It has been over one and a half years and its still brand new.

...

I carry your heart with me
(I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it
(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate
(for you are my fate,my sweet)
i want no world
(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-E.E.Cummings

Gloomydum

Overcast sky.

It's cold inside.

Drake whispers in my ears.

Suicide is painless.

Well.....

The gun didn't work.

White

A 7 storeyed glass building with stone cladding here and there, a vain attempt to make it look aesthetically pleasant. Sorry state of 'landscape' around it. Smoking area near the fountain where the Sun makes it difficult to even walk through to stub your ciggie. Orientation was definitely looked after. "Face the main road. Let the Solar factor go to hell. The client will bear the AC load. What's there!" This seemed to be the mantra while designing this, and to that matter all the buildings these days. My office, on the fourth floor overlooks the grand bare Aravali range and another mishap of a building. Oh! and I overlooked another teeny detail, this is the firm that designed this building as well as the other monstrosity I see from my window. And I wouldn't even bother about the interiors of this skull, there's nothing to talk about. It's well...nothing except monochrome. White walls, white ceiling, white window rollers, white sheets, ash stained furniture, dull green chairs, dull green-white-carpet, white and green files, white displays.....possessed by white. The tiny splashes of colour that tried to make there way inside were strangled and thrown on the dead floor of the corridor outside. They were probably wiped out by the guy whose only ambition is to walk to and fro in the corridor with a floor mop. Even on a working saturday, when only our office is devoted enough to come and pretend to work, and the footfall in the corridor goes to around one an hour, he goes around with the same devotion. He's my inspiration to drag on. One fine day, I'll see his face underneath his weary cap and ask him about the secret of life...but till that day, I come and I go. And the white clocks on the white wall tick away the times of people's lives in New York, London and New Delhi.

4 days into the new year...

...Woke up this mornin', got myself a gun.

He looked up and asked me if I ever had a lover I did not betray,
I turned on the radio and looked the other way.

Elegy for my Brother...

Dedicated to my dear brother, who lies in eternal peace.

By W.H.Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was their North, their South, their East and West,

Their working week and their Sunday rest,

Their noon, their midnight, their talk, their song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.