Golden Crust of an Apple Pie

Thursday, December 26, 2013

At the risk of sounding phony and Bukowski-esque, the hills ought to inspire poetry, or well flowery prose. My fingers refuse to type anything other than my Facebook password on the mobile app. To enunciate the process of clearing my head, I (along with Sinner and her boyF) decided to hit the hills for a white Christmas. It did snow, but not on Christmas. Rather, it was a sunny day, in car, mostly navigating through hair-pin bends and curves to reach Mussoorie. The events of the last night, playing nice and large, horizontally across my head. My life cannot sustain without drama. I'm a drama magnet. Queen is so Juicy Couture. Clearly, I need to stop writing. 

I'm trying to derive the opening to yesterday's turn of events. 'Magical Realism' as Meggy points out, Christmas defines miracles. It's only as much miraculous for me to hit a party when I'm painfully taken away from the world that I end up having a really good time with people I've never met and those I've known for a while. Intimate gatherings are a recipe for complete disaster or total success (notice the pessimist before anything else). It's a surprise that I don't end up disliking my own classmates but actually thrive in the company of people who start a rehearsed jig, when I burst into tears hugging two of my favourite people from college. Farewells are harsh. 

To try a few stimulants to imitate the process of writing, I picked Phantom cigarettes, gum and French fries on our way back post dinner. Cleared the room, changed into fresh pair of clothes, got into double quilted bed with fries on one end and milds on the other as my companion to go for the night. Sought excuse from the couple because there is only very limited amount of constant human interaction I can take. Did I get inspired yet? Not yet. There is no trace of lyrical prose, I'm not even close to reproducing some of Beckett's work as adaptations. The hills have given me motion sickness and cold. Nothing else.

Do I take something back from the hills?
Perhaps, the air. The blue/pale face takes back flashbacks from the night before. The caroling at Starbucks with candy canes and two of my best friends. With nothing more than unadulterated love for each other in our hearts, the eve was something else. One of the two people I deeply cared about and gave a fuck worth of attention to got through the Mecca of filmmaking in the country. She is moving to Pune in the span three days and this news clearly shattered the other two, who claim to be the only friends we have. I know, it sounds redundant, almost banal to talk about, hey my best friend left me or hey that idiot doesn't want to talk to me anymore but the effect doesn't lessen no matter how old you are. 

The question comes to, whether we really need to 'escape' to the hills to sought refuge from what goes in our heads? Coming here, after pulling two back to back all nighters, I don't want to. I don't want to run away from the cityscape because this is all that I've seen. Leave me alone in a maze of people and I can navigate my way out but take me out of the city and see me sulk. AJ underwent a similar series of emotions unfurling at Leh, where she stared at the sky long enough to start bawling her eyes out. I've had a series of conversations with different friends over Skype, after coming here and am convinced, I'm a closeted lover of other single people around me. They seem to make Christmas better.

And incase I feel that this lot will be extinct, I always have Caramel Salted Mocha (hot) to run back to. It amounts to 100 hugs in a mug and dry humping complimentary. 

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