She pressed the phone to her ear and hmm-ed absent mindedly while she scanned the screen mindlessly. And thought about nothing in particular. It's so easy blurring your thoughts to an almost incoherent buzz in the background. It all dulled to a certain black spot in the back of her mind. And she pushed it all in, it got sucked into it as if like a tiny black hole.
The white screen reflected in the almost black of her eyes and she closed them. And then blinked. Put down the phone. Slid the laptop off her lap. And stood up. Things you do. So human. So meaningless, so harmless. Missing people so much and then not showing it. Showing it and not feeling it. Hiding things, lying, making a show of empty emotions and pulling in raw feelings of perplexing intensity down into the back hole.
And it's almost gagging with the convergence of all that is in the world.
All of it is nothing. And nothing of it is important. Just get if off you, go to sleep.
27 November 2010
3 September 2010
Long time, old friend.
It's just one of those days. Fortunately, when I feel like writing. There's been a long hiatus, a very long one. Life's been busy, the mind's been sidetracked into something of a less fantasy-friendly direction.
With all the Historians, their words, ideas and the facts and theories, the vital part of creaitvity was probably being ignored but I think Erich Segal's Only Love tapped into the dozing, lazy writer, jerking up tears, making me miss things, being homesick and citysick and nostalgic. For everything. And every one.
Making me think about the rain at my old house, the pattering on the roof and the partial comforting darkness of the late afternoons, enveloping me in the utter love and the essence of what life is made of.
And I guess the worst thing I hate about the room I'm in now is that it doesn't have a window. Probably the ONLY room I ever saw so unfortunate. It's like being blind. Reminds me of eyes being the windows to the soul.
And it's only through the screams and shouts from the corridor that I come to know that it's raining right now, as I type.
Rain was there yesterday when I went out but strangely it wasn't pleasant enough and that's on rare occasions that I feel that. Waddling through knee-deep dirty water is never pleasant, I think. For any one.
There was some refuge in the rain-time ice-cream tradition we've come to perform. But even that was short-lived.
The streets are generally alive with the college kids, their shopping and their somethingortheothers, but occasionally there's something deeper and thought-provoking for the listless brain and the periodically blind mind's eye.
Like a few days ago passing between the row of buildings, walking on through the somewhat narrow lanes of restaurants, various stores with t-shirts on display, small shops selling momos and the old, old wooden doors of the ancient-looking houses resting in between them, up there, in one of the first floor windows.
Moving my eyes up from the muddy wet ground to the lighted small balcony, I see an old man sitting very near the railing, with his head bowed down to the people passing below, an almost sinister expression on his face, but blank nonetheless. Craze and anger.
Sitting on a small stool.. he stared down at people, moving his head along the direction we went, sitting deathly still, tensed, with just his eyes and then subsequently his head following us. I jerk my head back from looking at him, but can't resist looking back once more just to see if I just imagined it.
But, no, there he is, looking back at me in the eye, blank and strange. I rush on ahead to my friends and decide then to think about it later.
And it's right then that I know that this will be written about. Now or later. Stories started materialising out of think air and I asked if he could be locked up, nah. Or probably just another normal old person angry for just a minute at something trivial. Or what WAS it that made him this way. It could be a number of things ranging from the trivial to insane. But I keep this for sometime else.
There are other eerily amazing things going around in this so-called young people's abode. This University area we see. There are people living here.. in this ancient city, the old houses, the pigeons in the building next door, which I will never understand is lived in or not.
It was my second night here that I spent an hour sitting in a balcony looking at the building, my friends occasionally shining torch light into one of the windows. Empty rooms in the subsequent floor. Thank god for that. The floor below had a cooler fixed on a window and we could see people moving about in the darkness. An old building with the yellow paint peeling apart, the blue beneath it visible.
Sometimes I imagine out building as the Gringotts Bank, with the striking similarity in the shape. Bit smaller, I think. Us Goblins, working on laptops, watching TV, cursing the terrible food. Funny. Never thought of being a Goblin until now.
The building with the plaster peeling off is lovingly named the Pigeon Building by yours truly. A row of pigeons sitting on a window ledge. And just sitting there. Till the end of time. Not even moving a quarter of an inch.
And it's not just the animals.
On the way to McD there comes a series of permanent people on the sidewalk. It's not every time that I notice but then he's not that easily noticeable too. This little figure couched down on the sidewalk, sitting against the wall, covered and wrapped in off-white clothes, and a makedo turban on his head. And I don't even know if he's a he or even his age.
The face is never seen, just the hands outstretched from under the tattered cloth wrapped around his puny shoulders, a small frail figure with his head bowed low, sitting in a corner, not saying a word. Not asking for money , just not doing anything except sitting there hidden with both his hands opened together as if he's holding something precious that we can't see.
Then there are the two little kids who sit with a weighing scale, ignoring it much of the time, as people step over it carefully moving along the narrow sidewalk. While the two little people carefully and meticuolously copy notes from the textbook to their notebook. Discussing with each other something very important while they study. Not more than 7 or 8 years old. And their heads at the right place. Probably siblings, one girl and one boy. Sitting quietly, lost in their own world. Studying.
And such a crude contrast to us "DU students". Take a hint.
Another are other small children selling mint and tiny chocolates, trailing around people, running behind them, shieking in their little childish voices. Yesterday, as it happened, waiting around in a line for the ATM, a "bhaiya" apparently bought a chocolate for my friend and asked this little chocolate seller to give it to her.
And great laughter ensued. For the stretch of time waiting for the ATM, being inside the room and getting away from there. And the poor child trailing behind us all the way pushing the chocolate on to her unwilling indirect customer. She stopped only after we took the chocolate from her. And ran back gleefully shouting that the didi took it. So much happiness.
I'm not getting around to clicking enough pictures, not as much as I want to. Or expect myself too. And writing too. But I think this much will be enough to while away the time being happy with myself for getting something out of my system onto the keyboard and seeing it on the screen. Bliss.
Such picturesqueness. Such inspiration lies in the narrow lanes and the branded stores and the old houses of Delhi 7. The streets, the sounds, the sights. Loving it.
More to come. Very soon. The College. And The People :)
With all the Historians, their words, ideas and the facts and theories, the vital part of creaitvity was probably being ignored but I think Erich Segal's Only Love tapped into the dozing, lazy writer, jerking up tears, making me miss things, being homesick and citysick and nostalgic. For everything. And every one.
Making me think about the rain at my old house, the pattering on the roof and the partial comforting darkness of the late afternoons, enveloping me in the utter love and the essence of what life is made of.
And I guess the worst thing I hate about the room I'm in now is that it doesn't have a window. Probably the ONLY room I ever saw so unfortunate. It's like being blind. Reminds me of eyes being the windows to the soul.
And it's only through the screams and shouts from the corridor that I come to know that it's raining right now, as I type.
Rain was there yesterday when I went out but strangely it wasn't pleasant enough and that's on rare occasions that I feel that. Waddling through knee-deep dirty water is never pleasant, I think. For any one.
There was some refuge in the rain-time ice-cream tradition we've come to perform. But even that was short-lived.
The streets are generally alive with the college kids, their shopping and their somethingortheothers, but occasionally there's something deeper and thought-provoking for the listless brain and the periodically blind mind's eye.
Like a few days ago passing between the row of buildings, walking on through the somewhat narrow lanes of restaurants, various stores with t-shirts on display, small shops selling momos and the old, old wooden doors of the ancient-looking houses resting in between them, up there, in one of the first floor windows.
Moving my eyes up from the muddy wet ground to the lighted small balcony, I see an old man sitting very near the railing, with his head bowed down to the people passing below, an almost sinister expression on his face, but blank nonetheless. Craze and anger.
Sitting on a small stool.. he stared down at people, moving his head along the direction we went, sitting deathly still, tensed, with just his eyes and then subsequently his head following us. I jerk my head back from looking at him, but can't resist looking back once more just to see if I just imagined it.
But, no, there he is, looking back at me in the eye, blank and strange. I rush on ahead to my friends and decide then to think about it later.
And it's right then that I know that this will be written about. Now or later. Stories started materialising out of think air and I asked if he could be locked up, nah. Or probably just another normal old person angry for just a minute at something trivial. Or what WAS it that made him this way. It could be a number of things ranging from the trivial to insane. But I keep this for sometime else.
There are other eerily amazing things going around in this so-called young people's abode. This University area we see. There are people living here.. in this ancient city, the old houses, the pigeons in the building next door, which I will never understand is lived in or not.
It was my second night here that I spent an hour sitting in a balcony looking at the building, my friends occasionally shining torch light into one of the windows. Empty rooms in the subsequent floor. Thank god for that. The floor below had a cooler fixed on a window and we could see people moving about in the darkness. An old building with the yellow paint peeling apart, the blue beneath it visible.
Sometimes I imagine out building as the Gringotts Bank, with the striking similarity in the shape. Bit smaller, I think. Us Goblins, working on laptops, watching TV, cursing the terrible food. Funny. Never thought of being a Goblin until now.
The building with the plaster peeling off is lovingly named the Pigeon Building by yours truly. A row of pigeons sitting on a window ledge. And just sitting there. Till the end of time. Not even moving a quarter of an inch.
And it's not just the animals.
On the way to McD there comes a series of permanent people on the sidewalk. It's not every time that I notice but then he's not that easily noticeable too. This little figure couched down on the sidewalk, sitting against the wall, covered and wrapped in off-white clothes, and a makedo turban on his head. And I don't even know if he's a he or even his age.
The face is never seen, just the hands outstretched from under the tattered cloth wrapped around his puny shoulders, a small frail figure with his head bowed low, sitting in a corner, not saying a word. Not asking for money , just not doing anything except sitting there hidden with both his hands opened together as if he's holding something precious that we can't see.
Then there are the two little kids who sit with a weighing scale, ignoring it much of the time, as people step over it carefully moving along the narrow sidewalk. While the two little people carefully and meticuolously copy notes from the textbook to their notebook. Discussing with each other something very important while they study. Not more than 7 or 8 years old. And their heads at the right place. Probably siblings, one girl and one boy. Sitting quietly, lost in their own world. Studying.
And such a crude contrast to us "DU students". Take a hint.
Another are other small children selling mint and tiny chocolates, trailing around people, running behind them, shieking in their little childish voices. Yesterday, as it happened, waiting around in a line for the ATM, a "bhaiya" apparently bought a chocolate for my friend and asked this little chocolate seller to give it to her.
And great laughter ensued. For the stretch of time waiting for the ATM, being inside the room and getting away from there. And the poor child trailing behind us all the way pushing the chocolate on to her unwilling indirect customer. She stopped only after we took the chocolate from her. And ran back gleefully shouting that the didi took it. So much happiness.
I'm not getting around to clicking enough pictures, not as much as I want to. Or expect myself too. And writing too. But I think this much will be enough to while away the time being happy with myself for getting something out of my system onto the keyboard and seeing it on the screen. Bliss.
Such picturesqueness. Such inspiration lies in the narrow lanes and the branded stores and the old houses of Delhi 7. The streets, the sounds, the sights. Loving it.
More to come. Very soon. The College. And The People :)
12 July 2010
Long Break.
After a month long back and forth with the First City (okay, the name's plagiarised, but I like it).. finally here for good.
Travelling across all this expanse of varied landscape has me gasping for breath with an unending unstoppable sudden burst of literary ideas from this golden faucet of creativity. And pity, nothing of it is left, evaporated dry until I'm in close vicinity of my laptop or anything that could help in writing of any kind. Note to self - Keep a pen close. Always.
So all that's left is fancy pansy empty words warbled into this small Blogger box.
Anyway, getting on with this utter melodramaticity..
Flitting through these narrow lanes so many times a day, one gets to wonder if they were always this old. And were they EVER new, did they ever get to look new all at once, if someone living there could actually call it a new place. Or if one or the other building came up randomly dimming out all the others, like it happens so often. So every day.
And looks like this will become a Travel blog soon or something totally potpourri to the best. Malls shmalls to roadside stalls, the bottom line is Dilli Haat is the best place ever. Or anything to do with Indianness for that matter. If and when is an important contibuting factor regarding many facets of the ness I just mentioned. Sadly.
Feeling at home with my room which is I will be sharing with my (yet) non-existent room partners.. re-reading Deathly Hallows, which by the way I have read only once before when it came out, in the two days that followed. On the two days I was supposed to study for a Math test and conveniently, and happily, didn't even care to touch the book. Never regretted it. :P
And of course, also managed to spew out a washy review on my older blog, which in fact was the last post on it :/
Wonder why. Not.
And yes, found out about the base book for the first year History. AND, I realised sometime last year during the "free" periods as we, the minority get to have.. I did go yawning around the library and abruptly shut my mouth snatching up these two very random books from the bottom shelf on different occasions, did read a quarter of it.
And would have gone through all of it too if I had a library card. But laziness gets the better of me. And a very active sense of being distracted. Grabbing up a number of books every day, flitting through them and trying to keep some of the names in my memory, with a certain "mental note" which always gets blown off. No stick-it notes. Whoops.
So no full on bragging. Just a quarter, I guess.
I'll need a photo blog soon. And another diary-like blogthing for the crap I have to dish out.
Travelling across all this expanse of varied landscape has me gasping for breath with an unending unstoppable sudden burst of literary ideas from this golden faucet of creativity. And pity, nothing of it is left, evaporated dry until I'm in close vicinity of my laptop or anything that could help in writing of any kind. Note to self - Keep a pen close. Always.
So all that's left is fancy pansy empty words warbled into this small Blogger box.
Anyway, getting on with this utter melodramaticity..
Flitting through these narrow lanes so many times a day, one gets to wonder if they were always this old. And were they EVER new, did they ever get to look new all at once, if someone living there could actually call it a new place. Or if one or the other building came up randomly dimming out all the others, like it happens so often. So every day.
And looks like this will become a Travel blog soon or something totally potpourri to the best. Malls shmalls to roadside stalls, the bottom line is Dilli Haat is the best place ever. Or anything to do with Indianness for that matter. If and when is an important contibuting factor regarding many facets of the ness I just mentioned. Sadly.
Feeling at home with my room which is I will be sharing with my (yet) non-existent room partners.. re-reading Deathly Hallows, which by the way I have read only once before when it came out, in the two days that followed. On the two days I was supposed to study for a Math test and conveniently, and happily, didn't even care to touch the book. Never regretted it. :P
And of course, also managed to spew out a washy review on my older blog, which in fact was the last post on it :/
Wonder why. Not.
And yes, found out about the base book for the first year History. AND, I realised sometime last year during the "free" periods as we, the minority get to have.. I did go yawning around the library and abruptly shut my mouth snatching up these two very random books from the bottom shelf on different occasions, did read a quarter of it.
And would have gone through all of it too if I had a library card. But laziness gets the better of me. And a very active sense of being distracted. Grabbing up a number of books every day, flitting through them and trying to keep some of the names in my memory, with a certain "mental note" which always gets blown off. No stick-it notes. Whoops.
So no full on bragging. Just a quarter, I guess.
I'll need a photo blog soon. And another diary-like blogthing for the crap I have to dish out.
2 June 2010
Somethingortheother.
Only when you're sad do you crave the once comforting sounds and voices of the past and the images which seem to hug you tight and never let go. Like a long lost friend or your very own soul mate. Together forever.
The warmth and the coziness of the late afternoon sun. The slowly receding warmth of the evening, sitting on the backyard stairs. Feeling the hair on the back of your hand rise up very slowly as a cool wind blows through the air which is thick and dense with the warmness and the love of the dying sunshine.
A bird sings here and there and you have no care in the world except to just stay there for as long as you can and as long as you like. Until something equally, if not more loved calls out for you. It was a time of not people, but feelings. Simple, pure feelings. Which had no twisted complications and gruesome mutations. The now tainted will of the girl was then straight and unassuming.
Watching the ants zoom past her big toe and each one of them following the other. The only lone one was her and she didn't want it any other way. Everything else seemed to have someone to be with. The trio of the cats lazing out on the stones, the couple of squirrels scurrying past each other, running around the old mango tree and playing hide n seek.
The rustle of the leaves from somewhere up above. A dead dry branch falling down through the branches and breaking into two coming down to the ground. I trying to find out if I can notice which one is missing and where exactly was it before. But I couldn't of course. A hollowed out mango falling down the next second, attacked and devoured by a red-beaked parrot which holidayed there up above every summer.
Even a peacock, once seen from the balcony, from somewhere or the other where peacocks live. And another peahen, white and grand. Always made me wonder why the males were so showy. I thought that happened only in animals. But then as it just turned out, hilariously, when I found out that was not the case at all.
Going back to simpler times..
It feels strange that I don't remember exactly what I used to think about all the time then. Like I think all the time now. But knowing exactly what was on my mind, then would've been precious to know about now. Facebook was not waving "What are you thinking about?" on me then. It just makes sense how super duper psychology is used in making networking websites turn you narcissistic and self-absorbed, to make it work for you. It's good though. Not all the time, but. This, sometime later, I guess.
There was a time when all thoughts went out to how the world looked to me and not the other way round.
When everything feels like it's going wrong, down the drain, tumbling down.. I try to catch at these fading memories, flying away from me like an important paper, a currency note or maybe a photograph I adore, cherish, can't live without. The wind is taking it away and it's strong. And just as I clutch at it, it drives it farther away.
But somehow I manage to catch that. Somehow. And I capture it and put it down right here where no one can take it away from me. Never. The golden sunshine on the roof, hungry crows gathering around the bread crumbs I put out for them. The sparrows sitting on the bird rest, rolling around in the inch high water pooled from the night before. The dark, cold nights spent out on the balcony thinking about nothing at all.
The least about the future and what will be in it. The questions were all about the world, not my life. Leaning against a tree, feeling the roughness of the bark against my arm, smelling smells from the day and the night. Walking on the iron pipe which led to the water tank. Feeling the coolness below my feet standing near it. And comparing it to the still mildly hot stone of the backyard.
All this and more, making me forget for a moment of what is the present and what of the future.
Things like the frayed end of the jeans, walking barefoot and letting it get more frayed, showing it off if I felt like. The walks on the gravelly path to the patio. Barefoot and dreamy. The feeling of dry grass under the feet. Or the moistness, the wetness and the ticklish feeling of little pebbles. Catching blades of grass between the toes and transporting it back to the non grassy areas. Trying to catch a high up branch or a lone flower hanging high high up, looking pretty and so unachievable. I gave up on it, I didn't want to have it. And so it is, now. It may be very easy to get it. I might get a chair to get the pretty flower on the high branch but I won't.
Just like that. It's just inherent now, not wanting what I can have easy.
An evening lies vivid in my mind, like it was yesterday. Or today evening, a few hours ago. I heard someone play the flute not far away. I loved it.. every little note. But I was not curious about who it was or if he/she would be here again. I did not venture out to see if it was really someone or maybe was I imagining things.
Sitting on the cement stairs leading into the house, with a glass of salty lemonade, picking up dry blades of grass scattered near the bottom stair. And then throwing them away. It hit me like love, like a breath of fresh air.. it was not sweet or sappy. It was just soul. Bringing forth music, for anyone it may reach to. Or even if it doesn't. It was just so full of feeling. And I believed feeling was all that was in the world. And nothing else.
Leaning against the handrails, smelling the iron. The paint. And the dust. Scratching out a dried drop of tar on it. And looking at the clean, smooth space left behind.
The ever changing colours of the sky and the shapes of the clouds. The colours, the smells and the sounds and voices. Everything that can be seen, felt and sensed. Heard and smelt. Everything which could be lived. Not just survived.
So it just rolled on to me, all of a sudden. When I feel too negative, it has to be taken to positive. Led by the hand and told to sit there. Until it gets too late and they're waiting for you to come have the dinner inside. To the busy dining room, with maybe the TV on and the day's happening being shared with much gusto. A dozen smells, all clashing into each other. And I would settle into this, forgetting all about the quietness and music of the other world.
I don't want to do that. This is much more than evening ruminations and dinner time.
I was going to the bad and I pushed myself to the good. Feelings can change feelings and nothing else. I wish, hope I hold on to the surrealism of life as it is and not give in to the normalcy of business, which people say life is.
But it is the world, for me, which I think about. And not my life. Is that such a bad thing. No, it's not a question. Not any more.
The warmth and the coziness of the late afternoon sun. The slowly receding warmth of the evening, sitting on the backyard stairs. Feeling the hair on the back of your hand rise up very slowly as a cool wind blows through the air which is thick and dense with the warmness and the love of the dying sunshine.
A bird sings here and there and you have no care in the world except to just stay there for as long as you can and as long as you like. Until something equally, if not more loved calls out for you. It was a time of not people, but feelings. Simple, pure feelings. Which had no twisted complications and gruesome mutations. The now tainted will of the girl was then straight and unassuming.
Watching the ants zoom past her big toe and each one of them following the other. The only lone one was her and she didn't want it any other way. Everything else seemed to have someone to be with. The trio of the cats lazing out on the stones, the couple of squirrels scurrying past each other, running around the old mango tree and playing hide n seek.
The rustle of the leaves from somewhere up above. A dead dry branch falling down through the branches and breaking into two coming down to the ground. I trying to find out if I can notice which one is missing and where exactly was it before. But I couldn't of course. A hollowed out mango falling down the next second, attacked and devoured by a red-beaked parrot which holidayed there up above every summer.
Even a peacock, once seen from the balcony, from somewhere or the other where peacocks live. And another peahen, white and grand. Always made me wonder why the males were so showy. I thought that happened only in animals. But then as it just turned out, hilariously, when I found out that was not the case at all.
Going back to simpler times..
It feels strange that I don't remember exactly what I used to think about all the time then. Like I think all the time now. But knowing exactly what was on my mind, then would've been precious to know about now. Facebook was not waving "What are you thinking about?" on me then. It just makes sense how super duper psychology is used in making networking websites turn you narcissistic and self-absorbed, to make it work for you. It's good though. Not all the time, but. This, sometime later, I guess.
There was a time when all thoughts went out to how the world looked to me and not the other way round.
When everything feels like it's going wrong, down the drain, tumbling down.. I try to catch at these fading memories, flying away from me like an important paper, a currency note or maybe a photograph I adore, cherish, can't live without. The wind is taking it away and it's strong. And just as I clutch at it, it drives it farther away.
But somehow I manage to catch that. Somehow. And I capture it and put it down right here where no one can take it away from me. Never. The golden sunshine on the roof, hungry crows gathering around the bread crumbs I put out for them. The sparrows sitting on the bird rest, rolling around in the inch high water pooled from the night before. The dark, cold nights spent out on the balcony thinking about nothing at all.
The least about the future and what will be in it. The questions were all about the world, not my life. Leaning against a tree, feeling the roughness of the bark against my arm, smelling smells from the day and the night. Walking on the iron pipe which led to the water tank. Feeling the coolness below my feet standing near it. And comparing it to the still mildly hot stone of the backyard.
All this and more, making me forget for a moment of what is the present and what of the future.
Things like the frayed end of the jeans, walking barefoot and letting it get more frayed, showing it off if I felt like. The walks on the gravelly path to the patio. Barefoot and dreamy. The feeling of dry grass under the feet. Or the moistness, the wetness and the ticklish feeling of little pebbles. Catching blades of grass between the toes and transporting it back to the non grassy areas. Trying to catch a high up branch or a lone flower hanging high high up, looking pretty and so unachievable. I gave up on it, I didn't want to have it. And so it is, now. It may be very easy to get it. I might get a chair to get the pretty flower on the high branch but I won't.
Just like that. It's just inherent now, not wanting what I can have easy.
An evening lies vivid in my mind, like it was yesterday. Or today evening, a few hours ago. I heard someone play the flute not far away. I loved it.. every little note. But I was not curious about who it was or if he/she would be here again. I did not venture out to see if it was really someone or maybe was I imagining things.
Sitting on the cement stairs leading into the house, with a glass of salty lemonade, picking up dry blades of grass scattered near the bottom stair. And then throwing them away. It hit me like love, like a breath of fresh air.. it was not sweet or sappy. It was just soul. Bringing forth music, for anyone it may reach to. Or even if it doesn't. It was just so full of feeling. And I believed feeling was all that was in the world. And nothing else.
Leaning against the handrails, smelling the iron. The paint. And the dust. Scratching out a dried drop of tar on it. And looking at the clean, smooth space left behind.
The ever changing colours of the sky and the shapes of the clouds. The colours, the smells and the sounds and voices. Everything that can be seen, felt and sensed. Heard and smelt. Everything which could be lived. Not just survived.
So it just rolled on to me, all of a sudden. When I feel too negative, it has to be taken to positive. Led by the hand and told to sit there. Until it gets too late and they're waiting for you to come have the dinner inside. To the busy dining room, with maybe the TV on and the day's happening being shared with much gusto. A dozen smells, all clashing into each other. And I would settle into this, forgetting all about the quietness and music of the other world.
I don't want to do that. This is much more than evening ruminations and dinner time.
I was going to the bad and I pushed myself to the good. Feelings can change feelings and nothing else. I wish, hope I hold on to the surrealism of life as it is and not give in to the normalcy of business, which people say life is.
But it is the world, for me, which I think about. And not my life. Is that such a bad thing. No, it's not a question. Not any more.
14 May 2010
I just hate the moment when everything comes tumbling down on you five minutes after you wake up. I could spend a life time practicing the art of staying there, just staying in a state where you can lay and think about anything and everything except the day ahead and the days to come.
Things around, objects on the floor, the wall clock that is in the darker corner of the room, the time that's dark and cannot be seen. A few lazy moments spent guessing whether it's 12 0r 9 or 6 and then resignedly resorting to looking at the window for an idea. Not wanting at all to switch on the lights. They're too loud. As if someone just blasted out an irritating pop song on the stereo and all you can do is clamp your hands on your ears as hard as you can, and in case of the lights its the eyes. Hand eye coordination here.
Thin slivers of light framing the door, sometimes a little too bright to decide if it's just sunshine or we're having an alien invasion again. Oh, hello. The tiny space between the window curtains which confuses you to no end along with the clouds zooming past the sun. And for one tiny flicker of a moment of hope that maybe it rained, or it's going to. Or maybe it will sometime this week.
Any sound rumbling loud enough is wished to be interpreted as rumbling rain clouds. But it's a sad story. Coming back inside, eyes travelling to the absolute corners of the room, the mirrors and the clock again. Still a little ununderstandable. Shifting to objects hung on the back of doors. Stark contrast against the white. This time it's a lone school tie, dark dark green but looking black out here on the bed. I never liked ties. At all. It does bring up a choking feeling of nostalgia. Pun intended. The tears chokey though, not asphyxia chokey.
Pushing it away and far.
Feeling the comfortableness of the bed and the absolute silence being broken by a twitter of birds or a faint honking horn in the background. It gets better after the a/c is switched off. But not yet, please not yet. That's the final step to getting up. And no one likes getting up. Not here, anyway.
No one likes honking horns either, I don't like cars altogether. It's just coloured metal and machine parts. And simple ugly. I have no idea how people fall in love with cars and and are interested at all in them. I wish someone drew inspiration from the Flintstones vehicles. The world WOULD be a better place. In more ways than one.
Lying there thinking about people and people that matter. Thinking about the comedy routine last night which went something like - Can't sleep.. can't sleep. Why am I so obsessed? Again? Am I in lov-- no. @&#^%#* I just can't sleep. Darned mosquitoes. I'm gonna kill you. And then sighing and revising the whole thing over and over again.
And then repeating it again right in the morning - What? Really? Do you think so? Nah. Naw. No. Dumb. That's dumb dumb dumb. Then just pausing there for a second and holding my breath. Do I have schizophrenia? Thinking it over.. now, how does that even matter even if I do?
Trying to snap out of it all. A mountain of clothes on a chair nearby and some scattered on the floor. A contrast again. Trying to guess what it is. Looking at objects before the curtain. Silhouetted metal stick-figured men and women who act as candle stands after the sun rises.
Ooh, I get a text message. Oh, please do not include me in your stupid chain texts when we hardly ever or NEVER even talk to each other. Selfish much? And now you ruined it. Pretty bad. But anyway..
Glancing at mirrors to see what they reflect. I plan to set up mirrors in a way that I won't have to get up to see places I can't see and everything just comes to me instantly. Maybe I could mirrorise the entire house. How nice would that be. Or more than just a building. No, no running away, imagination.
We can think about something nicer. Nicer things. Nice-y Wise-y. Perfect.
Then I would talk about going back to a more believable version of reality. And thinking about consequences/ results of the actions/ exams. But then.. who wants to? I'll settle for this much. "Perfect" will suffice. Thank you very much.
Things around, objects on the floor, the wall clock that is in the darker corner of the room, the time that's dark and cannot be seen. A few lazy moments spent guessing whether it's 12 0r 9 or 6 and then resignedly resorting to looking at the window for an idea. Not wanting at all to switch on the lights. They're too loud. As if someone just blasted out an irritating pop song on the stereo and all you can do is clamp your hands on your ears as hard as you can, and in case of the lights its the eyes. Hand eye coordination here.
Thin slivers of light framing the door, sometimes a little too bright to decide if it's just sunshine or we're having an alien invasion again. Oh, hello. The tiny space between the window curtains which confuses you to no end along with the clouds zooming past the sun. And for one tiny flicker of a moment of hope that maybe it rained, or it's going to. Or maybe it will sometime this week.
Any sound rumbling loud enough is wished to be interpreted as rumbling rain clouds. But it's a sad story. Coming back inside, eyes travelling to the absolute corners of the room, the mirrors and the clock again. Still a little ununderstandable. Shifting to objects hung on the back of doors. Stark contrast against the white. This time it's a lone school tie, dark dark green but looking black out here on the bed. I never liked ties. At all. It does bring up a choking feeling of nostalgia. Pun intended. The tears chokey though, not asphyxia chokey.
Pushing it away and far.
Feeling the comfortableness of the bed and the absolute silence being broken by a twitter of birds or a faint honking horn in the background. It gets better after the a/c is switched off. But not yet, please not yet. That's the final step to getting up. And no one likes getting up. Not here, anyway.
No one likes honking horns either, I don't like cars altogether. It's just coloured metal and machine parts. And simple ugly. I have no idea how people fall in love with cars and and are interested at all in them. I wish someone drew inspiration from the Flintstones vehicles. The world WOULD be a better place. In more ways than one.
Lying there thinking about people and people that matter. Thinking about the comedy routine last night which went something like - Can't sleep.. can't sleep. Why am I so obsessed? Again? Am I in lov-- no. @&#^%#* I just can't sleep. Darned mosquitoes. I'm gonna kill you. And then sighing and revising the whole thing over and over again.
And then repeating it again right in the morning - What? Really? Do you think so? Nah. Naw. No. Dumb. That's dumb dumb dumb. Then just pausing there for a second and holding my breath. Do I have schizophrenia? Thinking it over.. now, how does that even matter even if I do?
Trying to snap out of it all. A mountain of clothes on a chair nearby and some scattered on the floor. A contrast again. Trying to guess what it is. Looking at objects before the curtain. Silhouetted metal stick-figured men and women who act as candle stands after the sun rises.
Ooh, I get a text message. Oh, please do not include me in your stupid chain texts when we hardly ever or NEVER even talk to each other. Selfish much? And now you ruined it. Pretty bad. But anyway..
Glancing at mirrors to see what they reflect. I plan to set up mirrors in a way that I won't have to get up to see places I can't see and everything just comes to me instantly. Maybe I could mirrorise the entire house. How nice would that be. Or more than just a building. No, no running away, imagination.
We can think about something nicer. Nicer things. Nice-y Wise-y. Perfect.
Then I would talk about going back to a more believable version of reality. And thinking about consequences/ results of the actions/ exams. But then.. who wants to? I'll settle for this much. "Perfect" will suffice. Thank you very much.
28 April 2010
Silent.
Silently
Suffering
Slashes of
Sweet sacrifices
Sometimes simple
Something suffices
Silently
Shredded sheets
Stoic squeeze
Sunshine that stoops
Steers
Sneers so, sees
Slipping off
Summits of surety
Surprising smiles
Surrendering to
Scenes of
Silent singing
Simpering, soft
Soliloquies
Settling to
Stuttering lies
Standing
Sitting
Stunned
Silently
Time flies
Someone's left
Silently,
Binging on byes.
Suffering
Slashes of
Sweet sacrifices
Sometimes simple
Something suffices
Silently
Shredded sheets
Stoic squeeze
Sunshine that stoops
Steers
Sneers so, sees
Slipping off
Summits of surety
Surprising smiles
Surrendering to
Scenes of
Silent singing
Simpering, soft
Soliloquies
Settling to
Stuttering lies
Standing
Sitting
Stunned
Silently
Time flies
Someone's left
Silently,
Binging on byes.
10 April 2010
Futile.
A hundred hours
Of solitude
Wearing away at the edges
Lost
In the multitude
Twanging
Like
A rusty guitar
Staring
at a
Sad little star
Fear
Draining out
Seeping from
Under the door
You see it now
Now it's no more
A wild
Enigma
Is what's in store
The train of thought
It finally stopped
The life
It halted.
It's all
So faulted.
Of solitude
Wearing away at the edges
Lost
In the multitude
Twanging
Like
A rusty guitar
Staring
at a
Sad little star
Fear
Draining out
Seeping from
Under the door
You see it now
Now it's no more
A wild
Enigma
Is what's in store
The train of thought
It finally stopped
The life
It halted.
It's all
So faulted.
6 April 2010
Blah Blah.
I wonder if how we feel right in the morning is how we truly feel deep inside all the time. Or is that just our reaction to our sub-conscious thoughts that welled up in the dreams. But after I'm fully awake and then "count my blessings" instead of thinking of what I don't have that I start getting normal. But till then I think that empty, sinking feeling of that something missing is the strongest. Right after I wake up and right before I go to sleep.
I don't want it to go away.. experiencing it is a delight in itself. Ironic but, it is.
Then I think of things I have to do and have to see.
Positive people must have a huge capacity to control their feelings and an immensely strong will power if they can do it. Poor positive people.
I think it's better to be true to you feelings than suppress it and bottle it up. And forget about it. They have to be considered one day or the other. Now or later.
I really goof up too much. And I make mistakes. And I mess things up. More for myself than anyone else. Considering I'm left to sort it out. Which is cruel. But it's correct. So let's see..
But I can't understand certain people either. Selfish, selfish people. They can't be both, true and not true to their emotions, simultaneously too. Is it so hard taking a single viewpoint in personal relationships and sticking to it. Is that mature. Or the opposite. I am immature and I stick with my feelings. I don't think that's childish. If loyalty and perseverance is a childish trait. It gets translated to stubbornness. Well, all right.
Saying that one's life is in one's own hands is not completely correct. Some choices are made by others. Free will is a b*tch. Excuse my French. Yeah but then no one can change mine either. So it's fine I guess.
I thought it sounded true that you can't just stop loving someone. When you love a person it is for ever. Love is not a weak feeling. Like feeling like having ice cream after dinner. Nah, I'm way too full right now, I'll have ice cream tomorrow instead.
Relationships are not part-time jobs. Oh wait, I even wrote a cheesy poem on it. Sounds like a drunken pop song. But here it is : (It is no award-winning piece, neither it may even make much sense, But I'll RISK it. This is SO much fun :P)
No electricity
MP3 player gave up on me
Whiling away my time
Writing sh**ty poetry
I want someone
Take me for a 24/7 dream
Not a part time job
To take on
When you need extra green
I'm no lunch break
A break from the job
I wanna be the vacation
That never ends at all
Full time, front line
Paparazzi and the limelight
You can be it all
Just give me a sign
I don't wanna be the
Washed up one hit wonder
A Diva is forever
Which really makes me wonder
Was I a break from life
Just a shoulder when you cried
But your life itself
Is what I want to be
I'm not ashamed to ask
And neither should I be.
This was added later, so not to mess up the flow :
Your life itself
Is what I want to be
You said I was
But things change too soon
You ordered a side-dish
But they didn't have any left
You're stuck
With a five-course dinner
But you're on a diet
Which is really sad
So you go on to buy it
You take a teeny bite
"Man, the food's really fine
But well, I can't sit to dine
I have a lot of work to do"
You rise and without a look,
Go away into the night
The food will be flinged
Right into the dustbin
You'll be at your table, writing
Man, it really, really stings.
I don't want it to go away.. experiencing it is a delight in itself. Ironic but, it is.
Then I think of things I have to do and have to see.
Positive people must have a huge capacity to control their feelings and an immensely strong will power if they can do it. Poor positive people.
I think it's better to be true to you feelings than suppress it and bottle it up. And forget about it. They have to be considered one day or the other. Now or later.
I really goof up too much. And I make mistakes. And I mess things up. More for myself than anyone else. Considering I'm left to sort it out. Which is cruel. But it's correct. So let's see..
But I can't understand certain people either. Selfish, selfish people. They can't be both, true and not true to their emotions, simultaneously too. Is it so hard taking a single viewpoint in personal relationships and sticking to it. Is that mature. Or the opposite. I am immature and I stick with my feelings. I don't think that's childish. If loyalty and perseverance is a childish trait. It gets translated to stubbornness. Well, all right.
Saying that one's life is in one's own hands is not completely correct. Some choices are made by others. Free will is a b*tch. Excuse my French. Yeah but then no one can change mine either. So it's fine I guess.
I thought it sounded true that you can't just stop loving someone. When you love a person it is for ever. Love is not a weak feeling. Like feeling like having ice cream after dinner. Nah, I'm way too full right now, I'll have ice cream tomorrow instead.
Relationships are not part-time jobs. Oh wait, I even wrote a cheesy poem on it. Sounds like a drunken pop song. But here it is : (It is no award-winning piece, neither it may even make much sense, But I'll RISK it. This is SO much fun :P)
No electricity
MP3 player gave up on me
Whiling away my time
Writing sh**ty poetry
I want someone
Take me for a 24/7 dream
Not a part time job
To take on
When you need extra green
I'm no lunch break
A break from the job
I wanna be the vacation
That never ends at all
Full time, front line
Paparazzi and the limelight
You can be it all
Just give me a sign
I don't wanna be the
Washed up one hit wonder
A Diva is forever
Which really makes me wonder
Was I a break from life
Just a shoulder when you cried
But your life itself
Is what I want to be
I'm not ashamed to ask
And neither should I be.
This was added later, so not to mess up the flow :
Your life itself
Is what I want to be
You said I was
But things change too soon
You ordered a side-dish
But they didn't have any left
You're stuck
With a five-course dinner
But you're on a diet
Which is really sad
So you go on to buy it
You take a teeny bite
"Man, the food's really fine
But well, I can't sit to dine
I have a lot of work to do"
You rise and without a look,
Go away into the night
The food will be flinged
Right into the dustbin
You'll be at your table, writing
Man, it really, really stings.
5 April 2010
The Cobain-ness Left In The World Today
It was precisely the summer of '06 when I first heard the the very first lines on Smells Like Teen Spirit and I was hooked.. the music being the least about it. Impressionable teens is such a cliche but there's a whole lot of truth in it. And rockstars are not bad role models, if we know exactly what about them we like.
To a certain limit life is influenced my music, movies and books. And there are some people you look up to. Dead or alive. In the case of Nirvana and Cobain, first it was the raw music, then the symbolism in the music videos, the lyrics after that and then whatever I could gather from his quotes and any little bit of information I could find.
There is a certain affinity I find with the man that I share with a handful more people. Sadly, they are not people I see everyday or talk to. Or I don't think that is even possible, ever. My latent thoughts were echoed through the quotes I read and they became legit. They just materialised from thin air into letters on my laptop screen. Three very strong examples I would give may be Nietzche, Oscar Wilde and Cobain.
I have fallen in love with Nirvana multiple times and it is such an engaging love that is rare. First it was the raw emotions of Teen Spirit. Then the angst in You Know You're Right and the complicatedness and utter complexity exuding out of Heart Shaped Box. Lithium is a song which I can safely pick out to be my life's background music.
Cobain's feelings towards his fans' adoration as inferred from his suicide note strike a chord. And his "Peace, Love, Empathy" lay on a profile I made on a website for a number of years and will surely be used again on paper sometime soon. Being empathetic is a rare gift and I've been accused of being it on occasions and for most people it translates as a setback 'cause generally emotions are not mixed with most things. "Productive" or "Necessary".
But emotions are the essence of life, and for a hundred people being apathetic, clinical and mechanic, there's one me living on emotions and feeding on it. And I will live on it. Wait and see.
On the darker side.. he was a misanthrope, as I see it is the only way to live 99% of the time. But thank goodness for certain people life ain't so bad. Non-conformity and taking a stand against fakeness. I sometimes sound like a broken record.. but there's not enough telling people what it has all come to. So taking a u-turn and living in Misanthropia is a far, far better option.
I remember spending the whole summer listening to Nirvana and Guns N' Roses and sometimes shedding tears which had no personal meaning to me I remember wondering why the heck am I crying but crying anyway.
The biggest help was knowing that being different does not mean being wrong. And being wrong does not mean that it has to change. The wrongs and the rights in this world are relative. And everyone deserves a chance to show the Cobain-ness in them and be hated for what they are, than be loved for what they're not.
So here's to you, Kurt. To the man who sold the world.
Influencing generations on generations of legions of fans and followers. R.I.P.
You will be missed. For ever and ever more.
Peace, Love, Empathy.
Some quotes of him I love:
I'm too busy acting like I'm not Naive. I've seen it all, I was here first.
I miss the comfort in being sad.
Rather be dead than cool.
The duty of youth is to challenge corruption.
The worst crime is faking it.
Thought the sun is gone, I have a light.
We're so trendy we can't even escape ourselves.
It's better to burn out, than to fade away.
Birds are and always have been reincarnated old men with Tourette's syndrome having somehow managed to dupe the reproductive saga. They fuck each other and tend to their home repairs and children while never missing their true mission. To scream at the top of their lungs in horrified hellish rage every morning at daybreak to warn us all of the truth. They know the truth. Screaming bloody murder all over the world in our ears, but sadly we don't speak bird.
I use bits and pieces of others personalities to form my own.
Assassinate the greater and lesser of two evils.
Wanting to be somebody else is a waste of the person you are.
Television is the most evil thing on our planet. Go right now to your TV and toss it out the window, or sell it and buy a better stereo.
Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art.
The list is long.. I wish it could be longer and he were still alive today.
I cannot even start with my favourite lyrics, maybe some other time.
The Suicide Note -
The text :
To Boddah
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.
For example when we're back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain
Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your alter.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!
5 March 2010
Don't read this. It isn't meant to be read :D
This is probably one conversation that will never happen for a number of reasons. Many reasons including fear, indecisiveness, fickle-mindedness, the eternal last drop of hope that never really evaporates and a thought that will never become a story.
It abysmally stops short of the pen hitting the paper.. and what's left are the respective hand and sore fingers that have been hovering painfully for a long, long time. A very long time indeed.
These kind of sticky situations don't seem humane AND human enough. It's either I should be living in some other planet or I've been transported here for some reason or the other. Some remaining last specimen of a very rare species.
Too much introspection and too less action. Thinking of acting on my far fetched plan of the so-called changing the world and the very many closely related things on my to-do list, you won't find this one even there. It's NOT there.
It'll never be done.
Is it just something like the stuff that's never really supposed to happen and words that should be left unsaid? I really don't know. I have no idea. Maybe it's more of the kind of redundant hope that I won't tire of, and run short of.
Wow, I can't wait for dinner more than 5 minutes when I need it right THEN but I can wait a lifetime for something that could possibly make me happy instead of me going right out front and ASKING it to make me happy.
I know there are some things you have to ask for. And demand. And insist upon. But love's certainly NOT one of those.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. - Shakespeare
And when you've done it once.. specially a person like me. You end up quizzing yourself for life if and what would've happened if you didn't force and initiate it.
Maybe the feeling needs more cementing and thinking about. It's just SO conflicting. Or maybe it's waiting for just the right moment to strike. And the right circumstances. Sometimes it's not all about right here right now.
And it's about imaginary conversations with a real person. Is this against the law or something? I wish it was, anyway. Imaginary conversations. And wishful scenarios. Thought up laughs and funny lines. It oh so heavenly but it ain't real. And that's what matters eventually.
It's pathological. Positively.
And if you happen to have a single or even multiple chances of having the same conversations, would you be disappointed? Surprised? In a good way or a bad way? This is very mental stalker-ish. Well, the person doesn't really get to know this. I guess unless they read this post. Which is not entirely unlikely.
But I think it's just better if you let it be. As the Beatles put it. And it's never too bad considering a second opinion. But then enters the question that doing something about it could be life changing and phenomenal. Movie-like twists, you know. Who doesn't like and actually want them?
I'm a drama addict anyway. I can do with some more. The conversation I intended to post here is well, still bubbling away in my brain. Fragments of a LOT many conversations down in the depths. A huge cauldron full of mixed emotions and thoughts. With dreamy smiles and dreamy eyes. And thinking about if I'm giving away more than I should be, writing this post here.
Does it happen that you feel a certain connection. Or maybe it's all in the mind. But then everything is in the mind. Physical ropes don't bind people together. How DO you prove that there's chemistry without even talking to someone? Or maybe just barely?
This is going to mess me up. Or maybe already has. I like to be messed up though. I should do something about it.
Or maybe not :D
What am I?
Building castles in the air is better than being homeless on the ground.
It abysmally stops short of the pen hitting the paper.. and what's left are the respective hand and sore fingers that have been hovering painfully for a long, long time. A very long time indeed.
These kind of sticky situations don't seem humane AND human enough. It's either I should be living in some other planet or I've been transported here for some reason or the other. Some remaining last specimen of a very rare species.
Too much introspection and too less action. Thinking of acting on my far fetched plan of the so-called changing the world and the very many closely related things on my to-do list, you won't find this one even there. It's NOT there.
It'll never be done.
Is it just something like the stuff that's never really supposed to happen and words that should be left unsaid? I really don't know. I have no idea. Maybe it's more of the kind of redundant hope that I won't tire of, and run short of.
Wow, I can't wait for dinner more than 5 minutes when I need it right THEN but I can wait a lifetime for something that could possibly make me happy instead of me going right out front and ASKING it to make me happy.
I know there are some things you have to ask for. And demand. And insist upon. But love's certainly NOT one of those.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. - Shakespeare
And when you've done it once.. specially a person like me. You end up quizzing yourself for life if and what would've happened if you didn't force and initiate it.
Maybe the feeling needs more cementing and thinking about. It's just SO conflicting. Or maybe it's waiting for just the right moment to strike. And the right circumstances. Sometimes it's not all about right here right now.
And it's about imaginary conversations with a real person. Is this against the law or something? I wish it was, anyway. Imaginary conversations. And wishful scenarios. Thought up laughs and funny lines. It oh so heavenly but it ain't real. And that's what matters eventually.
It's pathological. Positively.
And if you happen to have a single or even multiple chances of having the same conversations, would you be disappointed? Surprised? In a good way or a bad way? This is very mental stalker-ish. Well, the person doesn't really get to know this. I guess unless they read this post. Which is not entirely unlikely.
But I think it's just better if you let it be. As the Beatles put it. And it's never too bad considering a second opinion. But then enters the question that doing something about it could be life changing and phenomenal. Movie-like twists, you know. Who doesn't like and actually want them?
I'm a drama addict anyway. I can do with some more. The conversation I intended to post here is well, still bubbling away in my brain. Fragments of a LOT many conversations down in the depths. A huge cauldron full of mixed emotions and thoughts. With dreamy smiles and dreamy eyes. And thinking about if I'm giving away more than I should be, writing this post here.
Does it happen that you feel a certain connection. Or maybe it's all in the mind. But then everything is in the mind. Physical ropes don't bind people together. How DO you prove that there's chemistry without even talking to someone? Or maybe just barely?
This is going to mess me up. Or maybe already has. I like to be messed up though. I should do something about it.
Or maybe not :D
What am I?
Building castles in the air is better than being homeless on the ground.
27 February 2010
No Offence. *No Sarcasm*
It gets tiring. And there's a certain limit to how far someone can go. Without sounding too ridiculous. When will labels cease to exist and when will people stop judging, grading, and classifying things. The world should just be switched on to the Critics' mode and we could just snatch up Popular, crumple it, stomp on it and burn it up.
It sounds rather authoritarian and dicator-ish, but the world is waiting to be held and worked and moulded in intelligent hands, not on what sounds okay and what's been acceptable for a long time, or what's just liked by people around you. "People" are just that. People.
It irks me when intelligent ones depend on popular opinion. The world's going nowhere without individual thoughts and not the herd mentality. One by one everyone could be doing the same, wrong thing until somene wakes up and makes them realise that the right way is the other path.
If there isn't one already, make one.
On "following", one person does wrong and another three join him, and then another twenty, it just SETS the deed as something that's acceptable and eventually the "right" thing to do. If everyone is doing it, it is NOT that it is the right thing. It's just that people stopped using their brains sometime ago and now they're tools for some stupid person who has simple no idea of what he's done, is doing and will probably continue to do so for maybe a LOT more time to come.
That leads to redundant, unsuccesful attempts at change and eventually the changers get tired, think about - "can't beat 'em- join 'em" and then finally cease to exist. Perseverance as a virtue is not much seen though as a vice, it's the norm. If you get benefitted that's what you keep doing.
It's all about you, you and you. And not about what happens outside you. Yourself too is all about the exterior other see and what they cannot see is the tumultous relationship you have with yourself inside. And sometimes you can't even feel it and you choose to ignore it, which is perceptually a good decision but in reality, it's far from it.
A call to the conscience it just what everyone needs. Every one of the "people" out there.
Agood example could be Gandhi. I refuse to revere him personally by calling him Mahatma. I study History and I conclude he was just a person, and what he said and wanted, appealed to the selves, the egos of the "people" and they thought they could benefit from the consequences, thus they liked him and followed him. His principles struck true.
They needed freedom, he was an instrument to get it. No, I refuse to think that every one of those people were as noble as him and could sacrifice their whole lives as he did for the greater benefit of humankind. No they could not. Or else we could find a million more Gandhis to stop what is happening and change the world.
But we don't. "People" want to live their lives. They want to grow up, get a good job, get rich, have an attractive partner, a couple or more kids, lead a good life and die peacefully in their sleep. They need just that. And to have that they needed the freedom to get that life they wanted. Thus they needed someone to get them there.
Once you live in India, you start loving the way you live even if it's not the best way and patriotism, mixed in your blood can never make you say a word against your country. So you gently and carefully try to mend things, all undercover. You do not question it out loud. Just as you would never go and shout at your parents' face on something you think they did wrong. That's just morally wrong and cannot be done.
These are the set rules and the norms. India's a country. Your parents are humans. And sometimes subtlety just does not do it. Bottling up something ends up in more harm being done than good. It has to come out someday and in the case of the country, I hope it is some day soon.
People live in whimsical fantasies and rely on Gods which are probably and positively someone's fantasy. Harry Potter and Ram are in the same picture for me. No, no superhumanperson sitting in the sky can grant wishes. Alladin's genie and Vishnu are the same then. Sorry I burst your pretty holy bubble. Or maybe I just bruised it a pretty shade of black and blue. I hope.
The class 12 history textbook is enough to cement my theories that our culture is a potpourri of mildly exaggerated folk tales and simpe whimsical characters who came about with just too much free time and little children who were eager for good bed-time stories.
But smell the coffee, "people", you are not a kid. And you need something more solid and palpable than a blind faith in a omnipresent entity. Like air, yes. Can you depend on the air you breathe to change say, the political situation India has? No, air is there for you to breathe. Gods are there to exist in the holy books. As characters. And nothing more. It's actions and not prayer which leads to change.
Another conclusion I come to is that "people" are just a group of very lazy people who would just rather depend on their very "rich" culture and tradition, sit back and reminisce while their present and future lies dark and dank and empty. What was once.. was there once. And it's just like a family heirloom, which was lost centuries ago but still you're SO proud and arrogant that you once had it.
But face it, you can't live on it.
Majority if village, small town and good part of the urban Indian youth grow up on cheap bollywood films, nonsensical songs and non-existent food for thought.. books are to be there in the libraries. And thinking is for thinkers. It's like saying studying is for people trying to get their phDs. They started somewhere years ago. And well, if you don't, your story ended before it started.
Sorry, sir. But you just killed my hope.
It sounds rather authoritarian and dicator-ish, but the world is waiting to be held and worked and moulded in intelligent hands, not on what sounds okay and what's been acceptable for a long time, or what's just liked by people around you. "People" are just that. People.
It irks me when intelligent ones depend on popular opinion. The world's going nowhere without individual thoughts and not the herd mentality. One by one everyone could be doing the same, wrong thing until somene wakes up and makes them realise that the right way is the other path.
If there isn't one already, make one.
On "following", one person does wrong and another three join him, and then another twenty, it just SETS the deed as something that's acceptable and eventually the "right" thing to do. If everyone is doing it, it is NOT that it is the right thing. It's just that people stopped using their brains sometime ago and now they're tools for some stupid person who has simple no idea of what he's done, is doing and will probably continue to do so for maybe a LOT more time to come.
That leads to redundant, unsuccesful attempts at change and eventually the changers get tired, think about - "can't beat 'em- join 'em" and then finally cease to exist. Perseverance as a virtue is not much seen though as a vice, it's the norm. If you get benefitted that's what you keep doing.
It's all about you, you and you. And not about what happens outside you. Yourself too is all about the exterior other see and what they cannot see is the tumultous relationship you have with yourself inside. And sometimes you can't even feel it and you choose to ignore it, which is perceptually a good decision but in reality, it's far from it.
A call to the conscience it just what everyone needs. Every one of the "people" out there.
Agood example could be Gandhi. I refuse to revere him personally by calling him Mahatma. I study History and I conclude he was just a person, and what he said and wanted, appealed to the selves, the egos of the "people" and they thought they could benefit from the consequences, thus they liked him and followed him. His principles struck true.
They needed freedom, he was an instrument to get it. No, I refuse to think that every one of those people were as noble as him and could sacrifice their whole lives as he did for the greater benefit of humankind. No they could not. Or else we could find a million more Gandhis to stop what is happening and change the world.
But we don't. "People" want to live their lives. They want to grow up, get a good job, get rich, have an attractive partner, a couple or more kids, lead a good life and die peacefully in their sleep. They need just that. And to have that they needed the freedom to get that life they wanted. Thus they needed someone to get them there.
Once you live in India, you start loving the way you live even if it's not the best way and patriotism, mixed in your blood can never make you say a word against your country. So you gently and carefully try to mend things, all undercover. You do not question it out loud. Just as you would never go and shout at your parents' face on something you think they did wrong. That's just morally wrong and cannot be done.
These are the set rules and the norms. India's a country. Your parents are humans. And sometimes subtlety just does not do it. Bottling up something ends up in more harm being done than good. It has to come out someday and in the case of the country, I hope it is some day soon.
People live in whimsical fantasies and rely on Gods which are probably and positively someone's fantasy. Harry Potter and Ram are in the same picture for me. No, no superhumanperson sitting in the sky can grant wishes. Alladin's genie and Vishnu are the same then. Sorry I burst your pretty holy bubble. Or maybe I just bruised it a pretty shade of black and blue. I hope.
The class 12 history textbook is enough to cement my theories that our culture is a potpourri of mildly exaggerated folk tales and simpe whimsical characters who came about with just too much free time and little children who were eager for good bed-time stories.
But smell the coffee, "people", you are not a kid. And you need something more solid and palpable than a blind faith in a omnipresent entity. Like air, yes. Can you depend on the air you breathe to change say, the political situation India has? No, air is there for you to breathe. Gods are there to exist in the holy books. As characters. And nothing more. It's actions and not prayer which leads to change.
Another conclusion I come to is that "people" are just a group of very lazy people who would just rather depend on their very "rich" culture and tradition, sit back and reminisce while their present and future lies dark and dank and empty. What was once.. was there once. And it's just like a family heirloom, which was lost centuries ago but still you're SO proud and arrogant that you once had it.
But face it, you can't live on it.
Majority if village, small town and good part of the urban Indian youth grow up on cheap bollywood films, nonsensical songs and non-existent food for thought.. books are to be there in the libraries. And thinking is for thinkers. It's like saying studying is for people trying to get their phDs. They started somewhere years ago. And well, if you don't, your story ended before it started.
Sorry, sir. But you just killed my hope.
1 February 2010
Laments of a Dreamer
Being a dreamer is very inconvenient. Especially when the light switch is across the room, the weather cold and the time is 1:35 in the night. Poems come whispering to you at the unearthliest hours. Sometimes humming and buzzing like an irritating mosquito, trying to get a place to sleep, in the hollow of your ear. And you can't just slap it away and go to sleep.
Poetic paranoia is another such disease that gets in the way of living. When I can't just let the lines go and let them come to me again at a later date. That just isn't possible. I have to get up, groaning, repeating the lines to myself and scatter around stuff on my already very messy study table and rummage for a piece of paper somewhere. And then look for a pen that works.
And when you're so habitual of the sound of the keyboard, thank god for the blessed old fashioned paper. And specially when you have switched on and off your laptop at least a dozen times in the day already.
You get tired. You want to go to sleep. But your mind doesn't stop. It doesn't stop making plans that will never be implemented. And dreams that will never be realised. Not even in the dream's dreams. It fantasizes with the current favourite sappiest song there is with your current favourite person, in a ridiculously fantastical scenario.
It thinks up a movie-like storyline. Which will probably be forgotten, substituted by a more ridiculously thought-out plan that will again be fantastically substituted. It's a vicious, vicious cycle.
It keeps you away from the dreadful reality but brings it back to you transforming it like an ugly-beast-to-handsome-prince story or a rags-to-riches one. Subsequently you get disappointed and tired, and give up just to start dreaming in another five minutes.
But just on rare occasions, some incidents take you to another part of your dream which is in actuality real, and it's better than you can fantasize or dream of. It's the moments like these that you live for. And hope that you can continue to live for them.
Dreams come and they go. And they come again..
Sometimes you just want to shout at it to STOP but you don't. Because it's just the way it is. That's who you are.
Poetic paranoia is another such disease that gets in the way of living. When I can't just let the lines go and let them come to me again at a later date. That just isn't possible. I have to get up, groaning, repeating the lines to myself and scatter around stuff on my already very messy study table and rummage for a piece of paper somewhere. And then look for a pen that works.
And when you're so habitual of the sound of the keyboard, thank god for the blessed old fashioned paper. And specially when you have switched on and off your laptop at least a dozen times in the day already.
You get tired. You want to go to sleep. But your mind doesn't stop. It doesn't stop making plans that will never be implemented. And dreams that will never be realised. Not even in the dream's dreams. It fantasizes with the current favourite sappiest song there is with your current favourite person, in a ridiculously fantastical scenario.
It thinks up a movie-like storyline. Which will probably be forgotten, substituted by a more ridiculously thought-out plan that will again be fantastically substituted. It's a vicious, vicious cycle.
It keeps you away from the dreadful reality but brings it back to you transforming it like an ugly-beast-to-handsome-prince story or a rags-to-riches one. Subsequently you get disappointed and tired, and give up just to start dreaming in another five minutes.
But just on rare occasions, some incidents take you to another part of your dream which is in actuality real, and it's better than you can fantasize or dream of. It's the moments like these that you live for. And hope that you can continue to live for them.
Dreams come and they go. And they come again..
Sometimes you just want to shout at it to STOP but you don't. Because it's just the way it is. That's who you are.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)