This is a change I want to document.

I had thought I would write about something to register the change, but with no luck. And then I realized.. well,

a) I have lost most of my readers, I don't get any more comments on the blog for the content in any case.

b) Any change in the content will only seem temporary if It isn't preceded with a disclaimer that it is not temporary.

So before I move onto more scintillating compositions, I thought the note was necessary.



P.s- All this because I didn't have a topic. No, I am not this boring in reality. I would ask you to try me, except this isn't the right medium for that.

P.p.s- Stop now, perhaps?

What next?
The drama is over, love.

So now we're in deep trouble. Deep deep trouble.

I don't even want to go under the bridge, youknowwhatimean?

I want to stay on the bridge, have you lie beside me, as we watch the sea and talk about the difference between a subconscious and an unconscious mind.

Come away with me?

It is a wall I hide behind.
I am aware and I know when it's right to admit. I want to stop writing about you and go back to my cryptic self, but this makes me feel like I have an emotion to lie flat on, when the pain mounts onto my back.
I want to write about things that matter, and there is so much that does.

There are flaws in me, more flaws in you. And even more flaws in between us, with us.
I dare to love those flaws.

Do you, dare, move those beautifully lashed eyes to me?
Don't write me off just yet?

You called me when you wanted feedback for your movie.
You called me when your movie was a raging success.
You called me at your most inspiring moment.
You called me when you were lonely.
You call me when you want to discuss how Alice from Alice in Wonderland defines naivete in English Literature.
You call me when you don't want to speak and only listen.
You call me at your 100 % happy moment.
You call me when the whole world calls you pretentious and superficial.
You want to be with me when you can't stand the whole world.
You still to be with me when I annoy you.
You still want to be with me when everyone else is falling in love with you.
You still want to be with me knowing who I truly am.

And yet, you have the nerve to turn around and say that you "can't" love me.
That you don't have those emotions in you.

Am I schizophrenic or are you?

Once upon a time, there were a certain pair of shoes.
You know the deal with shoes, right? Everyone wants different kinds of shoes. Different sizes, shapes, colours and patterns.

Some are superficial, and want fancy looking shoes. Some want just comfort. Some are smart enough to bag both in one, but that's rare.

So once upon a same time, I wore a particular shoe that I loved. It troubled me sometime... perhaps, some didn't like how it looked on me, but it fit. It just fit me. You know how shoes can get. After a few years, they just slide into your feet like they belong there.

Anyway, Along came... polly?

Polly had preferences. We fought over shoes. We fought like we would pull each strand of hair out of each other's scalp. He annoyed me, but they were fascinating conversations.

He had strict notions of how his shoes should be. He wouldn't budge from his notions, he'd say. That shoes need to be a certain way. I would cringe at his shallowness.

Somewhere down the line. I fell in love with Polly's shoes. They fascinated me, not for what they were, but because when he wore them, and I wore my shoes.. we fit. It all just made sense.

Polly expressed his liking for my shoes very seldom. I knew he loved my shoes too. He would tell me, but very rarely.

We have been friends for 2 years now. Polly and me. Polly's shoes are the only kind I want to wear.
But he's the deal with Polly. Polly has very fantastical ideas of how shoes need to be a perfect mix of comfort and beauty. And he won't rest until he finds a pair like that. He falls in love with every other shoe. But he won't turn around to see my pair.


My shoes are unique. They're more comfortable than pretty, but they are pretty.
Polly needs comfort. I know he needs comfort. He likes the thrill of wearing a new shoe and the excitement of a shoe bite. But deep down, some of those cuts haven't healed and he needs my pair.

But he won't turn around to see my pair. He won't recognize the potential of my shoes.

What is wrong with my shoes?

Tell me, baby, where did I go wrong?

"... I'll change for you, I'll play the part"