Fingers ájar

this is a heavily redacted version of this document.

I have been caught with my hands in the cookie jar literally. 

For some time, I haven’t been feeling like myself. Which is primarily because the me I know would not be in my shoes now. I remember telling a friend of mine late last year or early this year, that being in a relationship this period was just not an economically viable option, so I’ll be a fool to willingly enter into a fruitless venture. 

The universe- she enjoys laughing at our expense. And so, she bends our words into boomerangs and sharpens their ends into teeth. And as we hurl them gleefully out of our overconfident mouths, they fly into orbit and swoosh back around to bite us in the butt.

6 months later, Cupid’s poisoned arrowtips had pierced my side and I was bleeding out in love. From my mouth, eyes, nose and my everywhere. I was traveling 1 hour and half every other weekend to and fro to be with the latest love of my life. It was surreal.  You guessed it, this was something I’d also sworn I would never do again- any relationship involving distance. But here I was.  I had equally promised myself that any relationship that didn’t involve robust physical consummation was out of the question. But here, I was- literally promising abstinence as long as was necessary. 

Fast forward another 6 months and this ornate castle is peeling her paint and crumbling her plaster and all of this is starting to feel not worth it. And like I have done for the most part of my life, I have turned to writing to unburden myself and attempt to make some sense of this quagmire. The only difference is that there is an audience this time around. 

A few days ago, I went with my housemate to visit my devushka and he talked with her about my writing. That wasn’t something we typically talked about, given especially that she serves most times as muse to my fingers, as ink spurts around and takes form on paper. Bottom line, I have given her the link to this blog. It may be the bane of my life or a blessing in disguise. Which one it is, is left for time to tell. I’m trying to see through her eyes, what it feels like to be written about. What it feels like to read paragraphs laden with innuendos, metaphors and similes that remind you of yourself. So, this is me pulling my legs or hers or both pairs. I don’t know which yet. Let me see what reaction I get. You can be sure I’ll write about it. Unless it isn’t disturbing

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