Bombay Rains

Oh can't you see what's waiting here for you in the middle of the sea the sirens call you their song bewitches your head resists but your heart still listens you've been here long you're only bones someone trips passing you by heeding the call of the golden ones they don't see you anymore they've left you for dead but you still live, waiting to tell the tale of the horror behind the song lying for eternity in your shallow bed. You've stayed here long, you wish to go to meet those who left you here their eyes call you you open your soul and shut your ears. 

I'm resurrecting my blog. Hopefully I can move past all the memories. Disclaimer for new readers: A lot of it is trash that must be explained away by the summer(s) of bad language skills. The chick-lit-esque stories were on demand and I still love them all. Haters gonna hate etc. The sad emo stuff is probably closest to what you shall get were you to continue reading this blog. You have been warned. Thanks etc etc. 

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It was a brand new day. Cherie opened her to see a big flaming ball of jelly in the sky. Hmmm. No. Too much. She closed her eyes and minutes later, a regular, flaming ball of fire was back in its place. The beauty of it all lay in the simplification. A purple, dripping sun may just be a tad too much. Today was day one in the Candy castle. How was it to be? Cherie jumped with excitement at the prospect of the Royal Games. Now she could live in a world of her making with just what she wished to exist. With her most favourite thing in the whole world at the helm. A big, giant marshmallow. Cherie set about changing her form. It would appear rather suspicious if she was the lone human in the town. And while Cherie had the pick of the lot; all she had to do was make sure she never took the same form twice. She had to completely disappear from the town memory to be able to view this undisturbed. It wouldn’t suit her purpose to be on the roster. For today; Cherie picked a sweet li

The thing with writing is that no matter how much I do of it; it never seems nearly enough. This is further compounded by the fact that I do very little of it and only in times of great duress when I am trying to procrastinate. Such as now. And it isn’t helped by the fact that with each passing day; I get more British in my way of writing. It sounds like that in my head at least. I can see someone, sitting with a cup of tea, reading this and going- Oh! How perfectly dull. Furthermore, I don’t enjoy my fiction anymore. I call it fiction as it is mostly not real. I’d be far more depressed if I allowed myself to think that the world actually had as much violence and self-loathing as many of my characters display. Please don’t think that I actually manage to write a decent amount and try to get it published. No. No such luck. I also can’t seem to decide on a genre I like enough, to stick to it. The only one I really, really enjoy is comedy and I am absolutely horrid at it. Which

I'm in that mood where I can't decide what to type due to the sheer frustration I feel. I don't get it. How can one person be so absolutely contrary to what you are and still stick around to annoy you. I typed-backspaced-typed like a zillion times until deciding not to say anything because status updates are a sham. You type in some heartfelt message good or otherwise and later on when unsuspecting viewers ask you to explain yourself, you realize you can't. No one would understand and more often than not, it's a really stupid reason and it's embarrassing to reveal it. Which is why I like my blog. No one really reads it. Not even my family or my best friends. Not even me. But I write this crap; I can't be expected to read it too. Let me just turn schizophrenic and start conducting conversations with myself. Out loud.  I do speak to myself in my head; they're very intelligent conversations too. It's very hard to find someone who likes Marqu