Norm.

Mad Mondays. 
Terrible Tuesdays. 
Weird Wednesdays. 
Troubling Thursdays. 
Fickle Fridays. 
Surreal Saturdays. 
Sad Sundays.

Nothing Else Matters.

Even if it's temporary

Even if it's imaginary

Even if it's plight

Even if it's not right

Nothing else matters.

The green leaves, the brown barks

Whizzed past, in a blur.

Frozen eyes at staring contests.

Our breaths threaten, but.

Nothing else matters.

Excuses, and explanations;

A fleeting touch, a hand held tight

And though it weakens my might.

"Entitled to illusions", she says.

Nothing else matters.

The Epilogue To A Sleepless Night

The windows brought a pink glow into the room.
He had just opened his eyes, after the hundredth round ofday-dreaming in the dark.
Laid on the mattress-less bed, on his back, his legs resting on some pillows, and hands spread; he moved his tired eyes and glanced outside the window.
He clenched his teeth in an effort to stop himself from shrieking out loud.
The iron fist returned to its favorite hobby of gripping his wind pipe.
There was no respite from breathlessness.

There was a man in white shorts and white socks who jogged past his ground level window.
There was a faint sound of some religious bells somewhere in the neighborhood.
There was a rickshaw, whose puller pressed the air-pouch and sounded the horn in the half-lit empty road.
There was a group of shabbily-dressed women, with a red powder shabbily smeared on their foreheads, all of whom half-ran with nylon bags clutched in their hands.

The fan spun noiselessly, over his head.
He scratched his forehead, and ran his finger around the corners of his nose.
The facts, the feelings, the faces, the words, the waters, the pain, the pleasure, all blended together into a blurry collage and he groped about with an imaginary hand, for something constant and concrete.
There isn’t much to do, he realized that, and he wasn’t the type who ever complained.
He always believed in making use of the moods.
But now, he thought to himself, the very act of dragging himself up to the desk, and turning the computer on, wouldn’t count much.
He was tired of being ruthless with himself.
The old tricks didn’t work anymore.

His eyes never left the window.
The outside brightened up gradually.
From the bed, he could get a good view of the road that was two feet from the window. Vice-versa, he thought, but that never bothered him.
More people. Busier people. More noises. Busier noises.
Did they really pretend to have trouble-less-existences, or did they have their heads trapped in un-resolvable thought-webs too, while they went about their routines?
Did it matter in the end?
And if it didn’t matter, why did such times and days occur, when nothing else mattered?
Was escaping duties a bigger crime than escaping worries?
He stretched his hand, and reached out for the packet of cigarettes, but he remembered the coughing fits, and paused.
More questions. Lesser answers.

He jerked himself up.
He wore his slippers, stuffed the wallet into his pocket, and left the room.
He left the cell-phone behind. He walked out.
There was only one way he could escape it.
Total oblivion.

Absolute.

Amidst all the debates.
Discussions. Discourses.
Against all the decisions.
One moment.
The world stopped.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
One moment.
How did it happen?
This was not planned.
This was, carefully, planned against.
Taken precautions against.
Almost destined not to happen.
One moment.
The brain sleeps, dreams, and wakes up, all at once.
Vision clears behind the closed eye-lids.
Breathlessness breathes life into the soul.
Even the buzzing stops.
The torment gets lost.
The non-existent takes form.
One moment.
It was absolute.
It couldn't have been an illusion.

Fifteen Day Fight: Day One

Discipline Defined:

No Music.
No Movies.
Inedible food. (Starving, not allowed.)
Early to bed, early to rise. (Even if it means just lying awake all night)
No Smoking.
No Friends (implied by: returning home by 10pm)
Alcohol consumption allowed, only under the supervision of an adult.
College or Bankruptcy: choose.

More to come.

I burn.

It was black and white.
Always, all ways, all the way.
Believe it or not, but
What takes my breath away,
And stuns me,
And staggers me,
And confuses me,
And confounds me,
Is seeing that white could break
Into seven more colours
And even more. And more.

And bewildered, I stare.
I observate.
I frown.
I burn.

Movie-View.

When a movie runs into the 3rd week, in Kolkata, expectations are unnaturally raised.

The Expendables

Story: Predictable. (Or am I growing old?)
Dialogue: Very good. Mainly because it was a little different from the usual action-movie-types.
Background Score: Usual, nothing noteworthy.
Screenplay: Engaging.
Camera-Work, Editing, Graphics etc: WOW.
Cast: With guest appearances by Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger, imagine the budget. Stallone, pleasant as usual. Statham, different, good. Jet Li: Ok. Others, are they among the Expendables too?

Delirium

A river.
Low light
Light breeze.
A boatman and his boat.
The former, watching. The latter, wondering.
Two people lying on their backs.
Their eyes are filled with one thing. Just one single thing.
One single entity.
The sky.
A deep blue velvet sheet with silver glitter sprinkled here and there.

The vision clears.
The ceiling glows in the dark.
The street lights stand still on it.
The car lights keep drawing, and re-drawing patterns.
Dots, circles, oval-shaped, elongated, squeezed, stretched.
No light.
No breeze.

The music starts.
The thoughts entangle.
The weight leaning on him has a face now.
A face with a pair of eyes.
Eyes with a stare.
A stare with emptiness and eloquence.
Contrasts. Conforms. Contrasts again. Hesitates a little. And conforms again.
Confirmed.

The music amuses. The very power of it. How dare it?
Each strung string that is touched and vibrated, tugs at other strings.
Strings that have been desperately tried to hide.
Strung tight. Yet vibrating.
Producing vibrations elsewhere, again.

The eye-lids lift themselves up.
The eye-balls move around.
It's still the the same.

Delirium: 90 minutes of god-knows-what-happened.

And, I hit the wall.

Okay, let's come down to the basics.
Love is an understatement, maybe.
But, this is the picture of perfect love they talk about in the movies.
It won't do any harm at all, if we just closed our eyes to that picture.
We would still be.

S. Mashi

She was a widow.
Her daughter was a widow.
Her grand-daughters, were 8 and 13 respectively.
And the elder one, was a widow.

She had come to the city to a hospital.
She had met this man and his wife, who took pity on her; old lady in rags, and had brought her to their home.
She has lived there ever since.
It has been twenty years. Or maybe more.
She was illiterate, she didn't exactly know how to count.
She didn't even want to learn.

Today, she was being thrown out of the house.
Dadababu's son said she is too hard to live with.
He said she was stubborn.
He said that he can't live with someone who can't even read the time on the clock.
He said that she didn't know how to cook.
She was being thrown out.
She looked at Dadababu.
He looked back.

Father: She has been here, even before you were born.
Son: I know, I have tried my best to adjust.
Father: This is my house. I need her. You can go out.
S. Mashi: I can't adjust. I hate the city. I am leaving.

A Copyrighted Conversation

"Full is my heart;
Half is my heart
In pockets n pieces
Is torn my heart
Where the eagles dare
Is his nightmare."

“Here i am to hold you tight
To hold your pieces in the rain
So that when the sun is back
You find yourself again.”

“Twish is typing-
the story of my life-
he is writing the story of my life-
O Twish! What is it?
That lies in the next line?
For I can't see,
over your shoulders
my pages
my destiny
In your trembling hands-
neurotic despairs-
you write you tear-“

“I am not dictating
I am not inside the story
I will observe, and watch the star
And just record every thing.”

“You are my scientist, my astronomer.”

“And you're my telescope's focus.”

“But you know what your name means?
Twinkle..twinkle...”

“Worse than that, my dear
It's twilight, not light
It's the beginning of the night
The end of the bright.”

“Twilight
you never twinke, is it?”

“No, Never a little bit.
I am the ‘dying light’,
Don't you get it?

“No, no
Not dying light
Only the beginning of the night
And nights can be beautiful
Don’t you ever see it?
Its when people get back home
It’s when lovers make love
It’s when darkness falls.”

“It's the red light in the evening
In Sanskrit
But, it's the dull pink hue
In reality.”


“So
It makes others look more beautiful
‘kone dekha aalo’"

“Okay, besh bhalo
your optimism
Or whatever, I dunno.”

Courtesy: Thinking Beans

The New Car

He was sitting on the yellow colored bench, with his hard-mustered patience. His six year-old heart heaved heavily with excitement. He just wanted school to end. He just wanted to run out and meet his Papa, who had promised that he would bring their new car to school, for the first time, that afternoon.
He didn't want to listen to their new Irish Ma'am anymore. He liked her a lot, but not today. Today, was very "important". Their new car.
It's very important, his mind told him. He can't waste time sitting here, with his giggling friends around him. He must be with his Papa today. "Ma'am doesn't know anything", he thought.
Ma'am gave them ten words to write the opposites of. He wanted to do it fast, and be the first one to submit it today. He was not in the mood for scoldings. He had other "important" things to worry about. Their new car. He submitted the worksheet and went to pack his bag. He hurried with the books, and stuffed them inside his small red-and white bag. He couldn't be bothered about them today.
He patiently waited for the bell to ring. His best friend was talking to a girl. He was scared of girls. They had such long hair, he didn't understand why. But, no, he had other things to think about today.
Finally, the electric bell outside the class trembled with its own sound. It rang in him a pang of pleasure, and he sprang up, and started running towards the door. His bag hit others, but he didn't bother; he just ran.
Then he bumped into something. His head hit something soft, and he looked up. Ma'am.
She held his arm tight and asked him to go back to his place. He felt a lamp inside him being extinguished, by force. He held his head low, and walked back, slowly. Ma'am asked the rest of his friends to leave, in a line.
Then, she came near him, and handed him his worksheet back. She said something in illegible words. Ma'am took his ID card, and asked him to stay inside the classroom. He couldn't go home. He wanted to know why Ma'am was in a bad mood, but now, he didn't have the time. How could he explain it to her? He wanted to be with her tomorrow, but not today. Their new car. Papa was waiting.
He looked at the sheet handed back to him.

Big - small
Dark - light
Heavy - thin light
Near - far away
Day - night
Pretty - ugly
Below - stairs above
Cold - hot
Bad - best good
Dry - wet

He wanted to ask Ma'am if he could do it tomorrow, but she was outside the classroom, talking to another Ma'am. Helpless, and feeling defeated, and swallowing tears (he was a big man, he couldn't cry), he sat down on the bench, pulled his bag away from the shoulders, and opened the zip. He took out his pencil box. He thought about their new car. Papa will be so angry.

Delayed Disclaimer

This is necessary.
Every post on this page, since the 31st of May, 2010, is fiction.
Not the type of fiction that is inspired from real life, you have to trust me blindly on that. It's the type of fiction that has been formed in the mind (not always mine), before I found how my AND other people around me might relate to it, if they wished. There's always a big obstacle preventing us to do so.
I have violated people's privacy before. I don't regret it or apologise for it. That was me. And this is me, albeit grown up. I don't need to "vent out" on my blog. I have other means of ventilation. More secure and permanent than a webpage.

Clicks.

Start.
My Computer.
Local Disk (E:)
Music.
English.
Enrique Iglesias.
Escape.
Play All.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Bengali.
Rupam Islam.
F-3.
Phire Chaulo.
Add To Windows Media Player List.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Local Disk (F:)
Personal Documents.
Saved Chats.

The Carpet.

He drove as fast as he could. He didn't dare to take his right foot off the accelerator. The car was already in the highest gear, so his left foot was jobless. And it was shaking bad. He hoped the speed would calm him down. It didn't, yet.
They say that right before you die, you get flashbacks of the most important moments of your life.
He was scared, now. He couldn't see beyond the windshield, because of the uncontrolled things that just flashed before his eyes, the uncontrolled voice kept deafening him. He couldn't be on the road, he had to go home fast, he needed to sleep, it was the only medicine he had ever trusted. He jabbed his leg down on the accelerator. Still, nothing blurred enough.
She was never important, he had known that, always. So, her face can't be a death knell.
She was never important enough.
She was just the carpet.
She wasn't even related to his life, to what he did, to what he thought.
She was just his carpet.
To be trampled upon, sat upon, and slept on, sometimes. She wasn't anything more.
He would always have other women to hold his hands.
He would always have other friends to listen to his poetry.
He would always have other men to be with him through thick and thin.
She was just his carpet.
But then he saw her with him at the party, that he didn't know she was invited to. He had taken his usual escort, and entered in his usual grandeur. And then, he had seen her. And his feet had disobeyed him, his hands had disobeyed his years of training. He freed himself from the girl's grasp, and rushed out to the car.
He had to sleep.
He pressed the clutch and the brake together.
He opened the door and slowly, climbed out. He could see the river beneath the bridge. He stood there, imaging how cold the water must be. He tried thinking of the fishes. Fishes were known for their infidelity, he thought, and smirked. He tried to grasp it, was he so, or was he not. Was she so, or was she not?
His cell screeched out loud "You have an SMS!"
He didn't bother to look at it.
He walked back to his car, and started the engine. His cell cried out again.
Irritated, he took it out, to switch it off.
It was his escort-girl calling. He let it ring, till the call ended. Then he saw the SMS.
"Come to the hospital. She cut her hand, she might not survive. Come ASAP."
He didn't know what to think next. He kept staring at the words, sitting there in the car, as the late-night trucks swerved around him, and passed away.
Now the flashback theory made sense, he thought.
His legs had stopped shaking.
He was her carpet too.

The Steel Stud

He woke up, on his bed, bathed in sweat. The nightmare was tiring. He could actually feel that he had been running. He lay still for sometime, and then, he reached out for his cell, to check if there was anything. Silly of me, he thought. There hasn't been anything for a long time.
He dragged himself out of the bed, and went to the wash-basin. He stared at the man there. The sweat beads on his forehead, running down the side of his face, a vein in the temple, throbbing visibly, and his Adam's apple going up and down in restless jerks. He wanted to scream his lungs out and smash the mirror and tear his organs apart, one by one, with his own hands, with the sharpest piece of glass. Shut up, and stop it, he told himself. Don't be dramatic.
He splashed water on his face, and washed his mouth thoroughly. He didn't like the smell of the toothpaste, it was too fresh. He looked at the food his maid had prepared, and then a churn in his stomach, drove all his appetite away. Hungry that he was, he hated the very sight of food. Forget it, and just go to work, he kept muttering under his breath.
He didn't change, he just wore his slippers, and grabbed the wallet and went outside. No cellphone, no keys. I have nothing to hold on to, nothing to let go. He didn't need to plug in headphones, there was always a song in his mind, a song that would plague his sanity all day, every day.
He walked slowly, pausing before every next step, and taking in the air, the colours and everything around him, as if, everything hurt. Every face he saw, hurt him even more. Every eye that looked at him, seemed to pierce him with the glance. Even the breeze was smirking at him, trying to fool him by running through his hair. It's not her fingers, I know, he retorted back to the wind.
He walked to the station, and bought a ticket. There was a steel stud in the coin pouch of his wallet. He touched with tenderness. It was the button of someone's long-discarded pair of jeans. He felt the pang, and squinted, he didn't want it there, but didn't know how to get rid of it. He put the ticket inside his pocket and walked away. The trains were too painful.
He bought a Coke, and a packet of cigarettes, and took a cab to his office. The song was still there on his mind, he needed to get rid of it. He asked the driver to turn on the radio, and borrowed his lighter.
The song inside was deafening him. He shifted from the left window to the right window of the car; there were too many people on the left pavement. Too many people, too many stories, he thought.
He closed his eyes. He was running. The same road, the same city, the same route. They always met there. He was always late. He always ran to her. Only this time, he couldn't find her. But he kept running, and running, throwing his bag away, not noticing that his wallet has fallen out of his pocket, he just kept running. He was out of breath, but not out of faith.
The cab reached his office and stopped. He opened his eyes. He had to pay. He put his hand into his pocket, and searched. There was no wallet. Only a steel stud came out of his pocket.
Then, he remembered.

Torn Apart

He built the barricade very carefully. Patiently, over the years, he built it, brick by brick, choosing each, very carefully.
I'll never let anyone trespass my property, he told himself.
But she broke the giant structure with the flick of a feeble finger.
And the bricks melted. All at once.
She pulled him close to her. Oh no, he thought, my legs go weak again.
She kissed him full over the mouth. He gave a stunned frown.
"I am real, you can kiss me back", she said.
He hadn't heard it. He had already been torn apart.

The Spider

Part I

My mum, being a doctor herself, had this belief that she never do justice to us, when it comes to diagnosis or prescription. She used to say, and she still says it, well, that you can be a good doctor only if you treat the patient as a piece of flesh, that you feel no emotion towards. Yeah, I know filmy, very. But that's it. She never treated me, or my brother or my grandmother, or my father. She always asked us to see some other doctor whenever we needed one.

Part II

I was in class four, I think. One morning I woke up to find my right ear and the surrounding skin abnormally parched, and all red and white marks on it. I remember how awful it felt. I had no clue what and how it happened. I went to see a doctor in our neighboring hospital. They said it's a spider bite. What? Do spiders bite? How? No, they don't bite, but they have their saliva, which is, well, not harmless. What do you mean? Why would a spider have its saliva on my ear? Umm, it was trying to weave its web, maybe, kid. Keep yourself clean. Wait, no, I mean, if a spider tries to weave a web on my skin, this is what happens? This ugly patch of skin that hurts? Unbelievable! Huh, yes, kid. Just bathe every day, be clean. Now take these medicines, apply these ointments, blah blah.

Part III

There was a Harry Potter mania going on, err, a Daniel Radcliffe mania. People who never read books, started ridiculing me for never having read a Harry Potter book. I was in Class Eight maybe. In and out of love, more than twice. Adolescent infatuations, I guess. I cared very little about what people thought. Adolescent indifference. Okay, I started reading and finished reading the Harry Potter books. Okay, they were good. Fantasy that made sense in the real world. good. But, uh, I dunno, but, uh, okay. This will be a legend. Why not read it anyway?

Part IV

I was with my English tutor, watching a movie at his place, of course, against and hidden from my parents. My parents, uh, yes, my Mum and my Dida. I don't know my Dad, really. The movie is Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets. The Forbidden Forest Scene. Ronald Weasley says he is scared of spiders, because they have eight legs. Only if they had a fewer legs...hmm. Interesting. Eight legs, that gives them more power that us, vertebrates, surely. Okay, I hate spiders too. But what is this? This is a scene with spiders larger than the trees, with hairy legs, yes eight of them. What, there are such spiders in the real world? In rain-forests? What bullshit? I have never seen spiders more than an inch big.
Oye, kid the spider that had licked you wasn't no ordinary one. It wasn't an inch-big spider. It was as big as the size of your palm. An inch big spider can't infect you, okay? Read the books.

Part V

I am in Class Ten. Our english teacher is having a free period, and using it to the fullest. Discussing career goals. Asked myself, I reply that I want to be a soldier. Oh boy, you're romantic. Being a soldier isn't being what your Byron tells you. Come back to earth. No, Ma'am. I've watched Lakshya. It's not Byron. Okay kid, again, come back to earth. No, Ma'am, I'm determined. *They stop giggling. My eyes are stiff. I am angry.* Okay, do you know what it takes to be a soldier, do you want to join the Military or the Air Force or the Navy? Ma'am, it doesn't matter, as long as I get what I want. I want my life NOT to be at my own mercy. Okay, it's a pity, but then okay. Even Owen had been to a war. Exactly Ma'am, even Owen had been to war. They say being to a war means seeing everything that is there to be seen in the world. Very well, very well, so have you been preparing yourself for the physical tests for NDA? Not yet, Ma'am. I'll do it. Okay, do you have any idea, what you go through in the training? There are highly demanding tasks, highly scary ones. Aren't you scared of heights? No, Ma'am. Aren't you scared of water? Or anything? Anything at all? No Ma'am, I've learnt swimming. I'm not scared of anything. Whoa, kid, you can't be so sure. A man is always scared of something. There must be something you're scared of. No, Ma'am, I'm not scared of anything.
Think carefully. You have your time. There must be something you're scared of.
Ma'am, I think there's nothing to be scared of. As in, okay, maybe I'm scared of myself. I'm scared of what I might do, might think, might say...I'm scared of my abilities or the lack of it. I'm scared of myself.
**The class is murmuring. The teacher starts talking to another student. She frowns at me, and asks me to meet her after the class. Ugh, once again they'll tell me, I'm off-track.**
I had lied to her. I am scared of spiders.

Part VI

Class Twelve. On the brink of stepping into the big, bad world, as they said it in a the Farewell. It didn't matter to me. I didn't care where I was, or what I was doing, as long as I had her.
Off to Kolkata. Living with Dad, the man, I don't really know existed. Economics Major, by default. Okay, I had fought my way against engineering, but the truth that my Dad doesn't know is that I don't hate engineering or physics or maths. I just had to be in Kolkata. I couldn't have gone where I was getting admitted by my WBJEE score. Kolkata. No matter what every one else said, I never felt that it was any different from Durgapur. Small-town-to-big-city, whatever, I never felt. I was born here, I belong here. Or so, I tell myself. Till date.

Part VII

My first year. The second part of the sumer, that follows the monsoon. One night, post midnight, of course, I need to go to the bathroom. I switch on the light, I open the door, and there in front of me, right above the chamber-pot, is a spider, as big as my palm, with a thick hairy body, and thick black, intimidating legs. Okay, I have to admit, to myself at least, that I am scared of spiders. But wait, what if the fear doesn't exist? I survived that night.

Part VIII

More months gone by. I have worked on my phobia. I met that spider every night, in my bathroom, till winter. I wouldn't kill it until I've stopped fearing it. That is its purpose, I tell myself. I google and get huge pictures of huge spiders,a nd stare at it, and fight my fear. I fight my nightmares. Even in the conscious state, I imagine I am in a room full of spiders, with no doors or windows. I wriggle on the bed, I imagine, I fight. I imagine. I fight. More months. The spider at the bathroom is not seen anymore, for two years.

Part IX

Few weeks ago, on one such night, during the hours before sunrise, I go to the bathroom, I meet my beloved-palm-sized spider. It's sitting right there, above the chamber pot. I am not too scared. Its like, my mind tells me that I should be scared of that spider, but actually, my mind isn't right. I smile. I survive.

Part X

Tonight. The spider in the bathroom, it's right below the chamber pot. This time, I don't just need to pee. I need to sit on that chamber pot. But no, the spider will not be in sight, if I sit. I am scared, of it, only because I wouldn't be able to see it, its movements. I just have to shoo it away, and send it off to somewhere where I can get a view of it. I can look at it, I need to able to look at it.
Then I see the bottle of Phenyle. It occurs to me, that the humane-most instinct would be to hit and hurt and kill the object that you fear. I splash some of that intoxicating-smelling-black liquid on it. The spider staggers a little, moves away, and I go to answer nature's call. I look at it. I talk to it, softly. Dear Spider, I didn't want to kill you. I watch you wriggling now, taking the last few breaths inside your quivering little frame. Long ago, I was afraid of you. Now I am not, or that's what I think. I am just afraid of what I can't see, I can't predict. It's not your fault. It's the fault of the way this sanitary-ware is designed, that I couldn't see you from where I am, and so I had to shoo you away. I could have let you stay there, like you've always stayed, otherwise. But I needn't have killed you, I know. I am lying, you'll probably say, I've always wanted to kill you someday. And I dunno, if you're right. I just decided, for myself, that I don't need you anymore. I didn't look at things from your perspective, of course. But, then, you don't have a nervous system, as superior as mine, so, I get the better of you. Now goodbye, I don't want Shochi Mashi to think that I'm mentally sick too.
The spider died by the time I left the bathroom. I killed my first spider.

An entire story.

Shreeja wanted to show me some "bloody bloody quotes". I didn't want to, at first. I said something like "I dont like quotes. Actually. I think quotes are narrow-minded statements. I mean, how can I know if their perspective is right for me, if the statement holds for me, unless I know the story behind, you see?"
Then I realised something. No matter what the perspective, the only absolute thing, is universally absolute. She showed me a quote by Neil Gaiman, and I had to put it up here, because I haven't been writing anything, for a long time, anyway. This wasn't just a quote. This was an entire teenage love story told, it seemed.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”
Neil Gaiman

The sound of your laughter

Have to write this
Only you can do this
And only me can be electrified by it.
The sound of your laughter
No I'm not high
As someone puts it.
I'm high on you
Your laughter.
The way you laugh, the way
I can still make you laugh.
Like mad, eh, dunno.
Maybe others can make you laugh.
Maybe others love your laughter.
Yeah, I know they say so all the time.
But, tell me who else
would call you Glucon-D
Like mad, eh, dunno.
Who else would treat the sound of your laughter
As the beginning of a day
Even in the evening
Whom else, would your laughter
blind with its sound
Yeah, it blinds me.
With sound.
Like mad, eh, dunno.
You, baby, you, damn it, you.
Yes it's you.
Talking to you
Even if its un-true
you'd make it non-existent
But who else, tell me
Like mad, eh, dunno.
I'm not high
As someone puts it.
I'm high on you
Your laughter.
Perceived by one sense organ
Travels, like lightning
And fills up all other senses
Blurs out the rest
Blinds out the rest
You are you, and
that's an adjective enough
But who else, tell me
Like mad, eh, dunno.
Who else will love you
Like mad, eh, dunno.