Cryptic

Its been five days since I was here last. 

Well.

Not really, I come here about once a day, stare at the blank page about thrice a week, and then I leave. What can I say. Zonk, Vox makes me feel like an irresponsible parent sometimes but there isn't much you can do when all you have to say is bound to twist your brain till it sprains. Now I think its almost gone, and so you see me here. What is it I'm talking about.. I hint but I do not tell. I fear talking about things will make them real. Precious few of you would know. One, to be precise. And thank you, One. 
These things happen. And each time leaves you a little bit more certain that you can deal with it again. Perhaps that is true. But it's hard to tell when you're in the eye of it. Too many casualties though this time around..my pink checked pajamas and my old blue cushion and a creeping suspicion of a faithful guitar. Its silly I know. And so tomorrow I will play in the morning. I will make a song. A riff at least. 
The cushion and the pajamas can bide their time. Them I can do without.
And now enough of this. There's a Sunlight scene tomorrow, Zonk, pray that I can drink like I used to five years ago, this fretfulness is really a party-pooper. Not meaning to sound like a hopeless drunk, but drinking really was one of my favourite things. You see I'm a repressed, shy person in reality. All this shouting about in cyberspace is a load of crap. And drinking really lets me chill. I've washed my face with flush-water, I've drunk ashtray alcohol, I've sold i-pods for bubble solution, I've fallen in love, I've lost more than a day's worth of memories..I've even danced. You see now why I can't let this be another casualty. I never dance, Zonk. Ever. 
Sometimes you hit the 'Create' button on a faithful grey page intending to churn out large volumes of nothing and leave feeling a little..taken aback. Somewhat bemused and a whole lot lighter. There's things you can never trust anyone to know but turns out I do trust you. Look at the space to the right of the title of this post, Zonk. I'm marking it as accessible only to the neighbourhood. That's barely five or so of you. Three of whom I really don't even know. I guess its alright to say something sometimes, I guess the Universe knows the difference between release and tempting fate. It scares me a little to even bring 'fate' into this. So for the record, I leave it out. I suppose we're all a little mental in our own little ways. And I think we'll be alright.
Goodnight Zonk. Love you. 

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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