"Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act"
- Truman Capote
Since I was a child, I have had my father tell me "you are incorrigible". It is 2008 and I certainly feel that it is the only means to prove your point. There are times and instances when one should be outright and approach the steps of plain refusal. Listening is a means through which we show our inclination to comprehension. But then we stumble over ourselves and I for one, feel that being unenthusiastic about what lies ahead shall always be dealt with better. Everything which is to be done by me in order of importance is done. But therein I somehow manage to unconsciously forget so much. Especially having developed this habit of double checking everything, but only after knowing its relevance is passe. A sudden reluctance hits and I feel tired of being repetitive.
Most of the things I do right are my fault.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
It Is No Powerful Force.
I switch off the tube light, draw the curtain, switch on the air conditioner and the yellow bulb at the table lamp, and pull supplies close enough such that I will not need myself to shift much to reach them. I proceed to push the blanket such that it stays below my knees and read to myself Keats. To call him ordinary would be a misnomer but I am already inundated with mundane thoughts behind what the purpose of an insincere tonight would be. I could haplessly reorganize similar thoughts and wish they would placate momentary sadness but the fear burrows me to further lows and the only hope is tomorrow's Sunday Express crossword. I have made it a habit to complete it, come what may. Half of it takes 15 minutes, the rest I do at ease taking till the evening to put the final touches. It looks grand when complete.
The Flicker By The Bedside Fails To Help.
Something from a year ago. Starts with something Trent Reznor said and carries as I like it..
"I wrote some words and music in my bedroom as a way of staying sane, about a bleak and desperate place I was in, totally isolated and alone. [Somehow] that wind up reinterpreted by another with a different era of thought, from a radically different mind and still retains sincerity and meaning - different, but every bit as pure.
I will drown in this black chair of leather, bit by bit. Beneath the movements of time, these feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am right here. Trying to move myself away from who I was and who you are, I will let you out.
People think its funny. How we resolve consequence. I am in every bit not arbit. What is done randomly is just another excuse of going through it without a proper explanation.
Needles have become needless now. I fall back on every bit of talk stored in frozen places. This requirement to talk does not exist.
- My hands on these thorns, the keyboard of broken thoughts. I cannot despair. I cannot. -
This was not needed to be sent. You did not have to read it. I am still right here.
This depiction of traits overlapping circumstance. Henceforth was a decision always, hence forth is a word of hope of defeating the idea of 'this' could last longer. The probative principle is to silence the itch and all the words you attach with the word 'if'. Nicely bundled up in a cozy little room for one too many, you just light it up and when you do, the fire is warm in that cold, and that gleeful smile on your face at having done something 'sensible'. Construction starting with destruction, hammers blowing away at the remains of the old structure, the hammering, and in the community center they are playing something at a function, of a more puritan taste though, with a harmonium and the kind of voice you hear at mosques. It's sunny outside, but it's not hot, it's dry. This place is small, this little corner of wounds and trepidations, no triumphs and tribulations of late. A lot of people I come to hate and a lot come to hate me, it's easier to hate when you start to hate where you lie. It's noisy. I haven't slept in a long time; my system has been subject to a harmonious rhythm of nicotine and spirits, everyday, without lunch. A lousy breakfast of one boiled egg in the morning. And a decent meal in the evening followed by dinner. I have stopped bothering about getting rid of my animalistic dissent. I act coy in front of my colleagues giving the impression of an innocence which starts to hurt, there are moments that kill who you once were and then there are moments which kill who you will be. But I am quite right here.
I wrote a lot and then realized none of it woud actually make sense to you. Let alone make sense to me. For starters, I hate boiled eggs. But again, we become so dilapidated in our own conscience that we change from crimson to blue, as the day progresses. I have come to accept, us become haplotypes. I still think why I do not get it all on a platter. I wish I was someone's malediction, to spoil their day. Quench their happiness and shroud it to pieces. This verbose insanity, that I attempt to emit becomes so intense that I lose out on that basic facade that separates. We look at every thing so meticulously and with such a straight face that it confuses the other person's independent thought process. Think about it. They look at you. And then request the trip you are on. Vicious circle, food chain? Whatever. We are stuck at the absolute end point, the depressing one. And we just make it worse. Maybe you do not deserve happiness. Maybe its not supposed to come for the next few weeks. Maybe. Embalmed in this quincunx. You sometimes want me quiet, sometimes listening, your anomaly. I've been reduced but I'm still right here. The only problem is, this isn't happening.."
On another level, I have work to do. Having been given the job to come up with themes evolving around "change", my mind has hit a roadblock. I cannot get myself to accept change, let alone put it in a funny manner. And I was supposedly good at such stuff. What is left of me anyway, I despair.
Cricket and my general displeasure with the shortest form. I cannot stand this version. Yes, I do make it a point to check out the matches if I can get myself to Wankhede but that is about it. Somehow, this makes me realize I will not be able to stand an ODI ever again and I will have to get myself to enjoy this form of entertainment.
It is also funny how people complain the "cricket has become entertainment" and become commercialized and everything else in the same vein. But is cricket not a sport and has not sport always been around as a source of entertainment. What is my gripe anyway.
And I could have written much more, a lot more than what has been presented. But most of all of this ceases to make sense anyhow. There is no point to anything anymore. We live in a cruel world. Where we are made to believe that all things unessential are sacrosanct. But there should be certain method to madness, I need a life wherein I am free to proceed like I wish and free to be whoever I, whoever I want to be.
Hello Newspaper, Goodbye Lifelessness.
The Flicker By The Bedside Fails To Help.
Something from a year ago. Starts with something Trent Reznor said and carries as I like it..
"I wrote some words and music in my bedroom as a way of staying sane, about a bleak and desperate place I was in, totally isolated and alone. [Somehow] that wind up reinterpreted by another with a different era of thought, from a radically different mind and still retains sincerity and meaning - different, but every bit as pure.
I will drown in this black chair of leather, bit by bit. Beneath the movements of time, these feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am right here. Trying to move myself away from who I was and who you are, I will let you out.
People think its funny. How we resolve consequence. I am in every bit not arbit. What is done randomly is just another excuse of going through it without a proper explanation.
Needles have become needless now. I fall back on every bit of talk stored in frozen places. This requirement to talk does not exist.
- My hands on these thorns, the keyboard of broken thoughts. I cannot despair. I cannot. -
This was not needed to be sent. You did not have to read it. I am still right here.
This depiction of traits overlapping circumstance. Henceforth was a decision always, hence forth is a word of hope of defeating the idea of 'this' could last longer. The probative principle is to silence the itch and all the words you attach with the word 'if'. Nicely bundled up in a cozy little room for one too many, you just light it up and when you do, the fire is warm in that cold, and that gleeful smile on your face at having done something 'sensible'. Construction starting with destruction, hammers blowing away at the remains of the old structure, the hammering, and in the community center they are playing something at a function, of a more puritan taste though, with a harmonium and the kind of voice you hear at mosques. It's sunny outside, but it's not hot, it's dry. This place is small, this little corner of wounds and trepidations, no triumphs and tribulations of late. A lot of people I come to hate and a lot come to hate me, it's easier to hate when you start to hate where you lie. It's noisy. I haven't slept in a long time; my system has been subject to a harmonious rhythm of nicotine and spirits, everyday, without lunch. A lousy breakfast of one boiled egg in the morning. And a decent meal in the evening followed by dinner. I have stopped bothering about getting rid of my animalistic dissent. I act coy in front of my colleagues giving the impression of an innocence which starts to hurt, there are moments that kill who you once were and then there are moments which kill who you will be. But I am quite right here.
I wrote a lot and then realized none of it woud actually make sense to you. Let alone make sense to me. For starters, I hate boiled eggs. But again, we become so dilapidated in our own conscience that we change from crimson to blue, as the day progresses. I have come to accept, us become haplotypes. I still think why I do not get it all on a platter. I wish I was someone's malediction, to spoil their day. Quench their happiness and shroud it to pieces. This verbose insanity, that I attempt to emit becomes so intense that I lose out on that basic facade that separates. We look at every thing so meticulously and with such a straight face that it confuses the other person's independent thought process. Think about it. They look at you. And then request the trip you are on. Vicious circle, food chain? Whatever. We are stuck at the absolute end point, the depressing one. And we just make it worse. Maybe you do not deserve happiness. Maybe its not supposed to come for the next few weeks. Maybe. Embalmed in this quincunx. You sometimes want me quiet, sometimes listening, your anomaly. I've been reduced but I'm still right here. The only problem is, this isn't happening.."
On another level, I have work to do. Having been given the job to come up with themes evolving around "change", my mind has hit a roadblock. I cannot get myself to accept change, let alone put it in a funny manner. And I was supposedly good at such stuff. What is left of me anyway, I despair.
Cricket and my general displeasure with the shortest form. I cannot stand this version. Yes, I do make it a point to check out the matches if I can get myself to Wankhede but that is about it. Somehow, this makes me realize I will not be able to stand an ODI ever again and I will have to get myself to enjoy this form of entertainment.
It is also funny how people complain the "cricket has become entertainment" and become commercialized and everything else in the same vein. But is cricket not a sport and has not sport always been around as a source of entertainment. What is my gripe anyway.
And I could have written much more, a lot more than what has been presented. But most of all of this ceases to make sense anyhow. There is no point to anything anymore. We live in a cruel world. Where we are made to believe that all things unessential are sacrosanct. But there should be certain method to madness, I need a life wherein I am free to proceed like I wish and free to be whoever I, whoever I want to be.
Hello Newspaper, Goodbye Lifelessness.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
What Has This Become..#2.0
I saw the news today, oh boy.
As preliminary despair breaks into unease, a pale disquiet comes to surround the whole area. It is one thing to be punched, another to be pulverised into submission. I am mostly torn between wanting rain and pining for certain moments to repeat themselves. While those who may be considered unlucky or not worth it make the most and become happy, I find myself further relinquishing the little drops of joy. Somehow, I do not hate being tired, which in no way suggests that I ought to be, lest my body take this blog seriously. While my bones are thin, and weakly attached to the joints, it is the girth with disturbs. Not exactly a lot but I had a point to make. And this is not even equivalent to "getting something off one's chest".
I'd hum in autumn but I have funny ink traces all across my white shirt and vague hands. They spell hard work and thus, i would not wash my hands for quite a lot. I sought myself but got caught in this opera where an era seems to cascade upon millions. Many minions surface, making one bequeath beneath the grim undertow. Eschewing and ruing over the little brittle pieces that now lay squandered and rendered useless. Chastening one to be of some use, in lieu of what they could have otherwise done. In this act of miser usage in age with words that pertain upon certain tones that bring a ubiquitous serenade that fades. It satiates and then permeates into this rhyme. I could be stabbed bad but I would rather have the intestine pine for the knife to thrive through and be turned and undone once it is within. I have come a long way today by chosen profession. As I grew, I went from being a scientist to a table tennis player, from being a financial analyst to being a poet and from starting my hotel chain to making do with a scam. Now, I find some peace though it is a disease in such context wherein text is hardly a measurement of vent that i could spew anew. Colliding with the bathroom wall, I stand my full tall to make myself feel comfortable.
I hate some things I did when I was young. I remember flicking some money off the dining table a couple of times to eat at the canteen. I once picked up Rs. 20 (which i felt was a lot) and was scared to bits for a few days every time my mother entered the room thinking she might sense, Now, that I think of it, I understand that it was just a score of money and hardly worth her trouble, I might as well have asked her for it. I then recall the next day taking the same money to the canteen and bought myself a drink and something to eat and asked a random friend to share it with me. I saw my brother walking past and I never offered. It is not of much consequence now and neither did he know that it was my money and little did he care but somehow the guilt edged me wants out. I have not come close to death and I already feel like I have seen life flashing in front of my eyes. I have to pen all of this down for myself, before I fail to forget.
I am desperately trying to maintain social order here.
As preliminary despair breaks into unease, a pale disquiet comes to surround the whole area. It is one thing to be punched, another to be pulverised into submission. I am mostly torn between wanting rain and pining for certain moments to repeat themselves. While those who may be considered unlucky or not worth it make the most and become happy, I find myself further relinquishing the little drops of joy. Somehow, I do not hate being tired, which in no way suggests that I ought to be, lest my body take this blog seriously. While my bones are thin, and weakly attached to the joints, it is the girth with disturbs. Not exactly a lot but I had a point to make. And this is not even equivalent to "getting something off one's chest".
I'd hum in autumn but I have funny ink traces all across my white shirt and vague hands. They spell hard work and thus, i would not wash my hands for quite a lot. I sought myself but got caught in this opera where an era seems to cascade upon millions. Many minions surface, making one bequeath beneath the grim undertow. Eschewing and ruing over the little brittle pieces that now lay squandered and rendered useless. Chastening one to be of some use, in lieu of what they could have otherwise done. In this act of miser usage in age with words that pertain upon certain tones that bring a ubiquitous serenade that fades. It satiates and then permeates into this rhyme. I could be stabbed bad but I would rather have the intestine pine for the knife to thrive through and be turned and undone once it is within. I have come a long way today by chosen profession. As I grew, I went from being a scientist to a table tennis player, from being a financial analyst to being a poet and from starting my hotel chain to making do with a scam. Now, I find some peace though it is a disease in such context wherein text is hardly a measurement of vent that i could spew anew. Colliding with the bathroom wall, I stand my full tall to make myself feel comfortable.
I hate some things I did when I was young. I remember flicking some money off the dining table a couple of times to eat at the canteen. I once picked up Rs. 20 (which i felt was a lot) and was scared to bits for a few days every time my mother entered the room thinking she might sense, Now, that I think of it, I understand that it was just a score of money and hardly worth her trouble, I might as well have asked her for it. I then recall the next day taking the same money to the canteen and bought myself a drink and something to eat and asked a random friend to share it with me. I saw my brother walking past and I never offered. It is not of much consequence now and neither did he know that it was my money and little did he care but somehow the guilt edged me wants out. I have not come close to death and I already feel like I have seen life flashing in front of my eyes. I have to pen all of this down for myself, before I fail to forget.
I am desperately trying to maintain social order here.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Drops Of Jupiter..
I step into the train for forty minutes of agony, the impetus coming from daily routine. Haggard and brought down by the endless load, my eyes refuse to stare at the afternoon news I picked up. Today must be lucky, for I have a seat. Today must be lucky, for I have a pretty girl sitting opposite me. Her hair, assembled across her forehead, the length of which delights is further braided into prose. Her eyes barely capture her lovely face and she barely smiles. All the while looking out, she firmly settles herself closer to the window. My thoughts hover from her nonchalant gaze to the reasoning behind her not being in the ladies compartment. The engines pull.
The weather is ameliorated by her presence and she only observes me with a quick glance, wherein I see no sense of disapproval. I implore myself to words but without success. Everyone around becomes inconspicuous to my lost mind, despite the whole cacophony in revelry. Her office skirt is dark blue while she isn't too indignant to all those staring at her, for I guess that is why she chose that seat. I detach these earphones every instance her head tilts away from the window, Incubus to infatuation. A movement in her lips breathes conversation and I believe the dark circles represent ache. Her earrings are silver and her feet agonizingly close to mine. Close such that a strike might lead to an exchange of sentence. Her phone suddenly rings, and much to her amusement, a half dead lot of the homeward bound Bombay working class tunes in. She removes the sound from the brown bag and slips it through her fingers, her words faster than this train.
She eventually senses my inability at conversation or else she needs information. My nearly dry throat botches up a reply, my face ever cumbersome. The moment of truth begins sourly but ends with an exchange of well framed lines. I come to know her exit is the same as mine and I begin to brace myself in hope for a happier expresso today. We get up in chorus as the train leaves the penultimate stop and manage to reach the gathered crowd for Santa Cruz. While the men make space for her, I am peculiarly, or maybe typically left behind by three rows of sweat. I can hardly jostle to move ahead by telling them I am with her, so I stay back. As the train slows, twenty push to drop out and I face an incoming barrage of people getting on before I can finally manage to stifle myself onto the platform. I brush my shirt, check my wallet location and look up to find her missing. After an unsuccessful few moments, I do see her already off the stairs and moving towards the East. I am too tired to run and catch up with her, I would not shout for fear of being admonished and because I have no name due to my not being pedant.
Her frame in my sight subdues as I make way towards the West, slightly calm, tranquil, and with the smugness of having done a pleasant train ride.
The weather is ameliorated by her presence and she only observes me with a quick glance, wherein I see no sense of disapproval. I implore myself to words but without success. Everyone around becomes inconspicuous to my lost mind, despite the whole cacophony in revelry. Her office skirt is dark blue while she isn't too indignant to all those staring at her, for I guess that is why she chose that seat. I detach these earphones every instance her head tilts away from the window, Incubus to infatuation. A movement in her lips breathes conversation and I believe the dark circles represent ache. Her earrings are silver and her feet agonizingly close to mine. Close such that a strike might lead to an exchange of sentence. Her phone suddenly rings, and much to her amusement, a half dead lot of the homeward bound Bombay working class tunes in. She removes the sound from the brown bag and slips it through her fingers, her words faster than this train.
She eventually senses my inability at conversation or else she needs information. My nearly dry throat botches up a reply, my face ever cumbersome. The moment of truth begins sourly but ends with an exchange of well framed lines. I come to know her exit is the same as mine and I begin to brace myself in hope for a happier expresso today. We get up in chorus as the train leaves the penultimate stop and manage to reach the gathered crowd for Santa Cruz. While the men make space for her, I am peculiarly, or maybe typically left behind by three rows of sweat. I can hardly jostle to move ahead by telling them I am with her, so I stay back. As the train slows, twenty push to drop out and I face an incoming barrage of people getting on before I can finally manage to stifle myself onto the platform. I brush my shirt, check my wallet location and look up to find her missing. After an unsuccessful few moments, I do see her already off the stairs and moving towards the East. I am too tired to run and catch up with her, I would not shout for fear of being admonished and because I have no name due to my not being pedant.
Her frame in my sight subdues as I make way towards the West, slightly calm, tranquil, and with the smugness of having done a pleasant train ride.
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