Chapped lips

Try drinking orange juice with those; it burns through the delicate skin on the lips. Try eating anything with lemon.
It's a subtle feeling of prickle, but it goes away. The next time you have chapped lips and eat anything citric, however, you remind yourself of how it had prickled you the last time. And then you give it no thought till the next time you do the same thing.
I saw Dostana today, and like every other movie, I caught myself fantasizing about being someone in there. Just made me wish a hundred people I hardly think of these days would call me. Hypocrite? Sure.
What happens to all those people who write in that ridiculous slam book and say stuff like 'friends forever'?
I got upset because a friend of mine wrote on the first page of my slam book, the page I'd reserved for my then reigning crush. This friend however is the only one I still look forward to seeing.
What happened to those girls who all the guys I drooled over drooled over?
They're probably repeating their 12th. Bimbos.
The girls who pronounced 'and' as 'end'?
They probably still do.
The guys I used to swear by?
I know they're alive, but that's about it.
They could be on the moon I'd never know.
The girls I called my best friends?
Probably embarrassed of me, and have boyfriends of their own to make up for the inconspicuous loss of a shoulder to cry on when their parents yell.
They probably don't think they'd be able to stand me if we met again, what with all that blabbering I do.
Those kids who I never spoke to, without noticing that I didn't.
They probably had something to say, what would our conversations be like?
Those people who felt I wasn't existent enough?
They may be thinking I don't exist at all.
The girls who thought me irritating.
And the boys who had crushes on them.
The girls who helped their best friends get over those crushes.
The boys who felt tingles for them.
The girls who whoopee'd when these guys played.
The guys who wished they could play that well.
the girls who wished that didn't matter.
The guys who wished they did.
And me.

What happened to my friends?My family?My school?My home?My life?
I've seemed to forget them by every passing day. All those promises to check in every week, evaporated.The 'I'll call you' were fake, weren't they? 13 years of my life were a superficial love for something I'd been brainwashed to adore with every part of my existence.
Vissanji Academy is just another building I glimpse from the bus. No more the stop where I'd grin to myself. There are ghosts of memories which I thought I'd carry forever, but things don't work that way. The people inside the white and brick walls are just another young bunch of kids marooned on board. It's not a promise of belonging anymore, it's just a sentence every student clings to.
Someone on my farewell day told us, 'wherever you go, whatever you do, all you life- you will always be a Vissanji child'.
Promises promises.
This was the same man who was around for 5 months in the school who asked us, who spent 13 years of our then 15 year old lives in that place, to stop dashing around as if the place belonged to us. Yes, Mr.Pereira, it does, it still does.
Yet I can't wake up completely a single morning and wish I hadn't grown up, that college was still a long time, and that the bus with those bent seats and vandalized backs would stop at my gate.I can't seem to believe that it isn't a passing dream anymore, just a fact. People grow up, they have to move on.
And every time I see, that I have, I feel guilty.
Like I've had chicken tandoori with squeezed lemon. On chapped lips.