13th December, 2013

If this blog were a bookshelf, I would be buried in its dust.
I wonder if it counts as intentional oversight or if my laziness has just transcended to a whole new level.

I spent the whole day revisiting my old PS2 games and Scrabble game with the mother.

I wish I could put into words how lost all this makes me feel. In my never-ending search for meaning in everything, I have only been shown further confusion.

I cannot even think of a title for this post.
100% rant, is all this is.
Perhaps some unease thrown into it.

My reading list on blogger had more than 20 blogs frequently updated. Bursting with stories.
Apart from a couple, the others are defunct.
I blame Twitter, really.
Words have more meaning and power than is felt and expressed by 140 characters.


I have no words left for tonight. Like I said, the bookshelf had to be tidied.





-
V

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Now Reading  :  http://www.theverge.com/2013/12/6/5126856/whats-in-your-bag-katie-drummond
Now Listening : Dreams Money Can Buy - Drake , Feel Good - Emil Berliner
Now Feeling : The onset of a sneeze.

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

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

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

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






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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?

Disengaging Emotions

Greetings and felicitations for the upcoming festivities. Knock yourself out by believing into the custom of having to celebrate only on certain days and lose and forget that the point of life is celebrating everyday. Or atleast living a search that helps you find something to celebrate in yourself.

Im in the heart of Chennai in a kickass hostel but I have no Internet. Which means the occasional chances I get at Internet are almost always worthless. So if you deem it fit then I apologize for the long time that I have been absent from you. Whoever the fuck you are.

Im gonna be brutally honest here, I dont really like my college. Its as dry and as bland as the mess food here. Im in love with Chennai though. And my guys here are Swag Gurus of their own sort.
I love being a local here. Being able to slip in and out of seemingly normal situations, click those mental pictures and just try and learn a story from a face. My favourite passtime here. Public transport is just a boon for the story-hungry like me.
This place has probably brought out a different side of me. A side thats here to stay, or maybe not.
All I wonder is, how I do know whats worth the risk and whats not?
And like most of the questions I ask, I live a life searching for ze answers.

I turned 18 a week ago. Frankly, I dont feel no different. Sure it was a great day and nite but I feel like the same entity. I thought the Gods would come down and marvel at what I'm doing. Wait, I'm just fucking with you. Im pretty sure they already do marvel at what I do. Just as how they do at what you do. Or anyone for that polytheist argument.

But if there's anything Im sure of by now, its that who I am (or who you are ) is defined by every little moment in our lives. Nothing we have done has not affected us. All the embarrassing moments, the things you'd change if you could go back in time. Well theres a fractional probability that you wont be you if that hadn't happened. Im just saying. We  live a life where our actions and their ramifications can never entirely be understood. So why bother and complicate things wondering how life would have been , and just observe how life will be?
And be proud of that? After all the most intangible and integral part of our mental identity is our life. You, me , no one in the world can change that.
So if you're in that road in life where you're wondering why life turned out like this and how life would have been if this hadn't happened, then just stop there. There's no point. Life is only as complicated as we make it and thats the truth. Embrace it and believe it. Only then will you feel it.
And sometimes I get a little too poetical for my own good. Haha hopefully someone will find that endearing.

Hope.


Thats all life is really. And I shall say this time and again.
Im taking bends and curves, but Im just enjoying the feel of the wind.

Goodnite.
-
V


____________________________________________________________________________


Today, I was sitting on the steps of church waiting for a bus when I saw an old Catholic nun being assisted up the steps by a young man wearing a Muslim turban. Once they were at the top, the nun turned to the young man and said, “I can see both of our gods raise beautiful children. Thank you.” The young man smiled and nodded. MMT

Today, I was standing at a crosswalk in the rain waiting for the light to change when the girl next to me pushed her large umbrella a little to the right so that it covered both of our heads. We then looked at each other for a prolonged moment and exchanged smiles before we crossed the street and walked in separate directions. MMT




Now Listening : Mindstreet, Broken, Tribes of Babel - Motherjane 
Now Reading : I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore
                       The Immortals of Meluha - Amish
                       Revolution 2020 - Chetan Bhagat
                       A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini
Now Feeling : At home.

Long Roads

To the ones who read and to the ones who don't,
I grow tired of apologizing every time I write a post late. Its not as if I am going to change the habit but its just something I wanted to put out there. Out where, you ask me? Well, you  tell me.

I've walked a lot of roads and I've seen a lot of things. Some that have made me who I am and some that showed me who I shouldn't be. I'm on a road now. And its in the middle of fucking nowhere. Im still trying to figure out what this road is and what it means if I cross it alone. Without company. With only emptiness and hope. Never ending, never questioning , omniscient hope.

College started today and I feel slightly awkward admitting this but I've never walked into such a big place and not be able to point out more than a handful of faces I recognize.
I know its a new place and a new zindagi and that its exactly what I wanted. But I'm beginning to doubt if I really know what I want.
And is what I want, the right thing for me?


Speaking of faces, have you ever wondered what you see in a face? If faces sometimes define your relationship with particular people? Can you see redemption in a face? Or hope? Or even better, love?
All of it just in the face. Or more so what the face stands for and the space and concern you hold for it.


I miss school more than ever. I miss being out of school during  school and I miss the recesses that led me into faces I knew and waited to see. I wonder, staring into an empty sky, if that same feeling of belonging will ever have a rebirth.
If the abysmal concerns I have for the remainder of my life hold any fruit. Or if I'm just hunting for extinct extravagances.


This post is highly cryptic and conveys a slightly (maybe more) sober version of the person who types the words you read. Maybe it was meant to be this way. Maybe I'm missing the meaning. Or maybe I'm on the right track after all.
The funny and fucked up part of life is that I won't find out until its a tad bit too late.

Into the sunset, dreaming of sunrises,
V






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"He who opens a school door closes a prison" - Victor Hugo


Now Reading - Nothing. Need some suggestions.
Now Listening - I'm Into You - Taio Cruz
Now Feeling - Not that great.

Airport Love

What follows is a work of fiction. Inspired by what I have been reading in the recent past and my feelings during said duration. This story has no purpose, no moral and no sarcastic/witty one-liners.
Its merely a situation, like any other, that has its own beauty.
And appreciating beauty as you should know by now, is an acquired taste. So dont hate, congratulate.


I've never like airports. The world insists on so much recycling. I guess those people never look at airports and see what I see. Recycled air. Recycled trays to serve food in. Recycled glasses that are proof to their seemingly genuine hospitality. Recycled paper. Recycled emotions.
But these are thoughts from another day.
Now, whilst sitting next to her , I feel no worry at the misdemeanor of the airport. I turn to look at her, find her reading a book. Doing the same thing she was doing when I first saw her. Apart from one of her hands being interlocked with mine. 
Our drinks had been refilled. I smirked at how small their drinks were and how much smaller they seemed compared to my predicament with her.
There's something terribly alluring about her skin. How it was somehow smooth and dark, throughout. How the darkness inside her was both there and not there. Visibly taunting me.
How her lips moved so effortlessly to say what pleased me and then closed. Leaving me wondering when they would open again and what they would say.
It struck me now, how simply you had said it and yet with so much conviction. That what we had was not meant to last.I continue looking into your face wondering if the beauty that lies herein would answer my never-ending questions. Then again, who would?


I remember now the countless steps we took together. Our eyes locked and our thoughts seldom remaining with only one of us. I remember now, the many pizzerias we ate at. How you agreed when I said these meats were too salty and these wines too syrupy.
I remember now, how I knew your mouth watered when I mentioned Good Ol Indian food and a chilled beer.


But I wonder now if I will be able to hear your laughter in the silence that will no doubt ensue. If I can see your smile in the darkness that will blanket my life. If eating pizza again will take me back to Rome with you?But as I leave the somewhat hazy bit of my memory, and re-enter recycled our extensively recycled world; I think not.


I understand and accept that the landscapes and sceneries I will encounter in the future will have to suffice. The landscape of your body and the monuments I discovered there will forever only be a memory.


Being almost late for your flight, you left. Leaving me with only the last ever taste of your lips.


But even among sorrow and recycled air, I am sure life will go on. Like water that always returns to the river and fuel that always ends up in fire, my life too will return to Normal.

Even if that's not what I want.


________________________________________



Unrelated news, I got into college. So thats a relief.
The road looks smooth now but then again, so do all roads.

________________________________________


Now Listening: Bali - Shaitan
                        Danza Kuduro - Don Omar

Now Reading : Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri
                        Family Matters - Rohinton Mistry
Now Feeling : Relieved

Of Buses And Autos

To one, To all, and To None,
This blog may have found and encountered a standstill, but life, evidently, hasn't.
In the midst of being subjected into a lotta close calls and some tight situations based on ze ever glorious board exams. The marks however, I wouldn't say were that glorious. My shortcoming or the just the system's inability to test me in subjects I'd want to ace or even have an aspiration to ace, I do not want to know.
But the infiltration operation is complete. I am now no longer bound to this system. Hope that counts for a little something in my life.
I have been asking too many questions. About what matters, how it matters, why it must matter and when it must matter?
Although, thinking along the same lines, I wonder if I'm asking the right questions and to the right people?
You can't ask a random someone how planes stay up in the air now can you?

I'm just putting random thoughts out into cyberspace. Let's see what happens. Take shit as it comes. Or so I say.

I am now in Chennai. Its a great place given the right amount of money and the right crowd, or so I'd say.
College beckons and I actually have no bloody clue what's gonna happen. I'm just sitting here staring at screens and bus displays trying to find a route. But what if I dont know where I'm going? Or even worse, when I am  to be there?
You see what I mean with the questions? Bus rides turn all philosophical and a random girl's face (a good looking one at that, if I may) turn into so much more. Slightly irritating at times.

Buses in Chennai are by far the cheapest way of transport  I have encountered. A 120 Rs Auto ride = Rs 5 Bus ride plus a decent bit of walking.

I've bin doing my own fair bit of exploring. Which need not include travelling. Helps me keep in touch with people in a more frank way.

I apologize if this has been a very boring read. I am bored at the moment and maybe that is reflecting on this. I appreciate it if you've made it all this way.

Drive safe,
V


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Now Listening : Nasha - Shaitan
Down On Me - Jeremih (Playing on loop)

Now Reading : Not much Id say

Now Feeling : Free?

Recurrance

Ever wondered what it would be like to lose your ability to store new memories? Short term memory loss. Media and propoganda have probably made you familiar with that term. But spare it a thought beyond the realm of film.
If your life began and ended every 15 minutes, how awful would that be?
Not at all. Allow me to explain.
I live a life of analogies and misunderstandings. Im hoping this story will help you realize what a blessed life a memory loss patient lives.

Waking upto gunshots is not exactly the dream life of many. But my condition puts me in situations like this. Or so I assume. The unnerving part is me holding the gun and staring at the eyes of a man  who just lost his life. Im trying by instict to see what emotion that man last conveyed before I helped him. I like to tell myself I helped. It doesn't matter anyway. Soon Im gonna be having this argument with myself. Thats my life. Lives rather. I dont have the ability to make new memories. I survive on notes and small paragraphs that I write myself to remind me of who I am and why I do what I do. Its a jungle out there they say. But the real jungle we're afraid of is in here, in our minds. The whole while. We just choose never to go hunting. So much for pleasantries. Although, wait, whats that at the window...


Flashing lights in your eyes is not how someone would like to wake up. But thats when I realize Im already awake with a dead man on the floor and a gun in one hand. A helping hand with the pun intended, if I may. But in the other hand, I hold a note written by a familiar hand to the not so familiar situation.
You are a nobody. Leave like one.
Golden Park Hotel. Room 908.
I am a dream walker, I say to myself. I live my own dreams and nightmares and I learn. But most of all, I teach. Who, you ask. Myself. Its a cycle. I learn while I teach and I teach while I learn. I guess wordplay isn't affected by my condition.


The sound of a moving train is not how someone would like to wake up. But I'm already up.
Trains move and so I assume, I am moving to somewhere. Where, I ask.
The note in my hand explains. I look around and see people with faces like mine, eyes like mine, and yet. How different we are, I wanted to tell that woman who stood next to me. I wont remember you in 10 minutes and I never will really know you more than how you present yourself to me every 10 minutes. Its a cruel life, said her face, as if Fate were playing a cruel joke on me and she had heard every word I had just thougt.
Maybe it is a cruel life. But this is my stop. And thats what I do. I Stop. And then I Start.


A train door opening and masses of human scum entering and leaving is the sight that I was born into. I miss my mother. I recount her face from memory and I realize that there's a chance she doesn't know of me anymore. Its a cruel world. A jungle they say. But the real jungle, is up here, in our minds. The note I clutch in my hands tells me where to go. And I, the obedient servant of myslef, follow.

908.
Its a funny no, 9. Any number containing the digit 9, when all its digits are added result in the sum of all the digits except 9. Try it. And any multiple of 9, when digit-added results in 9. Instinct tells me I have a thing for numbers. I've already made almost 18 (again, a multiple of 9 and a beautiful no. of its own accord) observations and conclusions on a 3 digit no. Its a funny world.

The room is empty and devoid of anything that encourages or implies that what lived within its confines was what would be called an average human. I think I would've liked to give this impression to anyone snooping on me. I raise my hat to myself. I live a good life, being able to marvel at my handiwork everytime as though I see and understand it only for the first time. I see that the toilet is very well maintained and once again, I marvel at my need to be clean even when little in the world matters.
On the desk I find a document filled with details of one person. I'm not one for names so I'll just skip it. I search for some sort of writing I recognize and I find it.


Waking up to a lone table in an empty room is not a story most would share. But this, alas, is my life. I see the paper has some words on it. Written by as familiar as familiar can get. By Yours truly. It Read:
He raises interesting questions. Probably he holds a cure to the misery ?
(To what misery?, which is soon answered)
How do you know that what you are thinking now has not been thought all your life and will be thought for , for the remainder of your life?

Suddenly, I shiver. Such brilliance. Such concisement in the matter of my life. My biggest problem brought down to one fucking string of words.
I ask myself, how do I know if I haven't spent all my life thinking whether I have spent all my life thinking of my life?
Its a circle of insanity. That never ends. That never ceases. That never stops.
Even imagining my life in this aspect makes me shudder.
But then, in the simplicity that only I can understand, it hits me.
This is not insanity.
It is pure beauty.
Why it sounds insane is because you think that you remember that the cycle exists. I do not. Each time is as genuinely felt as the previous and as earnestly awaited as the next.
It does not affect me. But yet it poses a problem.
And solutions to problems are a bit of my speciality.

So I tore the note and made another. Even more concise than the last.
It read:
Kill Him. He challenges the beauty of your life.



I woke up to a note telling me to kill someone.  To a note from me telling myself to kill someone. Of all the people in the world, who else would I trust but myself?


Now,
If I can only remember where the bloody bullets are?




___________________________________________

In completely unrelated news, I just got a BlackBerry.
Which means that getting in touch with me has never been easier. Drop me a line if you require my BB pin, my phone no. or any of the email id's that I can access via the BB.

Stay safe .


-
V


_____________________________

Now Listening:
Hello Good Morning - Diddy Dirty Money
Please Don't Go - Mike Posner
Dum Maaro Dum (the original one ) - Dum Maaro Dum

Now Reading : My BBM conversation with Shivani. \m/

Now Feeling : Sinister

La Vie Est Une Plage

Greetings Padawans.
Hahah I dont know why I said that. Had a chat with some friends about how Star Wars entered a world without pop cultures and cults and the sort. Hats off to Mr Lucas and Obi Wan Kenobi for the crazy lightsaber fight in episode III.


Past 3 days have bin a blur. Like one of those happy, dont-want-to-forget blurs represented as video montages in movies. Great shit.
I've bin to shatti each and every day of it. At the right times and tides. Great views of the greatest cars and of the best beach Muscat can offer.
Great conversations with great albeit leaving people can somehow alter the sense of leaving and emptiness that their absence may cause. Most of the people I chill with leave by this month. Kinda hard to digest that sort of emotion. I've never been good at handling emotions and I think Id prefer it that way.


Im getting carried away here. The point is that the awesomeness of being able to be close to the beach, with good conversation and an even better atmosphere kinda cannot be beaten. My life is now a beach. Tranquility, excitement, activity, beauty and unrest all merge together to form the ever more beautiful horizon. Time is the sand. And like Sid says in Dil Chahta Hai, the more you try to encompass sand in your hand , the more easily it slips away. Time and sand are slipping away from me and Im trying to make the most of it.


To whomever has walked with me, sat with me and spoken to me in the beach, I raise my now half-empty glass of water to you. The beach represents the ocean and my glass represents the {insert something emotional here}.

Im really looking forward to tomorrow's match. Bleed Blue fellow Indians. \m/
I now want more of this place. With these people. Like a standstill in time. But I want too many things. Few get fulfilled. Fewer get fulfilled immediately. C'est la vie ma cherie.


Goodnite "Padawans"
-
V






________________________________
Now Listening : Yeh Saali Khushi - Dev D
                        Club Foot - Kasabian
Now Wanting To Read : The huge collection of comics Roshan has.
Now Feeling : Serene?

Insanity Amongst Other Things

Greetings and wishes for unwished occassions my ever faithful audience. I am of the opinion that there is no apologizing to be done for my absence over the past few weeks. I doubt I was missed and I hope I can bring back that writing mode I ever so love. The exams are yet to be done with but the ones that are over have taken their toll on me. Im happy they're over and I think thats all I wish to speak of 'em.

What follows is a short story I made in my mind a few mins ago. Written at a stretch with no drafts and reviews. Dont judge. Dont hate. Congratulate.




1.15am
About the time when the drunks and the not so drunks begin leaving the crowded bar and head to the wife. Whether they get a banging or get to do some banging will never be known. She herself never bothered. Cleaned the glasses. Cleared the plates and got on with life. Deep down inside, it was the picture of that '69 Mustang and the joint she kept in her locker that kept her going.Possibly it was some psychological problem that a doctor would cure with a hundred million sedatives and an ever-more effective bill. But to her opinion, everyone had some shit messed up in their heads and it often was a matter of perspective to realize who would really stab you while you sleep and who wouldn't.
And then he came in.
Oh yes, straight out of one of those magazines, she had never seen this man come into the bar before. Never seen a man like him before, in fact. She had never felt the kiss and warmth of a man for a very long time. She never knew what it felt like to have a man celebrate her as a perennial festival and not as a singular evening's trophy. C'est la vie, someone had told her. C'est la vie Je ne veut pas vivre is what she wanted to tell that someone. But not all that is thought is said in this funny world we call home.
He sat right across her, she behind the counter, eyes fixed on him and his, fixed on the TV screen.
"Jack. Make it a double", he said. Simple enough order if it had been another man. And it would've bin given in the same old dusty glasses used for eons. But no, this was no ordinary man. One of the new glasses, a little more than a double and a professionally cut lemon wedge perfectly placed so as to not hinder the first and the perfect sip. But the person she served was no usual at this bar and neither was he paying attention to all the signs this woman was so subtly conveying.
In a matter of seconds, "Reload", he said.
Same routine. Unnoticed, obviously.
2 seconds and 2 shots afterward, he asked,"I've always thought the bartender would wonder why a man comes in  late and orders more shots than you're allowed to give this time in the night. You, however do not seem to share the opinion." 
Blood flowing faster than all the alcohol she had served, she was at a loss for words. The handsome brute spoke. He was not just a morose tank. He was a talking morose tank. Christmas does come early once in a while.
Doing the same thing any woman does when talking to a man she has a thing for, "Uh. Okay. Why you drinkin' so much pal?"
Not overdone, she thought.


He smiled. Not a giving smile. A sinister, almost borderline grieved smile.
"You see that woman on the tele? That Martha J?"
"Yeah"
"I asked that woman to marry me 4 nights back. She said yes."
"Oh my God. Im so sorry"
Why was she sorry? Martha J was featured in the news report about her death.
"No you're not. You havent done anything , why must you be sorry?
It is a shitty situation when you hear bout someone's death and there is no bloody right way to respond. Eh. Who gives a...?" 
5th Reload.
"Suicide is what the police have confirmed. I got me a text from her the night before she did it. Telling me not to mourn her and to consider life as a new page. Funny bit is that the police never found her phone. But we were no spies or important people for a suicide to be staged. Maybe she threw it. Maybe she didn't. Im just gonna have to live without that knowledge. Although, living at all seems to be a harder task now."
"You gotta hang in ther' honey. Things will change. I know it."
"Says who? Say, whats yer name Missy?"
"Hope."
"Thats as ironic as life can get. 
I better get going now, lass. Got the rest of my life to brood. This is for the drinks and for being the first person in many to have not asked me if I did that to the woman who would've been the mother of my children."
"I can't take your money sir. Its alright"
"You see this bunch of notes? Comes to about 15 bucks. I first met Martha when she was ahead of me in line in a branch of a fast food joint. Their credit card machine was down and she didn't have no money. I was hungry and I offered to pay for her meal. After the customary formalities and involuntary denial she agreed to it and promised she'd pay it back. That's how we started dating. Then, a day after she killed herself, I got a letter from her addressed to me, written on the day she did it. It contained this wad of notes. Now why would she do that eh?
Did she want me to think that the whole thing was just a prolonged mindfuck to pay me back a measly 15 bucks? That I was supposed to forger her like I forgot that she owed me money?
This money won't let me sleep missy. You keep it. You look like someone who knows how to use it."
"Er. Thanks. Where will you go now?"
"Home. Or whatever is left of it"
And he left. And she never saw him again. She almost considered the whole thing being a dream.


Hope told this story a total of a hundred times before her death as a tool for inspiration, strengthening relationships and as her last words to the man who held her as she died. She valued it more than any heirloom that she inherited. And cherished it beyond measure.
But her story was incomplete. She never saw the tele, after our man left, showed that Martha was killed in a car accident. And nothing to do with suicide.




Back "home", he enters and hits the bed.
"Hey honey, how did the class go?", asked his wife. Yes, his wife.
"Life changing Martha Darling. Life-changing. By the way, don't you owe me money from the first time we met?"








If the intricacies and the underlying message of this story failed to reach you, leave a word and I shall explain.


________________________________________________________
Got one exam left and I hope it goes well.
Played Holi like a maniac today. Cheers to Daddy Long Legs for that.
Stay safe and don't drink and drive. However horrible you are, I think you dont deserve to die in a space as tight and enclosed as your car.

Goodnite Folks,
V










Now Listening:
Payaliyaa - Dev D (Trippy song, check it out)
Den Standiga Resan - Opeth
High - James Blunt            
Now Reading : Brisingr - Christopher Paolini (The fourth book, Inheritance is out in November and I dont think I'll survive the curiousity!)
Now Feeling : Happy and slightly hungry.        

Raise A Glass

We live in a world of presumtions and veils. A world where you only get to know something of a person that he wants you to know. All your so-called act of knowing somebody is all bullshit. Even the characteristics of somebody that they dont want u to know and u do end up finding is just some very complicated unintentional mindfuck.
You only know a person a few seconds before his/her death.

Im not dead yet so might as well get on with this.
First of all, the new Zodiac shit, I never believed your older brother, I dont believe you, but Im still a Libran. Fuck You.


If you did wonder why there have been no posts about the exams well they just got over. I am too lazy and bored to rebel against something I cant change. I have become a commoner. Write the bloody exam, get home and sleep. Or maybe its because I've written them for 12 years and the system has achieved what it wanted to.



I am getting back to reading. Im reading my old favourites and downloading new ones as pdf's and reading them (Yes, Im that cheap).
To writers who make me smile, to poems that make me smile, and lines that make me think, I raise my glass.
My Terabyte HDD is constantly spinning with data now thanks to a steady inflow of epic proportions of data.
I now possess
10 Seasons of Friends.
6 Seasons of How I Met Your Mother
2 Seasons of Modern Family
2 Seasons of White Collar
7 Seasons of Entourage
7 Seasons of Two and a Half Men
12 Seasons of The Simpsons
2 Seasons of Castle
14 Seasons of Top Gear



And Im very proud and happy about that.


Oh and also movies.
My list of movies is too long to reproduce so lets just say that the average size of a movie is 800 MB and I possess a little over 500 GB. You do the math honey.
I cant resist so I'll tell you that it is a little over 500 movies. Pride is an understatement.



To the people who made such a massive collection possible.
To Big Man, Sunny, Max, Aleron, Utk, I raise my glass to you.



In other news, I remember last year around this time during farewell when all the 12thies who got awards. I felt sad and unsure if I'd even get nominated for any of them.
I did. Second last name in the list for Mr. Humourous. I got what I asked for without me pressurizing for it. To the person who had the idea to put my name in there, I raise my glass to you.



And to you, if you've bin a reader, I raise my glass to you.

And now with an empty glass, I sign off.
Cheers,
V

__________________________________________________________

"That's the problem about people who mean every word they say. They think you do too."
-The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini


"Noise is relative to the silence preceeding it. The more absolute the hush, the more shocking the thunderclap"
-V for Vendetta (Graphic Novel)

"Beneath this mask there is more than flesh. Beneath this mask, there is an Idea, Mr. Creedey. And Ideas. Are. Bulletproof." *And then he snaps his neck*
- V for Vendetta (Movie)



Now Listening : You're Beautiful - James Blunt
Gora Gora Rang - Imran Khan

Now Reading : Lots

Now Feeling : Movie-ly.

Library

This was written at 1:42 AM 01-01-2011

God bless Notepad. Without which my life wouldn't be the same.
Morning folks.
Raise your hand ( or leave a comment) if you dont like New Year wish texts/emails.
I mean I appreciate your concern and your seemingly genuine wish for me to have a prosperous new year and success in all my "endeavours" but sue me if I dont give a shit. Endeavours, really? Im 17 mate. Biggest challenge in my life is an overrated exam and an unsatisfied crowd.
But if there ever comes a new year where I dont get all these texts then, I confess, I will be disappointed. Half the story of my life folks, disagreeing with thse existence of something and heartbroken by the inexistence of it. Ok, maybe heartbroken is too strong a word. But then again, what word aint strong enough when used correctly, eh? The other half being the side of the coin that faces the table. Question is, wait, there is no question.


Once again I confess, I may not be in my senses. Just a weeeeeee bit in another time and place maybe. Floating on imaginary waters and flying through imaginary clouds. But these clouds seem to be playing Floyd, Guetta and Incubus. Yes. Awesome indeed. Maybe you've bin there too, O Wise One?



I was to be at a party today but it dint really feel like my thing. New years among others has always been a fail fr me. Big plans, nothing turnout. Small plans and too many turnout. So here I am after a good dinner, in my room, staring at the dark skies with my entrance to the alternate reality. Yes, the Floyd and Guetta one mentioned above. I enjoy peace and quiet when Im floating and hence the title.

But all that shit apart, Tis the season to be jolly, Falalalala la la lala.

I think for once in a change, I know why I wrote this. This will remind for days to come that good nights are not that hard to find. That new year will come only once in a year (yes, i needed to be reminded of that).


I was tuned into Oman 90.4 Radio for the New Year's countdown. Some really funny people who call. Lalu, this is aimed at you. Next time, if you cant hear what hes saying , dont bother calling, yeah?
That dude started talking about his family when asked of his 2010 resolutions. Go figure.


But whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there, with open arms and open eyes, yeah.
Whatever tomorrow brings I'll be there, I'll be there.


And maintenant to those who care,
Have a good year.
Also Drive Safe.

-
V


________________________________________
"Don't hate, Congratulate!" - A certain blog I read.

"Godablessooo" - DJ Faiz on Radio Sultanate of Oman 90.4

Now Listening :
Dont stop the pop - DJ Earworm
Bumpy Ride - Mohomboi
Now Reading : Artemis Fowl : The Atlantic Complex - Eoin Colfer

Still Waters

If you care, which I assume you do, seeing as I still keep writing, my exams are going on. Big whoo!
Best times of my life. I really cant think of a better time than when Im buried under books and papers studing things I completely dont give a shit about.
If you did believe those two sentences, close the window and go sleep mate, seriously. Or go read my earlier, more sober posts that express my profound "love" for exams.

I have a fear that my mind slowly ceases to think the way I usually do and that I succumb to the persuasive Textbook. A vacant blackhole is not what I wish my mind to me.
Chemical equations and formulae and cout statements are not what I want to remember. But when was the last time the textbook cared what the student wanted or didn't want.


I have nothing to express. Nothing to convey. Nothing to complain. Only to Remain.


Exit ->
V

________________
Now Studying : Chemical Kinetics
Now Listening : Turn Around - Flo Rida

Novembers With Me

Hey there.
Spoiler Alert: This post contains major soberness. If you have something against shit like that, close the window and carry on.

I've never enjoyed November. Not in Muscat. Except maybe that the weather's not a bitch and things seem to go slower when the temperatures are lower. People seem more content with what they have and somehow appreciate the lack of Sun. A quality we tend to forget while sweating.

And somehow even at the slow pace, things come to an end and exams approach. I hate exams. If you're a reader you probably already knew this. Now comes the time where I subdue and drown myself in notes printed by the knowledge of another. And then begins the search for non-existent notebooks. For worksheets that somehow never get completed.


All this thinking leaves me a little tired, sleepy and just sad. Sad that the only way I currently prove myself in the world is by these exams.



But put all that aside, and let me ask you a question;
Have you ever seen God in a person?
I cannot explain this in words. Not in writing, atleast. But I will try.
Its looking beyond a person's eyes. Into their actions, into their words. And them making a change in you. With or without their knowlwdge, better without.

I know it sounded cheesy and almost like a slogan fr some fantasy book. But thats the best I can. Do with it what u may.


I probably believe in this more than the conventional methods of praying. But thats just me. The less I talk about it, the less I am misunderstood.


But where there is a question, there must be an answer.
Find the answer. See if you find God in anybody.

Theres a lot more hope in life then.
And thats what life is.
Hope for a better tomorrow.

Hope that tomorrow aint the day when u look forward to another tomorrow.
Ladies and Gentlemen, find the answer and find the Hope. Im just happy to help.

Spreading the Love,
V




______________________________________________________
Now Reading - Computer Science (Class XII) - Sumita Arora
Now Listening - Phir Dekhiye - Rock On!!
Now Feeling - A bit sober

To Forgotten Days

Why are there pleasantries before talking?
If I really did want to know how you were, I'd ask you, once I'd asked you what I already wanted to ask.
Asking a person how they are and just greeting them with 1 of the 10 ways we will ever know in our lives to say, "Hi" is just odd.
Once in a while comes along a person with an actual reply to the question. Like I'm good. Or I just am. Or I stand and do, but I'm open to change (In response to how do you do?)
But we cant really do anything about it can we? Because we fail to realize that the slight awkwardness/embarrassment that we might experience in the greeting is far less than the damage we infer by actually talking to them.

Dont judge me. I dont mind saying Hello? How Are You? everytime I see someone. Maybe its just my programming to expect a genuine answer. Sue me.


This piece and my current state of mind were inspired by (500) Days Of Summer. A brilliant piece of film. Because of the story. Because of how the camera is placed. And because all that I will remember of this movie will make me smile. Like that final girl's name.




Its 4.45 in the afternoon and I dont think I've ever written anything at this time before.
School wasn't my thing for today. Stayed at home and got some studying done. (Yes, you did read that right)
First thing I wake up to is no clock telling me its not the time I would like to wake up at. The clock just said Hey, you're up. Breakfast that I could eat without having to wear my shirt at the same time. A shower without my mum knocking on the door.
Now if you pictured all that, thats pretty neat innit.

But all this is just going against what I want to say.
We remember things as just the good points/parts. Like one scene in a movie. One Season in a TV series. One episode in a Season. One bite from a meal. One conversation from a million. One shirt from a wardrobe. One Woman from the rest.
Life's like that I guess and I got no issues. But is it really worth enduring all the things you're gonna forget only to forget them?
I got no answer for that. A lot, actually but none that make sense.
Maybe it will all come back to us. One day when we are doing something completely unrelated, shit like that will just strike us and slap us in the face. Tell you that dinner that day was great only because of who you had it with. You forgot that the food sucked.
Or that the movie was good only because one scene actually represented your mindset. Forgot that the rest of the movie and everything about it was a piece of shit.


Think Again.
There are days in your life which you actually forgot. Because they had nothing that stood out except the fact that they ended and there is hope you will remember the next day.
Hope that the day that you will forget will be forgotten completely and will never trouble you again like the others do sometimes.
And thats all life is. Hope.

Hope that the specific parts of things you remember are enough to fill the gaps all this forgetting leaves.
Hope that one day you will look back and not see the gaps left empty. But look for more room to remember more.

I hope for a life like that.
And for all I know I might get it. And more.

What really boils the noodle is knowing;
Knowing when really is the right time to look back?


Until then, raise them Glasses,
To Forgotten Days,
V


_____________________________________________________________

"May I never miss a sunset or a rainbow because I am looking
down."



Now Reading : Barron's Prep Book for SAT Subject test : Physics
Now Listening: To my hard drive spin with data.
Now Feeling: Happy.