I'm a deranged teenager

Up on Melancholy Hill, There’s a plastic tree

I was high on music. A person had called me “deranged” a few days back and I repeated, “Yes, I’m a fucking deranged teenager”.

I went out for a walk in Ghatkopar East, with a tired body asking for sleep and some kind of chemical which will help me forget things. I took a note in my phone, “Hi sweety, I don’t give a fiddlers fart about ghatkopar stinking, people praying in front of the idols, or even the rats which won’t let me walk properly. But the night is just very beautiful. I’d prefer falling asleep on this bridge, just like the drunkard over there.”

The streets were empty. so, I sang, “We lay, we lay, together, just not, too close, too close (how close is too close ?)”.

I tried to copy Adam Lazarra’s steps from their music video. I shouted on the streets. Awesome song, apparently that’s the only song I’ve been listening from the band “Taking Back Sunday”.

It’s very special how he has choreographed his moves. He sticks the wire tightly with cello tape around his microphone and never uses a wireless microphone. Whenever he feels like a free bird, he swings the mic in any random direction and when he has to sing. He very efficiently pulls the microphone towards his mouth effortlessly. In the music video, it looks like he lets the mic go away, like letting a fishing line go. And, when he has to sing, he pulls his voice back like a fish which has sacrificed itself on the line. I admire such people.

I stood on the Ghatkopar to Vidyavihar fly-over staring at the moon and sky. I sang again. It was the bridge in the song, which was placing itself beside the moon, “I just wanna break you down so badly. In the worst way, I’m gonna Make Damnnnnnnn, Sure”.

I walked past the bridge. There came the ugly part of Ghatkopar station. The place where all the good people smoke and I walk through them. The reason is pretty striaght-forward, I like to passively inhale the smoke they exhale. Inhale, exhale, Inhale, exahle. It’s kind of fun.

I have always wondered how they made the choice to hold the cig between their 2 fingers and let out those stress free puffs. While making sure one grinch bug goes inside their bodies with every single puff of relief they let out.

I walked past. The passive smoke feeling just gives me certain kind of relief which I can’t express in these half-assed essays. And that too, after saying I won’t be writing anything. Bugs of irony are eating my heart every single day.

I walked past, walked more. There was a gloomy prostitute sitting on the stairs in front of the HDFC Bank. I felt very sad. She looked down the whole time. These are the times when it feels like the world has no meaning and its pointless to let the clock tick and heart beat.

Three shady guys sat smoking in a corner. I’ll be honest, I was scared. So, I changed the side and went over to the other side where rickshaw’s take a halt for a night of melancholic sleep. Ahh, the word melancholy and the way I’ve used it now is what puts me into melancholy.

I really feel that the word “Melancholy” deserves a really good and nice meaning. The current meaning is, “a feeling of pensive sadness”. Honestly, it frustrates me a lot, because the word is so good. Spelled me-lan-kholy. I admire the word a lot, I swear.

One of the rickshaw owners asked me, “Where do you want to go”. He was super obese, half bald and with black spectacle which had crazy-ass high power. Someday, If I fall in love with someone like him, I’d have to probably replace my eyes with goldfish eyes. I said, “Up on melancholy hill, would you take me there ?”. He got angry and snapped at me. I politely said, “So mind your job and go to sleep. You seem very tired, uncle”.

I could see a plastic glass with yellowish ochre colored liquid in it. I knew, he was consuming liquor. I asked, “Can I taste some ?”. He snapped at me again. I decided to let go and leave him on his own to carve a sculpture for his own grave. I walked past even farther.

I was very tired by now. I wanted to let my body go away and I let it completely loose. I was counting my last few days into the teenage. Barely, 30 left. I feel old. I don’t want to go there, maybe even kill myself before I reach 20.

I took a U-turn to walk towards my room. It felt very free in my mind. The walk was awesome, full of observation, talking, taking pitures and also, planning of this essay which I’m writing now. I found a place where the stairs where clean as if they were washed with water some time ago. I took a seat there, listened to music for a while.

Talked about intimate thoughts with a friend of mine. Nothing very shady, nothing very erratic and nor anything erotic.

I opened allpoetry to see if I had received a reply from the new fiend. I’m surprised how internet connects you to a similar mind. It’s a high schooler, who’s been reading my poems on the platform. We’ve been talking from a week now and he writes really nice as well. He said, “I love reading your stuff. I read it during my class breaks. Keep writing!”.

There’s this gray bird of disappoint in my heart, which won’t go. It’s born every time I have killed it in the past. Now, I have just stopped taking any actions on it. I realized there’s no point in taking any action, it’s just wasteful.

I said enough of these songs, I’m going to listen to the artist whom I admire like I did to my childhood girlfriend. I opened up spotify and played, “Cemetary Drive” by My Chemical Romance.

I want to end it here with one last line which I told myself saying, “I want to buy a skateboard, a pair of original vans knu skool and do skateboarding at night in Ghatkopar”