitter without the night to compliment it. Mock me. I'm the voice of empty coffee cups and silent conversations but yesterday, I didnt get my foamed Mocha or jump at the chance to cup my hands around the warmth, feel comfortable and protected amidst societal chaos. No, that was too safe, and safety is almost as frightening as danger. I was in the mood to be a little uneasy. I wanted Mosambi Juice. Or maybe a GangaJamuna. The blood of a ripe fruit to excite me. Turn me on. Besides, everything is cyclic. I need constant revolutions and mindfucks over which liquid to injest on any given evening and overstimulation in order to witness the polarity, the opposite, searching for some level of insanity (however miniscule) to fill in the rest, to connect the dots, to cleanse the bloodpipes and lace the brain with soul. A Ganga-Jamuna would have been great but the goddess of Digestion had predetermined my fate. All I found was a sole fly infested 'Ganna' juice stall on the entire length of my undiscovered 'athletes track'. It wasnt enough, and if I couldnt get just what I wanted, I wouldnt have any at all.

Mission accomplished. I succumbed to my uneasiness one way or another and walked on with large strides and my I pod. (I think I'm married to it sans official documents.)

Those who can't understand or are unwilling to try, ask me again how I lived through the War of the Unsatisfied Palate during the supposed winter of Boringbay. I sigh and shake and inform that I'm alive because sometimes when there isnt a shot of caffine or an organic combination Potassium and Vitamin C, music is colour. And there's ruby in headlights and peppermint is more than a flavour when the sun's coming down...

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