Cloud Storage

What must it feel like to be a memory?
To be stored somewhere, dormant, impotent for an undisclosed and unimaginably infinite amount of time.
To possess the ability to instill nearly any possible cocktail of emotions in somebody.

Come to think of it, we're all memories in a way, already. Where even digitally captured moments can soon turn us to into old dusty photographs. Where we may soon be referred to as someone's better half, someone's father, someone's dear friend.
We live in a cynical world that allows us to partially but still peacefully exist in oblivion and then catches us by the throat and calls us to do our memory-related duties.
But in the very sense of dualism that only you and I may be able to comprehend, we are also, not, memories now.
All that surrounds us, all that we choose to surround ourselves with, the faces we see, faces we choose to love, the faces we unknowingly and uncontrollably admire, are all happening now.
The memories you call upon now and all the related thought processes are all happening now.
Do you not think of that as a good thing?

Im in that extraordinary place where everything is special, and nothing is.
Where nothing is invisible but not everything is entirely visible.
And yes, that makes perfect sense.

I can only hope, that memory or not, I have a good time.

You can carry on now.
-
V

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Although I wrote this only sometime back, they are collected feelings of late today morning and the after-effects of watching The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, which I liked.
As for the title, keeping in mind the content of the piece, is like my pun on how we store memories now.

Now Reading : Darkly Dreaming Dexter - Jeff Lindsay
Now Listening : Again - Archive
                         Red Dust - Zero 7
Now Feeling: Pretty damn good man.

Insanity Can Be Updated

I am in a semi-good mood, so if things seem extra happy, try and not shudder.
I took a trip to Bangalore and I had a good time. A good good time. I think I deserved the break and if what I got there is what I deserved then Im all good with that.
I write this instead of the first piece in a series that I had an idea for. But looking back on it I think its going to have to see the pages of my journal first, before I push my thought-child into the deep scary cyber-blue.
Its something I'd call Sundays with Mythili. Its about 2 people who don't know each other but try to tolerate one another, weekly. The title is inspired by a book I read by an author called Mitch Albom and Mythili is the first female name that popped into my mother's head. Any and all ideas that you'd dare give me, are welcome.

I'd like to start writing more fiction. Id like to make believable and equally unbelievable things merely beautiful, through the medium of my words. If thats a legitimately ok thing to do.

As for the title, I'd like you to picture yourself walking through an empty neighbourhood late at night. Not empty relating to people but empty here *points to your head*. Imagine if that entire junction of roads, mortar and cement were inhabited by the darkest members of your subconscious. Windows would shut as you walk past them. And cat eyes glistening under moonlight wouldn't be sources of fear but infinitesimal rays of sanity. Your lips would dry from the chill of all the lies you occur like chants. And your eyes would constantly adjust to the increasing darkness.
I'd like you to stop walking now. And look around. Look around and find that among all the insanity and craze. And acknowledge that things can indeed be darker. Look at the moonlight diffusing through the wastes of the night and realize that your own insanity can continue to grow. Continue to manifest into something a lot more than an occasional retreat. It could turn into who you really are.
And if you don't find that scary, then I think I'd find you scary. I'd probably have a good time with you and everything, but I'd be scared of you nevertheless.


I recently went to a pub where Baiju Dharmajan performed. I thought I'd never see him perform the songs of Motherjane before I breathe my last but it feels great to check something off my bucket list.


Until next time
-
V
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Now Listening : Two - Ratatat
Now Reading : The Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri
Now Feeling : OK

Les choses simples

More often than not, I'm unable to put across an idea and it jumps onto my pile of unsaid things simply because I don't know how to start. Maybe its because I don't usually think of the most normal things. If you're thinking about Idli, then you think of Sambhar and Chutney and hence you already know where to begin. If you're thinking love, then you think of your prized possessions and your parents\friends\lovers and things have actual conceptualized beginnings and endings.
Fortunately or I daresay unfortunately, things in my mind don't work so simply. Maybe because our definitions of simple differ. During the context of my writing, simple means I can refer to all my readers, to none of them or maybe even refer to myself in the middle of the post using the word 'you'. But maybe that word doesn't process in your head with the same amount of Serotonin I wish for it to send. Maybe that's my fault. Maybe not. But I will die with the belief that by making your eyes move past these letters, you're almost  here. Somewhere close by, somewhere far. But here, nevertheless. That by using mere words I can make you feel like its just the speaker and the listener in a dim-lit room with our conversation blooming\flowing.
I'm happy that I'll never be ashamed of this belief.
That's a good thing, for any of you nihilists or sadists out there.
Maybe I lost myself here in the last paragraph but you're just beginning to find yourself in here. Where everything is new, and nothing is too far from reach.

A lot of times, when I re-read my old stuff, I feel like I'm looking at a checkpoint-mirror-image of myself. Because of what has changed since that has been written, that guy and I need not be one and the same. Its a delightful experience, truthfully.

With reference to the title, I was watching the 2nd episode of the MTV show called Bring On The Night and seeing them design the place just made me add 3 things to my bucket list. 3 things that I'm okay with being put up in cyberspace.
1. Paint an entire wall\room on my own. Use some spray paint and chalk and what not and kill that shit. Maybe draw a honeycomb pattern, drill some holes, shove some lights inside 'em. And make that shit trippy.
2. Write an actual message and send it through a bottle. Write without inhibition, without worry and more importantly, without sanity and just let it go. Hope and pray that the person who finds it knows English.
3. Make a sign on just trash cardboard, write "Free Hugs" on it and stand in Times Square in NYC or at Trafalgar Square in London or someplace in India where it won't look completely out of place for atleast an hour. Might even add something wacky below the sign like "Ask the Chef for daily specials" ! I'd like to do it with company, but I'm open to negotiation on that bit.

 Try reading this again while listening to a song called Farewell Spaceman by Buckethead. If you'd really do it, go to a room where there's only one small source of light, a candle perhaps, play this song and try to lose yourself inside yourself. It really is that brilliant a song.

Math exam in 2 days. Haha

-
V

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Now Reading - City of God - Collection of short stories
Now Listening - Farewell Spaceman - Blockhead and Verstrahlt - Marteria
Now Feeling - Uh, alright.

Commuter Combinations

Work of fiction that was maybe inspired by something I read on Thought Catalog. I will not tell you if I would stand behind what I write below.
I wrote this out of boredom. And on that count, I like what I've done.

/*

I will only see her once. In that short meeting I will probably never see her look anywhere but at the screen of her phone. Her ears will hear nothing but her own taste in music  I'm listening to something too, which just makes me wonder if she's listening/ listened to the same song and already feel a sense of connection with her. I'd probably read the 2 lines on her T-shirt that were randomly generated by some computer and I will over-interpret it to how we support the same social causes or how are attitudes are similar. I will probably assume that she isn't dominant based on the colour of her nail polish  Assume that she is an independent woman just because she carries a backpack. Mentally curse the unknown and probably very good-looking boyfriend because, who would let such a pretty face stay single?

Maybe I'd have a completely horrible first date with her but I try not to think of all that. I skip to the part where we're both unduly attached to each other and its just the two of us walking along an empty shore. I will see how her hair's tied up but probably go on to imagine that she likes more to let it loose.

I wonder if I must marvel or cry at the fact that just by looking at her and probably the book that she is reading, I can truly convince myself that I want nothing more than to grow old with this woman.

She probably speaks a language I don't understand, doesn't believe in love, doesn't want kids, etc. Actually, for the sake of my argument, she may and may not be all the things I've listed, and more.

But what I feel for her, for lack of a better word, is an honest affection.
Honestly felt compassion and affection that I probably don't even feel for the multiple people I am currently in love with. 

But I smile and end that train of thought. Get off and wait for my next train, wondering if I was ever the object of someone's commute-fantasy. 

*/

-

V

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Uh I've been reading more, so thats a good thing. Been writing more. Thats a great thing.
I feel like I'm in a good spot now. With dread and anticipation almost cancelling themselves.
October, be good to me. 

Now Listening: Whomi - Tipper and Silver Cruiser - Röyksopp

Now Reading: 11/22/63 - Stephen King

Now Feeling : Alright, I guess

Bisu

Firstly, the title. Its got nothing to do with anything occult.
I just read Birth of The Demon again, sometime back. Its the origin story of Ra's Al Ghul. Beyond this, if you don't understand the meaning of the title; then you need to get to speed on your Batman.

Im just very bored as I write this.
My journal has been left untouched for a while and that just makes me sad. Like somehow a small part of me has been forgotten by myself. Thats just betrayal, innit?

Hah, but why would I concern anybody but me about all this?

I dont even know why this post is published. Maybe its one of those subconscious contigency measures Im setting up for myself.
Like Im stuck in a dark sea. With only a few batteries left for my torch so Im rationing the amount of time I use it for.
Its a complicated analogy. Im not gonna bother explaining.

Right, I'm gonna leave you now. 

I think this note will fascinate me in a year, maybe.

Night,

V

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A beautiful woman delights the eye; a wise woman, the understanding; a pure one, the soul.  

- Minna Antrim

Now Reading : Arkham Asylum - Grant Morrisson

Now Listening : Crystalised - The xx

Now Feeling : Bored

Gift Wrapper

I think this story would deserve the title Airport Love - Part 2 but somewhere in the middle of its conceptualization the current title became more fitting.

Try listening to My Body Is A Cage by Peter Gabriel when you're reading this. A macabre mood does you good sometimes.

If you listened to me, then you're reading this at the airport as you wait for your flight.

Looking around at plastic smiles, plastic baggage, plastic cups and breathing recycled.
So I decided to have a conversation that Im certain I wouldn't have the guts to do face to face.

Something that is better left unsaid. But since when have I followed my own advice?

We've been together, what, 7 years?

Maybe there have been surprises here and there, small bouts of suspense. But overall, our relationship has been nothing but predictable.
Like walking into a Nolan film expecting to be awed.
Or expecting a Mani Ratnam movie to have a happy ending.
Life doesn't always have happy endings. Something I learnt from you.

But I remember vividly, the first night we spent together. Camping somewhere near Perth.
I remember waking up next to you. I remember wanting to wake up next to you, even if there was no dawn and no sunset.

I remember watching you wake.

I remember cooking for you. Serving wine to an already intoxicating person.
I still want to drive through northern French countryside with you.
But cruelly enough, I want to drive back alone.

The feelings I had, I will forever have for you. But I think my want for expressing them has been satisfied. It reminds me of something my mother used to do. Something that I never clearly understood until now.

She took more care in unwrapping the gift paper than she took joy in enjoying the gift.

I think our relationship has reached a point where anything more is certainly a gift.

A Wrapped Gift.
But I'm so much in awe of how perfectly our previous conversations have ended that I'm too scared to tear open the gift wrapper.

That somehow, crazily enough, I will enjoy our memories more than the process of making more.

So when you return from your trip; nothing will have vanished.
Except for me.

______________________________________________________

I enjoyed writing this story. Dont hate, appreciate.

Now reading - The Return of Bruce Wayne - Grant Morrisson

Now Listening - We Swarm - The Glitch Mob

Now Feeling - Uh, Tired

Of All Things Lively

Hello.

Maybe its been too long since I wrote here. Maybe it hasn't.
But somehow, no matter how much I try, I can't write unless there's that sudden spark of inspiration.
I always imagine an artist can doodle something anytime. And a musician can always make a tune in progress.
Maybe writers pen short fiction and poems in these mid-spaces where inspiration is absent.
But somehow I can't.

Although I do have a pretty radical explanation to it.

What if what I perceive as inspiration isn't it? What if there's more? What if every moment until you realize you're inspired is in some way a small parcel of the overall inspiration?
Reading that sentence makes me shudder at how optimistic I am sometimes. I like being realistic. If you're gonna drown, you're gonna drown. Can't really tell you the water's nice and warm then, can I?
But maybe as humans we're programmed to believe in something? To always hope. To always look up and hope to see something that prolongs this eternal hope.
That line made me a little sad. But sadly enough, it is the truth. 

On unrelated notes, thanks to the unreliability in availability of an Internet connection in India, I've started maintaining a journal. Its probably something I should have done a long while back, but I guess something kept stopping me.

I hope  to find more meaning to life in the emptiness of the pages that will no doubt be filled.

And if you've been reading this all along and somehow within you a voice agrees, that maybe this dude has a point (most of the time), then Im being bold enough to ask you if agreeing with me has indeed affected you?
Its probably the most powerful thing someone can do. Inspire.
Especially unintentionally.
Imagine if someone shaped their lives based on something you once said. Or an action you once did.

But I said I was a realist. And that includes acknowledging the other side of the coin. Its an act of inspiration. Doesnt require that the person continue to be that way all the time. Or even that the particular quality you found interesting about someone is no longer there. That doesn't necessarily make them uninteresting or uninspiring but it sure as hell makes me wonder.

Why stories should have definite endings.
Because more often than not, its enough that we know of one incident and learn to move on from the experience and not let it rule us.
Like how in Asterios Polyp, they choose not to show anything beyond Asterios reuniting with his lover. Somehow its the best ending the book can leave you with. The knowledge that he has gained redemption, meaning and he's reunited with the woman who completes him, however abstract a concept that might be.

Maybe we too should choose the endings for certain moments in our lives. Save on the pain and spread some love, maybe.

Try reading this listening to Dawn at the Deuce and Sail on Soothsayer by Buckethead.

I shall end now, hoping that its adequate to say no more,

V

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Now Reading - Transmetropolitan

Now Listening - Sail on Soothsayer - Buckethead

                              Kaliyuga - Engine Earz Experiment

                              Khoya Khoya Chand - Kala Bazaar

Now Feeling  - Calm?

From The Eye Of A Husband

Hello.

Exam in 2 days and somehow I feel like writing only now haha.
What follows is a work of fiction. I dont know if its something Im proud of. But I havent written a story as free flowing as this one. This is written assuming an alternate way of thinking. And I assure you, this doesn't resemble my flow of thought. Much.
This is Mr Loisel's perspective of the events that take place in the short story called  "The Necklace" by Guy De Maupassant. Please read it if you intend on reading this. And bear with me if some elements dont make too much sense.

There's something terribly alluring about the sparks from a lighter's flint. Its a feeling that just lets you know that something interesting is to follow.
I dont think we've met. But Im Mr. Loisel to the world and the same, to you.
Im a clerk, a silent man, and a husband. Not necessarily in that order.

I don't have any savings, dont have a house to my name. Dont have more than 3 shirts including the one Im wearing now.
And yet, here I am. With a cigarette and a night sky view.
Long story short. We were poor (not as poor as we are now, but poor nevertheless). I gave all my savings to buy a dress my wife could wear to the ball. She loaned jewelry from her friend.
And she lost it. I've worked the past 12 years to repay that debt. We finally have. We're free now.
Or thats what I keep telling myself. Hoping that from the next time, I'll actually believe it.

I wonder everyday, how life would've turned out if Id just stuck with my initial plan of asking her to wear flowers to the ball. Or if Id decided to not show her the invitation at all, and bought a gun and shot some birds. (Pun unintended)

Im a 40 year old man and until a while back I thought that expecting someone to show you genuine care and love, and them not doing so is the most painful thing. But now, with a view so clear. With my hand on my heart, I can tell you; the hardest thing is giving someone all the love and all the care you can muster, and get none in return.

Why did Mathilde marry me? Im not great looking. Im not rich. But she stayed. Only to ruin my life.

40,000 francs. The mountains I could've moved had I earned that money willingly and not forcefully.

And what do I get for slaving away my entire life to account and cover up for the stupidity of my wife? Has she ever tried to compensate for the sorrow that I face everyday?

Cold turkey and soup for dinner. A sour mood for breakfast.

I think I lost my wife that night. Along with the necklace.
And I think I lost myself when I realized that.

Because I realized how stupid we are. How stupid we deliberately choose to be.
I love Mathilde. I love her beyond her faults. And I love her even though she's the reason I'll never see the good life.

And I love her even though we never talk now. And I love her.
She wards away my insecurities. And although Im unhappy with her, I think I wouldn't exist without her.

I blew a cloud. And waited for it to disappear.

I think life is like that cloud of smoke I just blew. Theres clarity for a second. A clarity that blocks your view of what's ahead of you. Then it disperses and merges with reality, and you're back to have never understood it at all.
I think we'll never be able to understand life. And that if we did, we'd certainly be missing the point.

Mathilde walks in on me, causing me to jump in surprise.

"I met Jeanne when I was strolling down Champs-Elysees", she said

She told me that the 36,000 franc diamond necklace we slaved was a replacement for a 500 franc fake necklace.

I think I smiled. I say "I think", because I felt so distanced from myself at that point, I could've been slapped in the face and I wouldn't have realized.

I lit another cigarette and asked Mathilde to sit next to me. And I told her, that Paris looked beautiful tonight, and so did she.

I blew a smoke ring. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Now Reading - Uh, nothing.

Now Listening : Pani Da - Vicky Donor

What's In A Story?

Hello.
My exams near. Any more discussion on that topic is strongly discouraged.


This post is made thinking of one of the most interesting people I know in this world. His identity is kept a secret by choice.

What makes a story memorable?
What makes you remember one story and forget the rest?
Spoiler alert, I dont have the answer. Sorry.


Some people look at their lives as a photograph, some as a film, some as a book, some as a song,  some as a game of tennis and some as an equation. I take these specific examples because I know atleast one in each of the aforementioned categories.
I also know this one person who looks at the world as the women he can love, the women he can't, and the rest.
Its a personal question to ask somebody how they see their lives. But Im assuming we're amongst friends here and Il just skip right to the part where I tell you that I look at my life as a story. A work of fiction. A balance of the elements that make a good, crisp story.
I wonder why storytelling is only a hobby and not an explicit profession?
I like to remember my life as multiple stories that I can tell. Will "I can share" be a better usage, I ask?

My grandfather, every encounter with him, results in atleast 2 stories I wish I could tell as my own. Things as simple as his school routine in the 50's or how he got a job at the age of 16 or how his school fees were Rs. 4 a month. Or his last conversation with his father.
I wonder out of the thousands he's got to tell, the ones he remembers vaguely, the ones that shall forever remain a secret, I've but been told of a mere handful.
Its like squatting one mosquito, knowing how many more are left.

I wish by reading that, you too would want to share as many stories as possible with the people around you. Spread the love, so to speak.
Because the infinite things that you now leave unsaid, the things that you now find embarrassing, and the promises that only you remember, seem so much more human, when you say it with a story.
And does it not excite you by the possibility of gaining knowledge about someone's life ? Knowledge that doesn't necessarily contribute to you academically or technically. But is there really anything more intimate than knowing the colour of someone's toothbrush? (Just an example)


And would we not appreciate a secret more if we knew the story behind it?
The deepest darkest secrets I keep, I keep them for a reason. The reason must never be a secret. Why not incorporate said reason into a story, is my argument.



Speaking of stories, check out "Snow, Glass, Apples" by Neil Gaiman (mind-fucking-blowing author), "Memento Mori" by Jonathan Nolan (Chris Nolan used this as inspiration for Memento) and some O.Henry if you've got the time.



Now once again, it is time I leave you with nothing but your own thoughts. When we become as scary and as loving as we can possibly be.

Good Night,
V






_______________________________________________________



Hope is never lost, Only forgotten
- Yours truly


"And the secret, of course, to any list is to keep it in a place where you're bound to see it."

- Memento Mori - Jonathon Nolan

Now Reading :  Timeline - Michael Crichton

Now Listening : Pretty Lights - Finally Moving

                         Tor.Ma in Dub - Smile

Now Feeling : Slightly discontent

Goodbye My Lover

*knocks, repeatedly*
Hi, I've missed writing. I miss my old life where I got the inspiration to write, more often. But I understand now that there is no old or new life. How my life was, it will remain. And how my life is, it will remain. Upto me to search for inspiration.

I sincerely hope to not break any hearts by the title of this post. Its just the song I was listening to when I felt like writing this.

I am a man of few words and over the years I've asked myself if this has to change. But I think Im happy where I am. Whether Im happy how I got here, or whether Im sure about what's next, is another discussion entirely. One that Id willingly have, face-to-face.

I aim for this to be a short post. I dont feel too creative. All I feel now is an unrest. All other times in my life, I was somehow satisfied if the clock ticked and if the stomach burped.

But now, I see things differently.

I want to do something. Not just pass off as that random guy at the bus-stand. Or that dude you saw in the corridor the other day.

Id say ambition is an exaggerated way of calling it. And boredom, too common a way to describe it.

I've bin trying to think of a word to describe this unsatisfied hunger. Maybe Im just hungry haha.

But seriously, Id like it if there were things to do. Things to look forward to that involved more "true" involvement. There's a monotony in my monotony now. My bus rides arent as interesting as they were. And Im certainly not writing enough to keep me satisfied. So what do I do to make happy into happier? Do I start taking the train? Or am I missing the point entirely?


And sometimes nostalgia is just like that person who you never wanted to call, so they end up calling you every day. I wish I would walk to Shatti beach every now and then. Or maybe just drop by home and grab some proper home cooked grub. But..

What kind of people would we be if we got all we asked for?

And maybe I've made peace with the answer to that question. Can you?

Good Luck,

V

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Now Reading - Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts

Now Listening - Revisiting Motherjane and Coldplay. And a wee bit of Incubus.

Now Feeling - Uh, homesick?

Dawn of Realization

My college's cultural fest got over last nite and it gave me some much needed inspiration. I havent written a word in 3 months and this post certainly does make me feel better about that. I dont think I've changed much since that last post but a lot has indeed changed since then. To anyone who knows me well, its no surprise that I cant handle emotions well. I dont emote all that well. Until now, I've always needed a fancy explaination to explain this. But last nite, rather early today morn, helped me make shit clearer.Emotions are an inseparable part of our lives. But they cant be described as much by writing, photographing or "dealing" with them. They have to be felt. And feeling them should cause people to come together, not drift apart.I guess even with this new found clarity its hard for me to put my opinion into words. Emotion, pffft. 

This is a story very very loosely based on a life experience. What follows is a work of fiction. If it isnt as good as my previous works then blame my inactivity.

It takes an old man to know what life is all about. Thats what they told me. I never believed them and now I have even more reason not to. Im walking back from seeing a friend at a hospital. Whos battling for his life. What he has done, what he will do and all that he has never done now hold the same amount of importance in his life; none.For a man of few words, I sure do speak a lot inside my mind. Maybe I prefer to express things the way I imagine people to perceive them and reality sometimes just doesnt match up to it.

Can my outlook to things and my actions have less importance than my religion and my social preferences , when trying to judge if I am a good person. As Khalid Hosseini wrote, the only crime in the world, is theft. Every other sin in the world is a derivative of theft. When you lie, you steal the other person's right to know the truth. Does honesty and integrity hold no say in determining who I really am? If I dont utter words of praise in a language I dont understand but still acknowledge that my life isnt entirely controlled by me, does it hold no value?

I nearly missed the turn that leads home while pondering over these things. But give it the clarity of a sleep-deprived man (yes that is an oxymoron but I can still relate with it), and I realized that if the circumstances are alright, then I wouldnt want to wait until I was an old man to die. Must I really be content at a moment to decide that I have gotten all I have wanted? Is it not enough if I answer anyone with a clear conscience that I have cherished my moments, repented for my mistakes, melted for my loves, and spoken for my self? Can my faith, loyalty and integrity help reassure others of who I am? And who would've thought a friend battling for life would cause me to understand life? The dogs started barking all of a sudden, startling me.  I realized I had skipped my house by a few metres and the dogs barking were right in front of my house. Almost as if showing me the right way and telling me to slow shit down.I smiled as it hit me. And I leave you with my final thought of that night. Ever spelt dog backwards?

-

V

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Now reading : Nothing. Need some books, real bad.

Now Listening : Po Nee Po - 3

Now Feeling : Tired.