Genre: Subtle Horrorcore
How much would it have cost you, a lousy letter or a call
I suppose, not more than pulling that pistol out of drawer
Cocked it, aimed it, shot me in the head
but smart enough not to leave any proof
for anyone to find it was you who got me dead.
I was lying there bare, and my brains fell out
picked it, pushed it back in and tried to crawl out
As I regained my conscience, it was crazy what I found
The scene was all clear and no blood was spilled around
Confused, I dazed tryna figure why my head would hurt
Only to realize the irony that curbed
That the bullet was just silence, and the pistol were your words.
Now as I walk along the streets, people confuse me with alive
Asking all their whys and how the grass looks greener on my side
Until I start to tear it all out, let out wild cries
Just run in my room turn the system onto max, in a hope to hide.
Sheets rolled all over, I sweat hurled in a corner
Where gloom looks at me like a coroner
I picture your face in it, and start throw fits
like a crazy addict, cutting but air with his wild violent hits.
But soon I grow weary and start to lose my breath
I feel your hand at my throat, choking me to death
The vision blurs down and it all gets dark
And glad I lay, with no more tries.
Seems a happy ending
But soon a stark streak of light enters my eyes
The sun is back up, got to get back on life.
As I plod to the shower, I wonder to myself
How much would it have cost you, a lousy letter or a call
I suppose, not more than pulling that pistol out of drawer.
Aah… So we’re here, to our own surprise too.
So, just the way each one of us dies in wait of our birthdays to arrive even when we are brutally exposed to the truth summoner- the calendar which says with utmost inhumanity and emotionless gestures in the gravest possible voice, “Still over three months to go, daft.” We were no exception either.
And poor, teary-eyed, us- are left with no other option but to stare at the slipping sand just as nonchalant and graceless as its motion.
While the weirdest part is even after realizing our actions, the moment the hour strikes, we all jounce as if we were oblivious all this time, and the moment had occurred spontaneously.
Now, since I’ve clarified that the fundamental was but the same, allow me to proceed.
Well, it doesn’t really seem like twelve months already. And if I were to reminiscent, The Pocket Diaries was just another idea scribbled down on a random page of a random notebook, claiming itself to be the greatest concept ever.
And to be very honest, even I felt that it was just another blog that I’d put up run for a month or two and abandon. As if it was destined to face the same fate that former members of ‘attempt to be the greatest poet ever’ faced (a bit too realistic ;P). The good part, being, I realized that this dream wasn’t to be achieved alone.
Having access to wisest company- Nitesh Gaba- the one who gave form to this random scribble of mine, it didn’t take us long to manifest our dream – adrenaline rush is quite a thing.
Me, the ‘randomest’ guy, texts another ‘random poet’ on Instagram if she wishes to collaborate. Actually no, Puja Vardhan, isn’t a random poet, she has a distinctness of her own. Getting back, we have a good chat, doubts are cleared, the webpage is ready, posts are up and exactly at 10:52 p.m. of 31st of October, my birthday, I spread the links out.
Honestly, there is nothing special in the day- 1st of November, I just thought it would be cool, to get to celebrate and party for two consecutive days.
Now, the weird thing happens. The webpage actually starts to get some good responses. Suddenly, AdSense approves the account, Analytics shows a count of over 5K webpage views in a mere span of 53 days. And me, a boy who was 15 a couple of days back, starts to feel super important. I start building a proper team, I start taking seminars in local schools, I am coaching over 150 kids roughly of the same age, whoa… a proper fairytale, rather a Viking dream. Efforts and results.
Well, since everything was going as if scripted by a Bollywood writer, it was certain that I create a bubble around me. A bubble in which stood the mighty master. The weirdest part was, no one could prick my bubble. The wisest arrows carrying the lesson of humility shot at me- I cut each of them with my swords of pride. Failed, yet victorious, experience glared at me in sympathy and disgust as well, let’s call it my conscience as if saying “Beta, non-med lete time bhi meri baat nahi maani thi na, khud sochle ab.”
Well, guess what, I lost. And certainly, I was the happiest when it happened. The bubble, the invincible bubble was never pricked. That victory was my loss. I grew tired of it, tired of not being myself. Humility started dawning, the sense was coming back, the wisdom rose back, and conscience, my split personality said, “Lautke buddhu gharko aae.”
The bubble was never pricked, it was dissolved in its own toxicity.
If you try to live too early, you don’t live too well.
I launched my book later, T.P.D crossed 10K views, its audience was now over 20 countries wide, and watching myself in the newspapers became normal for a couple of days. I was happy…
I was just happy.
An underrated, yet an invincible statement.
A year of The Pocket Diaries, made me realize, it was never me. I am just a messenger. I don’t own TPD, it is in fact well above the possession of any single person. And what else could I have wished for? For me, and for probably all of us, T.P.D means love. And well, how could anyone possess love… After all,
Possession is the opposite of love.
An artist is the happiest when his art surpasses his own self.
I was wrong all this time, it was never Manan Verma- founder of the Pocket Diaries, it was always the opposite, The Pocket Diaries helped me find me.
Now, well since it was such a good script, you can find me sitting on the last bench, smiling like a stupid, writing poetry in the structures of benzene, reading, and cracking jokes. Naah… of course I haven’t turned into a ‘Sant’ retired from all the worldly desires… of course not, the passion burns like never before, the ‘josh’ is on its high. Backed with experience, a catalog of mistakes, I am proud of, and a sense of relief by improving on each.
Cheers to this amazing journey, the team, Kriti, Puja, Artman, Armaan, Nandini, Ehshaan, Sanya, Tanishq, Shria and a lot lot more.
Having all of you, your talents represented and showcased, nothing makes an artist happier.
I love you all…