Placebo

When you settle for something,

Giving excuses as to how amazing this new thing is.

It is a Placebo.
Of course it works.

It should work.

Why wouldn’t it?

Your mind is driven by its effects,

And your body listens to your mind.

Have you thought, that if the pretense of the placebo didn’t exist,

How brilliant it would have been?

You would have been able to give all the credit to your mind.

And not some other element who/which becomes famous,

By your tongue, when it doesn’t deserve it.

It is you.

Everything is in your hands.

If you make it happen,

It is you.

If you couldn’t, you are a peddler,

Of drug-like dreams.

The liquid ones. Salty liquids,

Not the powdered ones.

Powders are still substances when liquids have spilled a long time ago,

And have evaporated without a trace.

The powdered ones stick to your teeth.

And you don’t brush,

Because the powder feels like heaven,

Days after you have taken  it.

Powdered emotions are pounded,

With a pestle, without a mortar.

Without a support.

Without a container.

Just bashed in rhythm which makes you ecstatic.

Rhythms are always good.

They follow patters.

Designs,

Signs.

Shut up!

Signs are just a bunch of hokum.

Everything is random.

All things,

All acts,

All people,

All flowers,

All smells.

Random combinations.

But unlike a placebo, they have effects.

A placebo is just a placebo.

Without a reason,

Without a logic.

Just , like god.

You believe it, because you need it.

You fucking want it.

There is no proof, no logic behind it.

So appreciate the beauty of it, just because it’s there.

The patterns so symmetric are special,

Because they are not created.

They are there.

Nothing special is going to happen, unless, something happens in your life.

You don’t have to feel bad or good about it.

It is special only because it has happened, and you were there.

By chance.

No pattern there.

A pattern is just a placebo.

A placebo on a place, bored to death.

Which is random again.

Out of habit.

Which is not a pattern.

It is a reoccurrence of random occurrences.  

Standing again, because of the random factors.

Again, for the existence of the same factors.

Meaning to appear.

Like a video playing again and again and again.

Because of the chance existence of Electricity,

A Visual Display unit.

And most importantly, a being.

Because without you…

Nothing occurs.

Stored Stories of Silence

Sitting in the garage, she was staring at the puddle which was settling, creating rims in the water. She was wondering, what was it that made the rims of water different from the water itself. The occasional drop in the water from the roof was giving life to the ripples, just when they were almost about to die/fading away/just becoming quiet, depending on the way you look at finality.

This made her think, 14 minutes ago when she was playing penalty shootout, that involved kicking the ball on the wall which had been marked as a goalpost (was more of the size of an ice-hockey goalpost due to the confined space).

Just a few minutes ago she was dodging imaginary players and making her way to the goalpost kicking the ball and now she was sitting still watching the puddle.  The metamorphosis was quite contrasting. Mindless physical exercise at one point and body resting while the mind doing the running, in the next.

As a kid, she didn’t make paper boats. Paper boats can’t be broken, but they can be decimated to pulp by water. As a kid she always felt sad when the paper boats sank. So she started something else. She would put drops of food colouring in the puddle and then put a drop of shampoo and with delight and surprise the puddle would turn into a vivid show of colours. Her personal rainbow.

Rainbows. How convenient was it, to become happy in those times. Her happiness (she chuckled at her childish notion of owning a universal, yet a scantily found sentiment).  Why was it that during her introspective time, everything revolves around her? That brought her to the story that she was writing these days.

 “Why does it happen that the story is always based around the main character/characters and not a neutral, insignificant person in the story?  This also raises another question. Who decides the main characters and why do they decide to choose them specifically.”

“There is another thing. No matter how many characters there are in the book, whoever they are or whatever they did (which is actually the soul of the story and our perception towards those characters, places and incidents) is all singular. But while reading, why don’t we realize that everything or anyone that happens in the story is actually a fragment a small piece of the writers mind."

"Whoever the character is, it is actually the writer himself, who is writing about the thoughts or deeds of a person, whether in first person or in the third person; whether it is a male or a female, old or young… and so on; it is because the writer, who makes a specific character, place or incident has awarded the things that he wants the most detailed and important. So much so, that people get caught up with the story, more than the happenings around them.”

She looked up. There was a swallow sitting on the sill.

“What if we look at one of the most insignificant characters in the book, which the writer doesn't care much about, but mentions in the passing? If we are able to look at that insignificant person, we are looking at the most real point of the story. As the writer includes them subconsciously and so, these insignificant characters remain untouched by the writer’s bias.”

“And I just realized. That real person, who isn't a bit significant to the story, is me and the reason why the most insignificant person in the story is writing this, is because she is in madly in love with one of the most important characters, my dear Watson, the most important character! Only in such cases, a person might (rarely, yet possibly) think with someone else’s brain to write; perhaps borrowing the protagonist/antagonist’s brain.”

So she decided to write about the story of Alex and Brittany. She being the most insignificant character, as she loved Alex and he could never imagine about how much she loved him.

She wouldn't be able to write for long. This might be some of her last works. He would understand, why.

She didn't want him to imagine anything that was related to both of them. Whatever there was to imagine, it was she who held the right to. The fact that kept Alex above her was that Alex had choices. She didn't. It would honestly, make her happy to see Alex happy. That’s all there is. What would happen to her, is another matter altogether, now. The fact is that she doesn't know.

She was sure that this time it was love, because the feeling was different. It didn't involve her jealousy and trust issues that had been prominent in the other relationships, because of betrayals. Yes, in plural. This time, she was just happy, that there was a real impression of a person, as dreamlike as Alex. She was just happy that they came in contact with each other in spite of the chaotic world around them. She was just happy, that Alex knew her. This was her last thought on the first day when they met. And this was the same last thought on the last day.

She got startled, by the breaking china, inside. She ran to see what had broken. It was the earthen goblet with the Bonsai plant inside it. She cursed herself for keeping it near the window. She reached up to the window and looked at the swallow soaring up the sky in silence.