"I Am Sure There Is A Better Way To Say What You Just Said. I Am Becoming More Like You."

Every evening sleeps over itself. I follow myself onto the stairs, neither one knows what’s happening. The further I come, the further it goes. I am a long way from home.

2200 hours. Of life that does not augur well for most stuck in it. Glory that is reduced to fragments of its usual self. All accolades dwindle in that one last attempt to feel sane. The skies are livid with obtuse pain; as they witness the haggard bodies scrambling across to reach over, do not get the point.

Its Wednesday. Its rheumatism. The erudite. Its Pearl Jam and then it is Ani DiFranco and then it is Sting.

In the midst of so many gigabytes of unarranged music, there is Pearl Jam's 'Leash'. "Troubled Souls Unite, We Got Ourselves Tonight". Just the beginning captivates, how I can stop the song then. "Get outta my fuckin' face." There is ''All Four Seasons' and there is Porcupine Tree's 'Lazarus', which when searched for results in Sting's 'The Lazarus Heart'. Had I told some, they would have come up with another "its a small world" tag. Unintelligent brooding is the norm of 2007. Though nothing suggests or portends a good or a bad outcome, it is the vicinity of those who move ever so happily that scare me to imagine what is happening. I am normal. But there is something missing. The medical circumstances break even with this trajectory of daily occurrences, frail self-rummaging through past anecdotes and tales of times there have been. Lazarus - Follow me down to the valley below. It’s almost like telling myself that I will somehow manage to complete this. Get over this agony of twisted falls and break silence. Tweed coats look spectacular in English summers. Radiohead's 'Thinking About You' comes out of nowhere, without me. Let us repent NOW. And blogger now saves my drafts automatically. Do not preach, I know what to say and when to say whatever it is that I wish to say.

In the normal life, it has not been hectic. But has been very tiring. I went out of the city towards the mountains this weekend, we drove an old Maruti 800 to Khandala and forth, losing almost half the car, if I may recall. Unintended it was as four of us just left city limits, breeching all posts and saving toll tax to just somewhere. Life flashes before one's eyes in certain instances despite death not being too imminent. One of those times. We stood with the car parked in darkness, next to the sound of 10 waterfalls in chorus. The bridge in front of us, and city lights out of context. Someone's bright idea of switching on the car's parking lights provided icing, to a cake still unbaked. We stood there, honest fireflies all around, we counting them, the picture that may eventually spell very little taken and listening to almost the only two songs on a whole. We then drove back, quiet, emancipated by a prompt trip, which was mere deafness in the silence that has engulfed this whole desire to reach ahead.

Radiohead's 'You And Whose Army' begins, the quaint Thom Yorke monotone ringing in a Thursday, much without that boring string in his voice. An elusive break later, and some further work completed for submissions next week, I am back to my favorite pass time. A nation hobby is what writing should be made to. Maybe someone new will come up with interesting means of describing 123 and whatever is so nuclear about it. Then I also know people who defend the leftist policies for their far-reaching thoughts and they can take everything along with them their death bed. Retardation, in the face of democracy. And then they say we should not have an unhappy life. What am I exactly writing? I do not know. But I want to make sense. I want to get across so much to everyone around without acting seemingly over excited and without that hint of sarcasm. I wish, I wish, I wish = Radiohead's 'The Bends'.

"Two jumps in a week, I bet you think that's pretty clever don't you boy.
Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop.
You'd kill yourself for recognition; kill yourself to never ever stop.
You broke another mirror; you're turning into something you are not."

Radiohead's 'High & Dry''. Uninteresting, I know. I have mastered the art of being random, as arbit as it is and trust me, you will never figure out a fucking pattern. However predictable I may become.

Ani DiFranco - "Art may imitate life, but life imitates TV."