Friday, March 25, 2016



It's a Disease, I tell you. It's most certainly a Disease. They just haven't labeled it yet.
I can't move. I can push my palms against the bed and heave. Then look down upon the pillow from dizzying heights. And fall. Flop, actually. Flop and feel my saliva spill forth all over the velvety cushions.
I can't breathe. I clench my fists and constrict my nose. I feel my lips part and shudder. Their dryness and their chapped crevices. I remind myself to suck it in. Poof! That's all I get.
I can't feel. I watch happiness blaring. Like cheap commercials after 11pm. The kinds that make eyes water and foreheads ache. I feel it trying to rouse me. Hit me on the head. Buzz in my ears.
I feel sadness trying to creep inside. Dig it's claws beneath my skeletal frame. Nothing.
I Can't wake up. Can't stop dreaming. Can't walk. Can't stop stumbling. Can't scream. Can't stop thinking. Can't can't can't. Absolutely cannot.
It's a Disease, I tell you. It's most certainly a Disease. They just haven't labeled it yet.
- Akshay
( Photograph by Simon Rutter)



You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I've known a ghost.

Known might not be the right word. We were acquaintances. The kinds that smile at each other every evening at the bus stop.
It was closer than that, to be true. He came over. Slept on the couch. Made green tea. Did the dishes. Broke them too. Then stabbed me with the pointed ends and washed my blood off the cermaic. Such a gentleman.

He left the lingering smell of smoke after he left. It seeped into the crevices of the sofa. Nestled into the frilly ends of the pillow I used to stuff into my mouth.
He'd cuddle. Softly. You know how ghosts are. You could pass your arm through his hollowness and feel the jittery shiver run up your spine. There was no love making. Just the occasional ghostly fuck.

He left. Or probably just died all over again.
Can one miss a ghost? Can the body crave possession?

I still feel him sometimes, though. Or maybe it's a different ghost. You know how ghosts are. Flimsy.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I used to know a ghost. - Akshay

That's the thing about depression. It drapes itself in black and never lets you see how fragile and serene it is. 

It's perfection. The absolute nothings come together and play a concerto. You cannot move.cannot think. Cannot feel. 

In that one hollow vaccum of a moment, you are dust. Nothing. A pile of sobs, smelly clothes, crumpled sheets, stinking dishes, scattered moldering junk. The world loses it's power over you. You lose your power over you. Thoughts, emotions, opinions, expectations, motivation and bullshit.

Hopelessness strums in the background and pain fiddles with the strings. And before you know, you are the puppet dangling from those strings.
And what a macabre performance you give. Your uninhibited unadulterated best!

Remember. Serenity, not sanity.
- Akshay


Sex with me. Not fuck. Not mate. Not cuddle. Sex!
Strip me down. Tear off my clothes. Then claw your way through my skin. Dig in your teeth so deep that you manage to carve out my bones. 

Sex with me. The hollow vacuum that I am. Moan with the screams that resound inside my head. Hold down my demons and thrust in unison with their cult ceremonies.
Eat me out. Watch me sprout from my own leftover.

Orgasm! Orgasm, burst and make me whole. Or, shudder into a million fragments and become one with my nothingness.

Sex with me. Please.

- Akshay

( Painting by Georgia o'Keeffe)



That's the thing with depression. It sneaks in.

No sirens. No banners. No trumpets. Just a slither. A soft, hair raising slither. Of an old friend who has risen from the dead.

It whispers on those initial sleepless nights. Creaks on tossing pillows and crumpled sheets. Whirrs as thoughts after thoughts race and maul each other.

It rattles with the memory that comes back. It tinkers with the words that poke n scab. It lets itself slide to the floor and break down as the symphony of raking claws plays on in the background.

It bites down hard on the lips. Clutches at folds of clothing. Heaves down chests and creeps down the spine.

That's the thing with depression. It sneaks in.

- Akshay.


That's why it's easy for you to call people 'fat'. You don't know.

You dont know about squeezing yourself in school uniforms. About sweaty shirts, strangling tie knots and red welts on the waist. 
You dont know about catcalls and nicknames. About snide comments and you being used as an example whenever a fat reference came up in the textbook.

You don't know about huffing and puffing PT periods. About shoving, pinching and the humilIation of finishing last. About relatives who comment and best friends who join in the laughter to look cool.

You don't know about friends getting curves and cuts as puberty hits. About looking down at your lumps and the pains of the first 'fat' rejection.

You certainly dont know about using humour as a shield and then breaking down as soon as one reaches home.
You don't know about the the insecurities of college life. About self degrading relationships and being the doormat.

There is no way you know can know about starving and diets. About counting calories and dreading looking at that taunting weight scale. And about giving in and hogging to overcome the sinking feeling within.

About realising that even after you become thin, the demons persist.

You know why else is it easier for you to call someone 'fat'?
Because deep down, you are way more unhappy and insecure than they are.

- Akshay


Seduction lies deep.

Seduction lies beyond flattering eyelashes, glistening nail paint, ruby lips and pulsating hearts.

Seduction is surrender. Sublime, subtle, surreal.

The booming music that sends blood gushing to the head, the pen that mauls the paper and paints the fingers inky.
The thundering of the bike engine as wind whiplashes one's face. The first gush of the blood as the scalpel pushes in deep.

The idea that enslaves, the desire that dominates. The feet that move in rhythm with your inner chaos.
The sodden earth, the camphor on fire, the sodden spluttering wood, the indecent untamed air.

The lies one believes. The sacrifices one makes. The sore wounds. The self inflicted cuts.

Seduction is the three-breasted Goddess that surrenders at the feet of the Lord. The Lord that submits before the maddened enraged Mother.

The whirling dervish's ecstasy. The monk's eternal silence.

Seduction lies deep.

- Akshay
( Art by Taren Machem)