And I quote...

Joy and sorrow are not like oil and water; they co-exist.

- Jose Saramago?

I made it myself!

So there's this guy. He meets this girl and realises that she has a cold ALL the time. He is pained by this, and hates the fact that she's always in discomfort. So he cures her cold. And they both fall in love with each other.

What's this movie called?

Vicks Vaporub Ne Bana Di Jodi.

*laughs hysterically*

Sitting At Home

For the past couple of weeks, I've been at home. Sitting. Walking around. Doing nothing. Not even thinking.

Too bored to post, write, play guitar, photograph or think.

A little depressed. Or sad.

Unemployment does that, I've been told.

So maybe it's that.

Sigh.

HATE HATE.

Are you fucking kidding me?

No, you're not. This is happening. This is happening right now, in my city. And I hate it.

For all the love and all the shit that my city doles out, for all the lives it has given, and even the ones it's taken away, this is still my city. And I HATE it.

Yea, it happens every day somewhere in the world, and today it's happening here. And I HATE IT.

Fucking terrorists. Possibly from this very country. This violent behaviour is never going to end, is it? This has happened, someone will retaliate. And this will happen again, somewhere else. My optimistic view of our future is beginning to wane.

Any bets for how long we'll last? Because I know this hate (and all the hate around the world) is never going to die. As long as there are people who have, and those who have not, there will be hate. As long as there is no thought given by those who have for those who have not, there will be hate. As long as we continue to leave love out of the equation, this will happen.

So tell me this: How long will we last?

Can we all agree, before we kill each other, that we hate hate?

For the kid with the ice cream.

What's that?
You're fat.
Don't eat.
You sweat.
You reek.
You stink,
of meat.
And smoke.
Stop that,
you're fat.

You're bald.
You're hairy.
You're tall.
You're short
Too thin,
suck it in.
What's that?
You're fat.

You're too happy,
too sad,
too sane,
too mad.
Too worried,
too carefree.
Too like you,
unlike me.
What's that?
You're fat.

You curse
too much
eat
too much
sleep
too much
lie
too much
naive
too much
whine
too much
Where's your spine?
Look at mine!
What's that?
You're fat.

You disgust me.

Yea,
but,
I don't disgust me.

That's how it is.

I've said it more than just a few times in the last couple of months, and it worries me that I take it for granted that "that's just how it is".

The more I say it, the more I believe it. You can try and convince me otherwise, but I think you'll have a hard time. Things have become what they've become and change has gained its own momentum, so much so that our actions have little or no impact on what happens in this world. Our individualism has divided us. We all have different thoughts, perceptions and, more impactfully, different ideals and morals. What's good for the goose, the gander doesn't think much of. We're sheep if you look at how gullible we've become, following shepherds around all day just because they're on TV. But we're sheep with ideas of our own. It's a little contradictory, I know, but it's true.

Our individualism has impacted our world and led us to believe that we all know what's good for each of us. Still, we'll believe most of what we're told about other people, and have more than enough advice to hand out to other people. How's that for a contradiction? Why this individualism scares me is because we're still not governed by a society that values individualism. Our society believes in our belonging to a collective mindset. We've made little to no effort to change how our society is run, but made every effort to proclaim from the rooftops that we are individuals.

So we are individuals. Standing individually, and consumed by our individuality. I am one. I accept that.

So who makes decisions? People sitting behind important desks in important offices who seem to know very little about who we are, but a lot about who they want us to be. They reside within bureaucracy and rarely take the time to come out and look at the real world.

If they're the ones with the pens that sign the papers that tell us how to live our lives, then what chance do we have of "being the change"? Everybody argues that you need to go become a politician if you hate all the politicians you're being forced to vote for. But what if you don't want to enter politics? What do you do then? Con someone else into becoming a politician? Meh.

Then what are we left with when we accept that we're never going to enter politics and refuse to vote for anyone/end up voting for the guy who's closest to getting us where we want to be? We're left with things being a particular way and us having nothing to do to change the way things are. So we say, "That's how it is."

Tell me there's something I'm missing.

Please.

(Post started: above; post completed: November 5th)

What would the Marlboro Man do?

I know it's a horrible habit. I know I need to quit. But the only reason I smoke is because of the incredible calm I feel sometimes, while dangling that lit cigarette between my fingers. Yes, mostly it's gratuitous, but there are times. Like phish describes in ashtray. 

Sometimes...

I like smoke. 

I like the feeling of breathing something different. 

It's bad for me, but I don't care. 

Peace of mind feels purer than healthy lungs.

What they're taking away is my coffee+cigarette, my beer+cigarette, my whisky+cigarette. What they're taking away is my right to choose. I understand it's bad for me. My health is not a priority. If it were, I wouldn't even be living in this city. Or working here. Or eating out because I don't have anything close to a kitchen in my rented apartment.

I don't smoke around kids or pregnant women. I don't smoke around my friends when they're sick, well, I try to not.

I don't litter any part of the cigarette or the pack, except the ash. If I have an empty cigarette pack, I don't even drop the ash. I haven't dropped cigarette butts on the street in about three years. I haven't littered anything in longer.

I'm not looking for a 'thank you for not littering', I'm just saying I'm aware of everything I do. Hell, if I had the option I wouldn't blow the smoke into the air. I don't like the fact that I pollute the air, but I can't really do much about that right now.

I'll quit smoking. 

Eventually. 

I know that for a fact. But I don't like being told what to do, and what not to do. I like making up my own mind. That's all.

I can't even hate the guy who's responsible for this ban. The other thing he's reportedly working on is legalising homosexuality. Which I stand for. 

Again, my city is alienating me.

I felt that when I thought they were doing away with big English lettering on shops and restaurants, but I think they were only fighting for similar-sized lettering in Devnagari (have I spelt it right?). That's fine by me. But smaller English lettering would make it tedious for me to decipher.

But I digress. This is about the ban on smoking in "public places" in "Mumbai", and, well, the rest of the country. Yup, I can't smoke in pubs, coffee shops, restaurants, parks, my office balcony, or any similar places.

So where does that leave me, and every other smoker in this country? On the road. Ostracised.

Flapping Wildly

DEATH

I met Muxtape far too late in life. While its birth was in March of 08, I got to know of its existence only in May. From when I first found out about Muxtape, I dreamed of how much we could do. But I never really used it. In August of this year, I put up a muxtape. August 13, to be precise. On August 18, the RIAA's pursuit to end free listening caught up with Muxtape, and the site had to be put on hold till its problems were sorted out. There went my muxtape, and my music 'blog' was replaced by a message that spelled out doom for the simple site and its admirable administrators. On September 25, Muxtape, as we know it, died.

This simple website was exactly what we--as music seekers, as people with achingly open ears--needed. Planned to the extent that you knew what you were putting up, and in what order. Random to the extent that hitting the next button on the top right corner of the screen took you to another muxtape in another part of the world and brought you music you might never have heard, sitting in your pixel on the GoogleMap. Simple to the extent that you click to play, click to pause, and click on the 'buy' link to buy, click on the 'share' link to share.

But it's gone. So fuck you RIAA. Fuck you and your rules and your inability to give us the liberty to listen to music online without having to pay an unnecessary price for it.

RESURRECTION

What sort of resurrection? I don't know more than I'm supposed to. I'm supposed to know that, from now on, bands will put up muxtapes. Not us. We will be allowed to listen. For a price? I don't think so, but you never know. I hope not. I'll still visit.

The future has answers. We don't. Let's wait and watch. Meanwhile, there's always Jamendo.

Time Is Running Out

I don't know the meaning of the Muse song that has become my muse for this post. Perhaps I'm not smart enough to figure it out (I'm usually not smart enough for songs I like, or poetry, or books) or perhaps I'm too busy to figure it out. Or maybe I only like figuring Damo's songs out. Or maybe I only truly understand his music, and everyone else's I'm happy liking from far, just from hearing distance.

Truth be told, it doesn't matter. My time is running out.

Yes, I'm just 25. But I'm a single, job-hating 25-year-old.

Let's tackle the job-hating part. Why does that worry me, you ask? Well, think of all the time I waste at this dull office, inhabited recently by a very gaseous person who just happens to sit right next to me and is, for some reason, seemingly unfazed by my looks (an equal mixture of disgust and pure misery) or my clutching at my nose trying to rip the damn thing off. 

(Picture courtesy Nikhil, who should probably be putting his pictures up online.)

Think of all the time I waste doing things I hate, when I could be here, blogging, or outside, looking up at the sky with my eyes shut, so I might not see where the sun is, but know where it is. Or the holidays I might take, were I not required to walk in here on time everyday.

It doesn't matter, you might say. You might also try to convince me that this is part of a learning process. But I'd counter with the argument that I don't have all the time in the world. I have a fixed set of years to do all of the things that I want to do. So why am I sitting here, worrying about money, when I could be doing something that makes me forget all about the green stuff?

I'm single. Yes. I have been for over a year now, and I hate it. It's not the life for me. I don't enjoy the so-called freedom you get. I didn't even crave it when I was in a relationship. I fucked up, yes. It was all me. So this is punishment, right? This finding out everyone I know is in a relationship except me?

The worst part is most of my friends think I'm doing this to myself! Really? So I'm part masochist, you say? Bollocks.

But I haven't met a single girl I'd be interested in. I've met some married ones. Who didn't bother telling me they were married while I was flirting* with them. Oh yea, some of them do that. I can't believe I had to add them on Facebook to find that out. I also can't believe I'm glad Facebook exists.

I don't mind being punished for hurting her. I deserve it, I know. I'm just wondering how much time I'll have with the future Mrs. Void. I wouldn't care if I met the woman of my dreams years later, and both of us were old, if I still got the amount of time I wanted to live with her. I don't want to meet her when I've too little time left on this planet. Hell, the way things are going, none of us know how much time we have left here.

But then, maybe this is all unnecessary.

Hell, maybe I'm wasting too much time worrying.

You think?

*Please note: Just because I'm using the word 'flirting' does not mean I actually know what it means. I've merely been told that my actions at times resemble flirting, but since I was drunk all of those times, I couldn't possibly recreate the actions that were collectively termed, by my soberer friends, as flirting.

Just when I thought I was out...they pull me back in.

I tried to quit my job today. I quit half of it a while back, thought I just had the stuff that I liked to do left. Turns out, what I want has been put on hold, leaving me with no work to do. So what happens? I get guilted into taking up the half I'd left over a month ago. What did I think, seriously? Why am I so damn gullible?

My gullibility is legen...wait for it...dary.

Really.

----

The other day my friend tells me Reese was stabbed.

Thinking of all the Reeses I know, I mention the only name on the list: "Witherspoon?"

"No," she replies, "with a knife."

Gullible, I tell you.

Flashing Fiction & Living Life

I'm trying my hand at flash fiction, and it's god-damned tough.

Tried one contest before, got burned. Trying another one now, will probably get burned for focusing all of my research on my writing and not on the actual piece of fiction.

Meanwhile, I'll probably be posting most of my fiction here.

Life As A Box is my current entry, I'll post the older (read: spurned) one in a bit.

Meanwhile, my arrears in salary have arrived and I'm going to by new shoes with it. I'd feel like a girl if I wasn't wearing ripped shoes right now. New shoes, a pair of jeans (to replace ones which are also currently ripped), some shirts (to replace ones which have holes burned in them, thanks to some drunken smoking) and hopefully an external hard-disk to save my life on (which is mostly stored in office right now, although some of it is floating in cyberspace).

I feel like I've been living with all the bad parts of a hobo's life, and none of the good ones (read: travelling).

For people I meet in the flesh, no, that wasn't a complaint. I merely made an observation.

You want in?

Here's a bit.

Thinking about Judas

Disclaimer: This is just a running thought in my head. I'd like your views, requests for clarifications, etc. I will bring this back, reworked, as and when I do rework it. I've posted the Free Will part below, but it doesn't bear much relevance to this thought. This thought concerns the existence of hell, and who the souls are who fill it. For the record: I believe in God; I do not believe in organised religion.

There is good and evil in this world. Maybe it's not all black and white, but it exists, in greys. There is a god. And God exists somewhere in our minds, or our souls. Maybe heaven exists there too. We're advocates of good, so we believe that we will go to heaven for our good deeds. And others, with their bad deeds, will go to hell.

These bad people, who do bad things to us, they must be hell-bound.

People who have a problem with absolutes---well, the smart ones, not just the posers---have a problem with the idea of heaven and hell. Everyone has reasons to do what they do. So how can what they do be wrong? In most cases, they do it with the intent of saving themselves, not necessarily with malicious intent. So why would they go to hell? Well, in all likelihood, they wouldn't. They'd beg forgiveness, spend some in-between time in purgatory and then go to heaven eventually.

But what about those who are truly evil? The ones who perform heinous acts against innocent poeple. Rapists, child molestors, serial killers. What about Hitler? If he was truly evil, he must have gone to hell, right? Unless free will doesn't exist. Because if what he did was pre-ordained by God, then why would God punish him?

He wouldn't.

--------------------------------------------

Alternatively, there is no good and evil in this world. Everything that happens, happens. People are bad sometimes, but they're essentially good. There are exceptions, of course, and they're usually mentally configured to do these things. They will not be punished by God, because God does not exist. If God does not exist, no one has any say about their actions. They are free to do as they wish. And they do. They kill, they rape, they molest, well, they hurt. We can't stop them before they do, just after.

TagMyDog

I've been tagged. By Gauri. First time. Ever.

There's just one person who I can attribute most of who I am today to. It's not that I was nothing before, but if she hadn't owned me for two years, I might've been a very different man today. I haven't found a woman who's compared to her since, and I've often told myself that I will probably have to make my peace with the fact that I might never.

Well, I digress. Gauri, you asked how that one person has changed me, well, here are five ways.

1. She introduced me to Damien Rice. Anyone who knows me, knows I have an unhealthy fascination with Mr. Rice. Every song he's sung, every live show he's played, every single note, every single strum. And Mr. Rice, in turn, led me down a different path musically. One I might never have taken. The acoustic guitar means all the more to me now. I will forever be indebted to her for this.

2. She got me singing. Okay, so I'm no you're-going-to-Hollywood contestant, nor even a you're-great-but-you're-just-not-good-for-this-show. But I like singing. It could be that all of my fans (read: me) think that singing is the best thing I could've started doing. But it's probably not that, it's more likely just a release and that's something I'm glad she got me doing too.

3. I've met a lot of new people thanks to her. This was mostly because I always ended up hanging out with her friends, not she with mine. It was an exercise in socialising. I'm less the introvert for that.

4. She got me reading again. It was something I'd left behind, resigning myself to more TV than I could handle. And she got me on a blog. : )

5. She convinced me that I wasn't all the 'good guy' I thought I was. And that it wasn't a bad thing that I wasn't. I used to pick and choose my memories. Keep the ones where I come out looking clean, and throw away the ones where I do bad things. Well, I won't say I've changed this completely, but it's definitely work in progress. And I'm a little more careful with people's feelings now; I don't have the liberty to pick what I remember now.

So there you go. Now I tag.
Phish
missA
Mystique
Apu

Log to Blog I

Domesticated

Call me Timmy. Tommy. Rocky, or any other name you would choose for me. I am your property. You have spent money to own me. I am your pet.
Domesticated.
Because you have domesticated me.
Thrown me your tripe, the scraps off your table.
Domesticated.
Chained by you. Because you need to know where I am and exactly what I am up to.
You would not want that I find out for myself how good your food tastes. God forbid I did; I might want more. I might not accept your scraps. I might, instead, demand that you spend more time and effort in feeding me. And you must feed me, for you have domesticated me.
Were I still the wild animal I was born, or the wild beast my ancestors were, I might have been able to fend for myself. Hunting for my own food, depending on myself alone for my survival.
But I am not.
I am, instead,
domesticated.
I live a life of domestication at your hands.
So then, I implore you, treat me with respect. I still am a living being. I am as much in need of nourishment as a wild beast. I do not complain that my ability to fend for myself has been pried from my hands. But I resent that you have ignored your responsibility to compensate me for my loss.

Knowledge is my food. And you, media, my irresponsible master.

The search has ended. The deed has been done.

Okay, so it took me longer than I thought.

Here's the problem: There's not that many good places to buy pens in this city. Went to the Crossword bookstore in Bandra first. They have a small, rectangular box which has a few Lamy pens. Turns out, the guy who comes with the small, rectangular box is quite daft and ill-informed. I mention Safari or AL-star, he tells me, "Sorry, we only sell Lamy and Cross." I say, "Okay, but those are LAMY brands." And then I walk out.

Went to InOrbit Mall next, where I remembered seeing a Just Linc store a long time ago. Turns out they started selling clothes there, or something else, not pens (allow me to clarify, no Just Linc). So I went to Crossword in InOrbit. With an equally sized, rectangular box as the Bandra outlet, and an equally daft and ill-informed man who was actually hard to find; he wasn't standing next to the equally sized, rectangular box. His reply of "Sorry, we only sell Lamy and Cross," to my query of AL-star or Safari nearly got him his head bitten off. By me. He mentioned a store to the left, on the right, outside Shoppers' Stop (where Crossword is located in InOrbit). I walked outside, calmly, took a left, looked right, saw this William Penn store, which seemed far to rich for my poor pockets. Besides, I wasn't looking for a Mont Blanc or a Sheaffer, or even a Cross.

My next option was the Crossword store at Kemp's Corner, recommended by a friend who said that they had better informed staff manning the counter there. No small, rectangular boxes, no daft, ill-informed salesmen. So I make my way there. And as it turns out, the counter there is 'William Penn' and they haven't sold Lamy for a while. I maintain my composure (you should be proud of me for that!) He informs me that there is this Just Linc store in the Crossroads 2 Mall at Nariman Point.

Against my better judgement, I rush there that very evening, only to find that while most other stores were open, the Just Linc store was shut. And through the glass display, I saw my pen-to-be. Oh she was beautiful. So close, and yet...so very, very far.

But I persisted. I knew this was the place where I'd get what I wanted. So last evening, I left work early, just to make it to Nariman Point before the store shut. And I did. And I walked in, my nerves tingling, hoping so badly that I wouldn't be let down again, scared by the journey I'd taken since I'd made up my mind to buy that pen.

I said Lamy. The salesman said Yes. I said Safari or AL-Star. He said Yes. I said Extra Fine or Fine nib. He said Yes. I asked Can I try it out before, just to check how thin the nib is? He said, Sure, why not? I said, I'll take this one. He said, Sure. He asked, which colour would you like? I said Black. He said Yes. He asked, Would you like a converter with that? I said Yes. I asked Do you have ink as well? Salesgirl said Yes. She asked Which colour? I said Black. She said Of course. I bought my pen, my converter and my ink, and I walked out. Pleased as ever. This had gone by just perfectly.

So here you go people, have a look. Pen Ink The converter you can have a look on the Pen page, under accessories.

Btw, she writes like a dream.

And I've already written something. Will post as soon as I type it all up.

New News

I'm excited. After months of wondering how to start writing, here it is, something to finally get me back to writing. Aimlessly. The only writing that keeps me happy, sane: the aimless kind. It's like when I pick up my guitar, attempt the blues, aimlessly. I'm not writing songs; I'm just playing. For fuck's sake.

So why haven't I written? Well, this keyboard, and every other keyboard I've put my hands on, has been in an uncreative, uninspiring place. This time, I'm taking my tools with me. Pen and paper.

I went and bought a notebook---the traditional kind. The kind you open and find it has loads of blank pages that could get filled in an instant, or remain blank an eternity. The kind you gotta plug your mind into, not the internet. The kind you can't erase words from as easily. The kind you won't find anything else to do with but write.

And I'm going, right now, to buy a pen. A fountain pen. My favourite kind.

Disclaimer: I seem overly judgemental of the computer/notebook PC. I'm not. I still love my PC, for the gate to knowledge that it is.

Do you know why I hate you?

I was thinking the other day. About hate. Strong word, with strong emotion. Causes strong actions, and stronger reactions. And I wondered why people hate, when it's such a useless expense of one's time. When used creatively, I completely advocate its use. But when used destructively, what's the point? And I think people have stopped looking at it as the former. Hate is used purely to ignite destructive fires in people's hearts, these days. It is used as a tool, effectively, by the Satan that exists somewhere in an unperceived dimension we've come to term as Hell, and by the Satan that lives within men's hearts. Within my own too, I am not special, I don't claim to be. This is not special, this idea; it has been conceived by others before me, and others before them. But why has it not been broadcast?

But getting back to the point of 'hate'... Do you know why I hate you? I don't hate your face. I don't hate the colour of your skin, I don't hate your personality or that you're such an asshole (women readers, read: a bitch), I don't even hate you because of your God.

I hate you because---and this is really simple, so bear with me---you're not like me.

That's all it is. That's all I hate, really. I think one way; you think another. I say peanut butter; you say jelly. I say ebony; you say ivory. I say Raikkonen; you say Hamilton. That's all it is. And it sounds so simple, but magnify this a little more, stepping into people's core beliefs and people's emotional spaces, and you'll see how this could all get very messy, very fast.

So when do we start being okay with the fact that we're all not the same? When we keep trying to spread a global culture and become the same? When we're taught that we all need to abide by the same rules, and live with the same dreams, hopes and ambitions? How do we start changing that thought first? Or do we try at all?

Quarter Century. Silver Jubilee. Mid-life crisis?

So this is what it's like to feel 25, eh? I think I'm having a mid-life crisis. Which, if I did my math right (and I do suck at math), means that 50 is it for me. Anything above that and I'm living on borrowed time. Which I don't mind borrowing, provided I'm loaded, still as hot as I am (someone's laughing in my head. Wtf? Shut up back there!) and, well, doing whatever I want to do.

Which brings me back to... Huh? What's that sign say? 'What...do...you...want...to...' Argh! How'd I get here again? No, no, I'm not doing this... besides, if I go by MissAlister's theory (which I'm sure has been well researched) I'm not supposed to know for at least another 20 years. So there!

Although the whole point of knowing is lost if my life expectancy is 50. So...

Anyhoo, enjoy this day. Have a pint on me. Cheers!

1

Just the one day left.

Here,
there,
everywhere,
it seems the world has gone away.

I'm sitting in an empty room,
inside an empty office,
inside an empty building,
inside an empty city,
inside an empty country,
inside an empty continent,
inside an empty earth,
inside an empty solar system,
inside an empty galaxy,
inside an empty universe,
inside my empty head.

And I'm not moving.

This is starting to scare me.

2

I've had this open all day. Since I came in to work in the morning(ish). There are just two days left until I turn 25. It's a scary thought. At what age are you supposed to know where you're headed? I've known people who've figured it all out earlier. I know more people today who haven't.

I will not deny you this: this way, it's more fun.

But I usually have these 'what if' moods--I guess everyone does--where I wonder how things might've turned out if I'd actually planned them. But 'planning' requires a lot more will power and concentration than I'm (ready) willing (and able) to give. More tomorrow.

For a friend.

I may not be your man,
but I'm your #1 fan.

Attempting to achieve Goal Number One

This effort to move is proving to be quite the effort. My fault for assuming this would be easy. My fault for assuming that life would cut me a break. I'm not bitter, though I know I sound the part. I'm just a little peeved I suppose. At myself. Never assume. When you assume...

Thing is, I know life handed me lemons. And I've made some lemonade. But so far, nobody's buying any. Makes me wonder if the lemons were overripe or green and I was too late, or too early. Then again, I might just suck at making lemonade.

This mystery I'm solving, this life, I keep getting clues along the way. I think my recent trip to Bangalore (Bang-galore, but not this time around) was just that I might finish reading No Country For Old Men. For a lesson in the futility of leaving the past behind. It's who I am, up until this point, up until right now. If I leave it behind, what am I left with?

Exactly.

So while I was trying, desperately, to find a job in Bangalore and leave my (very recently, quite jingoistic) city of birth behind, someGodsomepowersomeonesomething made sure I understood I'd never be able to leave my past behind. I understand. This is who I've got; this is who I'll be through to the end. Damn right.

Torn from my notebook...

Here are a couple of corners of pages filled. They might not make sense, but I didn't want to forget where I am right now, where I was a few months ago.

1
...especially when i'm not sure as to why i should be keen on something that isn't happening, but that i'm trying to make happen. Life has, so far, just happened to me. It hasn't been my effort, well, rarely, but still, it hasn't been anything that i've done. it's just been fate, destiny and all of the forces of the universe that have thrown things at me that i've attempted to catch like a blind man who's learnt that martial art you only learn in movies where you catch something by just listening to the air whoosh by.

2
I am
like
slivers of silver oranges,
precious but only semi,
peeled and left... unnoticed.

My love
is like
an unwanted, old balloon,
deflated and chained with cotton,
to the remnants of life's celebrations.

If I am, then you are too,
if I bleed, then so will you,
if I die, then you will wish it too.

If this is what you meant,
if this is what you wanted,
if this is how you saw it happen,
then go find someone else to fuck you,
and kiss you, while you dreamhopepray
it's okay.

A little update...

I want to quit my job. Really. If there has ever been anything that could take the fun out of listening to music, this is it. I write about music; well, I'm supposed to. But I haven't felt for anything that I've written in a long time. Since March of last year, working for an article that was released in April. I wrote something critical actually, but I had fun writing it. It wasn't merely an update of what was happening in so-and-so's life, but an analysis of a certain situation, and a certain stance that the artist had adopted. Okay, fuck that, I hate talking vaguely. So the Dixie Chicks had just won some Grammys and everyone was ooh-aahing about them being so coolly rebellious. But I didn't think so. And that was the one, and only, time that I expressed my opinion...in a music magazine. I don't think music magazines were meant to suppress opinions or only print positively. I could be wrong; please tell me if you think so. I think that music magazines do two things: educate and instigate. Because that's what music does. Music educates you; life, love, politics, religion. Everything that you hear is supposed to make you think. And music instigates you. It is muse-ic (if you'll forgive the pun). It inspires you to create, inspires you to use your mind for once in your follow-the-well-trodden-path life. So that's what we're supposed to do too, right? Wrong. Apparently I'm wrong. If I am, then I'd rather be wrong than suck up. I'd rather be wrong than hope that people pick up my magazine just because I agree with them. Ooh, he's hot... Ooh, she's hot. That's all I hear. Stop it already; stop swallowing everything so effortlessly just because it's sugar-coated. That's what I did for the first 20-odd years of my life, but these 4-5 years after my 'rebirth', they have been the only ones that have mattered. Ignorance may be bliss, but it's not for me, it's not for us.

So, yea, I want to quit.

Just one last question before we wrap up...

Parents are stable.
Parents are givers, sustainers of life.
Parents give hope.
Parents are donors of love.
Parents are the foundations of our moral characters.
Parents are our emotional anchors.

So what happens when they're not?

Goal Number Two

Keep the creative alive.

Goal Number One.

Move.

Ranty Martins

would have been cooler as an angry journalist, rather than the known-only-by-i-league-lovers footballer that he is. Have you heard of him? Thought not.

Anyhoo, I've a rant for you.

Ever notice someone talking to you, or yourself talking to someone about the weather? I mean worthless, filler conversation like, "Ooh, dont you love this weather we're having?" or "Isn't it really dry/humid/hot/cold these days?" Pointless, really. And I know that I'm never going to have a conversation that's worth my time (or theirs) as long as this topic keeps popping up. I hate talking about the weather--as if that isn't obvious already. If it were up to me, and it is only about half of the time, I'd find something more interesting to point out. Ever look out and value the cars passing by on the road? I once counted one crore in about five seconds--largely thanks to the S class that passed by. I've really given up talking about the weather. You'll never find me bringing it up, unless I'm making a statement about how I feel about it. I do not want to know what you think about the weather. I'm human, (close to) physically normal, and I know that it's dry/humid/hot/cold/wet.

I like ranting, but I find myself at my most inane and least likely to make a logical point when I am. It's probably just that I hold it in, complaining to myself about it for so long, that I reach a point where I'm still in conversation with myself, just voicing it out, as opposed to thinking up both sides of the conversation. Ergo, you hear points that have been derived from logical statements, but seem to bear no resemblance to logic when pulled out of context, out of chronological order.

Oh, forget it. I'm just in a ranting mood. Have a nice weekend. I hear we're gonna have lovely weather on Sunday.

:)

Btw, momentous occasion happening here. Posting from home after aeons.

Hair today....erm... not really.

So I shaved my head yesterday. Just so you know.
Most people think it looks cool--although their smiles while telling me so make me doubt their honesty. On the other hand, some people screamed in horror and some died on the spot, the glare of the sun being magnified off my shiny pate. But there was this one guy. This one guy I got more ticked off by than all the other laughers and starers. Guess what this wiseass says...
"You shouldn't have gotten it done."
All I could think right then was, geez, dude, thanks for the timely advice. What kind of person comes and tells you that you did the wrong thing, if it can't be easily undone? Nobody thinks before they speak these days. Some people don't say things they should (because they clearly haven't worked out the ramifications of keeping mum) and some people say things they REALLY shouldn't (because they clearly haven't worked out the ramifications of blabbing out things).
(Some eight hours later...)
Meh... forget it. Not that pissed off right now...
(And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how a day changes me.)

Sorry...

I'm sorry. I've cheated on you. I've been thinking about another blog; and, only recently, I made it. I still want to make this work. Tell me how...

© Randall Munroe Check out http://www.xkcd.com/ . Insanely funny.

Where's the Ouija board?

They spook,
they spy,
they look through one eye.

They peek,
they sneak,
while you're off on a leak.

But did you know,
they glow,
when they see what you show?

And did you know,
they smile,
after they've been here a while?

No,
not really, no,
but I wish they'd tell me so.

P.S.: Inspired by Gauri's comment on Old News V. Verbal diarrhoea, I think it's called. The only horn I'm blowing here is my own, undoubtedly. But then again, it's what I'm best at. ; )

Old News V

Sicker With Liquor

I'm seein' double,
through these bubbles,
in my head,
I said.

I took my finger,
and let it linger,
around my mouth,
before going south.

Like I'm walking the ocean,
this sickness of motion,
is getting to my inners,
I might just get thinner
when I spew
what I drew
just an hour or two
ago.

P.S.: Excuse the odd metre. I wrote this when I was drunk (really!). I did not, however, puke. As far as I can remember...

Old News IV

Pearly Whites

Up and down,
not side to side.
Into the crevices,
where tartar hides.

Sweet tooth of white,
shining so bright,
I never thought you'd fall,
in front of them all!

P.S.: I wrote this a long time ago, still not sure if it makes absolute sense. It made my friends laugh though, hope it does the same for you.

Not gone...

I haven't left; really, I haven't. I was merely occupied with things that have all amounted to nothing. Well, only nothing amounts to nothing, and I was obviously exaggerating there. But all of those things have amounted to what feels like nothing, in light of all that I expected out of them.

I moved. I moved from a place that had seemed to will me ill, to a place that I hope wills me well. One 1BHK to another. Taking along my roommate, my three guitars (one of which I'm safekeeping), my amplifier, a TV and my refrigerator--oh, and my roommate carried all of his stuff as well.

What did I leave behind? I left behind the sight of my office (home was close to it for 11 months, not anymore), a loo that now seems huge, a kitchen that was never cooked in, some empty cigarette packs, and anything I could find of an old girlfriend that I needed lost, destroyed, left behind--including the days, nights and mornings after that we spent there. I am now just one (plus roommate). And waiting for a new girl+friend--although, I really know I shouldn't be...waiting i.e., time tends to take its own sweet self.

Would you believe I'm happy?

I didn't think so, but then, I knew I couldn't lie to you--though God knows, I've tried. I suppose I'm just trying to explain my absence, not justify it. Everything can be justified, a friend once told me, but I didn't believe him then, and I still don't. There are some things that can't be justified. Laziness is one. Fear is another. Our two most greatest motivators (have you seen Waking Life? Try to get your hands on it. And don't watch, listen).

I'm reading Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, again. You should too. Just for a different perspective, or reaffirmation, if you're one of the lucky few who've already been instructed by life.

I'm writing today because something motivated me other than fear and laziness. I don't quite know how to describe it, but a word does come to mind--even if it's a random word, not as self-explanatory as I'd want it to be--sunshine. I felt the sun shine on me today, as I sat in a Barista close to home and read Rilke's responses to a young poet as lost as most of us are. It was 'insanely fucking amazing' (not literally, of course, it induced neither insanity nor orgasm, but it sure felt like it). The peace I felt, I haven't felt in a long time. And I wanted to share it with you. If you haven't already tried it, please do. Take a day off work, or half a day--like I did. Go to a place where you're comfortable, anywhere in direct sunlight and with a lot of trees around you, and just read, or listen to music, or click pictures, or play a guitar, or just sit.

And tell me if you really feel like life's lost hope, or like your job is too stressful, or anything else matters other than just being able to realise that the fact that the breath going in and out of your body is the only thing you need to work towards finding happiness in life.

Go ahead, I double-dare you.

P.S.: The picture's by one Matilde B. It's faked, I believe. But it's a work of art, using tools that are not conventionally artists' tools. Take it as is.

It's been a while, but I have a reason...

I moved.

Midnight Snack

When the moon hits your eye,
like a big pizza pie,
that's when my tummy starts to rumble.

There's no time to waste,
I care little for taste,
or formalities, though later I'm humbled.

Sometimes I do think,
that my stomach's in sync
with the rise and fall of the tide.

When the clock strikes twelve,
that's when I delve,
head first, and mouth open wide.

Something sweet will do,
or savoury too,
I'll eat it all up in style.

And it might seem weird,
(I've known some to have sneered)
but I do it all with a smile.

--

Disclaimer: This isn't autobiographical. I usually only crave for chocolate at midnight.

Sorrow

My love called me Saturday night. To tell me she lost her new love. She says he's gone forever; I'm not so sure. Apparently he couldn't handle the weight of her heart. I can empathise. There was a time when I couldn't either. And while I learned, eventually, that I could do anything for her, it was a little too late. She'd already found someone who would love her, and he did something similar. But not the same. His infatuation faded away. And he was left with nothing but the empty promises he made to her. So he ran away, faking an unstable mind. The fool. Maybe he'll learn, like I did. And maybe it won't be too late. If she still loves him, I hope he learns soon. I don't want her heart broken again. I don't know him. If I did, I might've spoken to him.

She told me she wasn't letting him in completely. Not just yet. I was happy when I heard that. Because I know that she needs to learn to stand on her own two feet. Not career-wise. She's more than capable of that. She's a supremely strong person. She's just never learned to be strong in her relationships. Strong enough to not be reduced to tears. But I know where they come from. They come from years of people too busy to understand what she was saying.

I hope she understands her strength. I know if she even catches a glimpse of it, she will push herself to find all of it. She's so resilient. I just wish she knew that.

But it's okay.

I'm here--with ample belief in her. Enough for the both of us.

Leave your sorrow
for tomorrow,
the day that never comes.

Old News III

Marlboro, man

Cigarette smoke,
just a joke,
when you're in the prime of life.

But when you've cancer,
in your lungs or pants, sir,
it's not so funny anymore.

Old News II

The Old Man

He made his way merrily,
while I made mine wearily.
'Cos while he was done,
I had just begun.

Logic

frequency breeds boredom
proximity breeds contempt
adversity breeds character
suffering breeds endurance
injustice breeds retaliation
tolerance breeds understanding

fertility breeds fertility

the slave breeds many slaves
free life breeds free lives

Understanding

I guess quite a few people know by now, but nobody reading this blog, I think, knows. So, just for the sake of an excuse, here's what I will do, occasionally: write. ('Haha', you say, 'you mean like on a blog, perhaps?') Well, not exactly. I mean, I open a notepad file every now and then--sometimes even an actual notebook--and I write. Something akin to poetry. I purge my mind on that blank page. And the contents surprise me, or disgust me, or make me laugh (rarely). I want a permanent log though, if just to understand my mind a few years later, when I figure I've grown up a little more, perhaps even matured some. So here's something I only just purged. It's angry and hateful, but then, so am I.

It's Not Okay
I am
like
slivers of silver oranges,
precious but only semi,
peeled and left, unnoticed.

My love
is like
an unwanted, old balloon,
lost of air, chained with cotton,
to the remnants of life's celebrations.

If I am, then you are too,
if I bleed, then so will you,
if I die, then you will wish it too.

If this is what you meant,
if this is what you wanted,
if this is how you saw it happen,
then go find someone else to fuck you,
and kiss you, while you dreamhopepray
it's okay.

Sorry...

but I need to vent.

How much stupidity can one man be capable of? I just went to her blog--which is immensely stupid in itself. I saw nothing, so I went to her new blog. And saw her love Goa again, because she didn't go there with me, because of someone else. (And I have to be honest.) It hurt. So I told her, right there and right then, and then... about five minutes later--fiveminutesspentincontemplationofmyutter stupidityandunwillingnesstolethergo--I went and deleted it. I mean fucking seriously. What the fuck? What the fuck? Will someone please beat the shit out of me? Just once, just once so that I can associate some memory of physical pain, apart from the kind I've been able to inflict on myself already, something worse. Because emotional torture, emotional scars, they fade, and there I go making the same mistake again. Going back where I'm not wanted, at least not openly. So will someone please beat the shit out of me? Please.

A thought at the cradle of a rainbow.

Sometimes, I forget where I was. Sometimes, I forget that I was even here at all.

I know why.

It's not old age, as much as my roommate would like to insist--I know I'm not old, yet. It's just life. Disturbing me, annoying me, pressuring me to 'live'. So why can't I just 'be'? Well, I guess it's partly my fault. I've conspired with life against my self. Need to keep moving, need to keep doing. So what do I want to do? I want to leave this city, this job. And that will happen, I believe, eventually.

For the moment, I want to be doing more than this...getting by. I want to have created a work of art by this time next January. A song, a story, a photograph, a painting, an ideology, a movement. Read this. Tell me what you think.

2004+4

In 2004, I turned 21. That age is a nominal sign of maturity. I didn't display it then, I surely won't be displaying it when I celebrate this year's edition of "Hey, you're approaching thirty. Are you on your way to where you want to be?". I know this because I didn't display this last night. I acted spoilt, a little bit whiny, hugely petty and absolutely childish. And it was a lot of fun.