love and other feminine recreations.

i recently opened up to the idea that the concept of love at first sight is not necessarily a physical attraction. i believe that falling in love with a person, is an ironic sort of falling in love with the self. primarily because it is rarely that we fall in love with the notions of another, but much more how we deduce, or assume them to be. it is human nature and very instinctively so. we appeal to ideas we think the person is displaying. or in a more masochistic sense, we adapt and construct the fact that perhaps, in a way it referred to something we had done. 

the world is a sad spider's web of emotions.

turns out, you never hate the withdrawal. you hate the fact that they were nothing how you had deduced them to be. you curse yourself again. 

i find it fun, or more appropriately - satisfying, dissecting them. is it because i am simply an observer ? 

or is it because i think i am immune to being subjected to the very situations i analyze ? 

i think after all the fires ive lit for myself, and the ones i am about to step into, i am a strange addict for consequence. not consequence precisely, but the high that risk takes. i enjoy cheating the pain by an inch. even if it singes my skin. 

for my younger sister, i have tried to be this 'cool girl', who i had always wanted. turns out, i just wanted to grow up faster, not that it did me any good. 

spoiler alert, cool girl is one of the worst tropes in the history of malfunctioning fiction. cool girl, is ultimately the remains of a girl who has learned to survive. it is anything but adaptation to a femcel sort of persona. and absolutely anything but a pinterest board. cool girl, cool girl has lost the love in her. the guilt stains her palm like murder. the horror in it, is that she is the picture of perfection, but she has not an iota of attachment. is molting into the male gaze safer ? easier ? disguisable ?

cool girl cannot love. cool girl is a survival tactic. cool girl is an indefinite dissociation.

this is frustrating. 

but i urge myself to continue.

(-it's a little lonely in the desert. it is lonely when you're among people too.)

i like doing art a lot. not only art art. but also little art. like leaving flowers in the cracks of walls on the street, or petting a street dog, or exploring the deep end of the park where you sit and read in an old wrecked rowing boat.

i walk with the sun in my face. something has shifted in me, and i am exhausted. i do not cry.

i see a homeless old man struggling with his blanket.

i see it.

it's in a knot around those very kolkatan spear fences in houses.

i pause the music. the world around me is much less cinematic now.

i say : kaku khule debo ?

he says (toothy grin) : na na ami parbo !

i smile a little. i forgive his dishevelled appearance because his innocence had appealed to me.

thik toh ?

he says (lopsided nod) : ekdom !

i watch as he unties the knot with careful, wrinkly, remorseful fingertips.

i wait until he is done.

i say : oma thik toh parle !
he laughs softly. he breathes out life. 

he is very old, i realise again.

kothao jaccho ma ?

i give him a smile i had been looking for a while.

"tution" i lie. i should have told him the truth.

he tells me (wrinkles in eyes, sparkles in his eyes): jao ma jao. bhalo kore poro. 

abar ashbe ?

abar ashbo.

                                                        Evening,  Daria Kakalashnikova