From Dead Poets Society.

They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary. 



So we're in a car and we talk about our lives. I tell him about my life. He tells me about his life. Comments are passed, and underneath a few bad jokes - advice also, I think.

So then later when we're watching School of Rock and I've been bullied into a joint and I'm quite stoned, I wonder if this would feel less so if that had been a little more. You know, like dripping honey on toast and a little boy running, through very green grass that brushes his knees, towards a swing that sways slowly, invitingly, as if the very breeze is being caressed in its lap.

We fell asleep then and the next morning, he looks at me and asks whether we should bond.

"Do you have anything to say?"

"No. Do you?"

"Nah. I said everything I wanted to last night."

"Me too."

"Cool." And we did our own thing.

The window is open. White curtains and little pieces of sunlight dancing their way in. The fan's moving slowly and it seems like the breeze coming in is being pushed around, synchronised swimming, sharp against the blades.

Fuck I'm stoned.


Min: A Profile.

"If you send this message to 25 people, you will find true love within 24 hours. If you don't, you will die alone."

"Stop being a loser."

"Whatever, Trish. You could send this to fifty people, and you'd die alone anyway. So don't worry." 

"Min, is it okay if I don't dress up for your birthday party?"


"Well I'm not going to dress up." 

"Then don't come."

"I'm supposed to be your best friend." 


"Trish, there is nothing wrong with red satin hearts and teddy bears."

"They're disgusting."

"They're sweet. You're just jealous because no one ever gave you red satin hearts and teddy bears." 


"Ya. Exactly. See how well I know you." 

"He's damn nice, Trish. Just don't let him see what a freak you are and things will be okay." 

"I don't know why we're friends, Trish." 

"Yeah, I like The Rolling Stones and you like Bollywood music." 

"Exactly. Who else would be friends with someone who thinks Mick Jagger is sexy?" 

Wednesday: "We went to Plush last night. It was sooo much fun."

Next Wednesday: "We went to Plush last night. I got sooo drunk."

The Wednesday after that: "My parents are making me stay at home. You're so lucky you don't live with your parents."

Another Wednesday: "We went to Plush last night. There's nothing else to do on Wednesdays."

"What are you doing Friday night, Min? Going to Sheesha?"

"Yeah. Though we might go to Plush."

"I walked in on Kimi having a bath once. It was sooo embarrassing."

"That happens to me all the time."

"You're slutty so it doesn't count."

"I thought they were friends with me because of Tanvi Pandey but they actually genuinely like me. It's not surprising. I'm very easy to get along with."

"I'm writing a blogpost about you.What do you think defines our friendship?"

"Bad luck, big mistakes, and shitty men." 

"Is that all it is?" 

"Animated Disney movies." 



"Don't worry, Trish. I'm sure there's more to it." 


It's slow and it's steady and if it weren't for the fact that it's been missing for the past two years, you wouldn't even notice. It's in every day that passes. Moments crawl by slowly but not so slow that you want to scream. Slow enough to savour.

You're slightly alarmed because it's routine and you never thought routine was something you'd be comfortable with. But it doesn't have to be spectacular, it doesn't have to be shot into the air with fireworks. You've had that already and it was more smoke than anything else.

It's difficult to define really and the only reason you know it is what it is, is because when you climb into bed at night and pull the sheets over your shoulder and lie on your side with an arm folded under you, you feel like ink on heavy paper. Ink on heavy paper forming patterns that won't be lost, not even when morning tiptoes round.