Scars Never Fade

"It was ok....average..." then she continued watching her favourite programme on the tele. Heart brokened as I was, I grabbed hold of my guitar together with my music notes, and headed for the stairs. "Is that all?" She questioned, creating an impression that she was presumably interested to hear more. "Yea, that should be all". I replied, and continued my way upstairs, regretting every moment spent playing that piece for her.

What was I thinking? Plucking my way through the words and music created by Richard Marx, smoothly was an absolutely impossible thing to do. On top of that, actually invite myself to play it for her. "After all, she is my angel. I'm positive that she would like it". Well, it proved otherwise didn't it?

Upon reaching my room door, I placed the notes on my bed, made myself comfortable with the stool available and started strumming the song, Right Here Waiting. This time, I played it slower, a lot slower than the earlier times that I used to play it. Somehow, each pluck of the guitar string created an ambigous, serene sound, so serene it struck the depths of my soul, so deep, tears started rolling down my cheeks. Did it sound that bad? Was it so meticulously abhorrent to listen to? I continued playing the piece, more intense now, weeping harder.

Memories unfolded in that short period of grief. Other intense occurences where I doubted their love and trust towards me. Such as the night before when we were over at my cousins' place, and I was shunned for the extra piercing in my ears. If I would ever want to see regret and disappointment in the eyes of my beloved, last night was it. I was a pure example of a sordid and disdainful attitude a 20 year old could have. A 20 year old, Indian Christian girl who has picked up the ominous habits, eventhough having lived her life amongst staunch Catholics and so-called respectable elders and honourable idols. Another thought drifted through my mind when they compared me with the self-proclaimed slut whom I have lost contact with since 3 years ago.

"Oh, look at her. Look at how matured and responsible person she is. Could you not be more like her instead? Do you have to be so rebellious? She was never as rude as how you are behaving now". These laconic and infamous words keep running through my mind, chanting every single night, bringing down the very foundation of me.

As I reached the last C chord, I strummed it with tears falling on the strings. My tears aint too acidic, its just salty, so the strings are safe and sound. Not to worry on that. Wiping it dry and blowing my running nose with the Premium Facial Tissue, I decided to open my vein. In other words, write my feelings down. Well, just as the once US columnist, journalist, sports writer and Pulitzer prize winner, Walter Wellesley said, " There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein".

Lust

She lays her back gently on the cotton sheet covered mattress. He readily inserts his genitals into the opening of her vagina, arousing carnal desires from the edge of her spinal cord to the very end of her nipples. Pushing it in harder and more vigorous after every strike, she feels the pain - the pain she is about to get addicted to. He lays his head on her shoulders, lying his chest onto her supple breast. Both nipples collide. He brings down his tongue, from her shoulder down to her right breast, and circulating the nipple,wetting every inch of her skin. With one palm embracing the left breast and caressing it, he nibbles and suckles her right. Satisfied with the delight, he moves on and does the same to her left.

Now, more gently contracting his muscles into her secret garden, he locks his lips with hers, cupping her breast in such solidarity. Having reached the full extent of fulfilling every ounce of carnal desire, he pulls his manhood out from hers abruptly and just lay helpless beside her. Both ravengers just lie there, panting, welcoming more oxygen to oxidise the lactic acid formed on their muscles due to overdose usage of glucose, at the same time, decreasing the oxygen debt.

Numbness

I am deprived of feeling, stripped away from the power of motion. As you grow older, the sense of taste seem to disappear, receptors seem to have a sudden shock where it just loses contact with the brain and is disabled from producing any hormons - good or bad. But surprisingly, the presence of the mind in the sense of thinking, seem to get more active. Oh gosh, this is getting boring. Let me just cut the chase and come black and white. I feel I want to commit murder. I need blood. Something so drastic that would snap me out of my insensitive receptors. I feel I want to commit adultery. The core fulfilment of carnal desires might instil a rush of adrenaline - lustful adrenaline, waking me from my cloudy thoughts and completing all wishes that were left unresolved those years. I feel I want to bash the devil out of some bad apples of the society. Starting with this so called friend of mine. That is a whole other chapter to discuss about. Bashing would express too much of my feelings out and could be too extreme, but what the heck? I keep whacking my opponents in protected vests and shin guards which I'm soon going to fall dead bored of the extra shield. Well, I guess that's all I feel at the moment. Now, my friend Hemaraj is allowed to read it first, officially.

PS : If anyone found this an extreme boredom, well then go fuck yourselves.