Something of Myself
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Tagged by Inspiration
I am thinking about …
Barclays, HSBC, ANZ, Bank of America, Nationwide, American Express, Visa, my car, alcohol and porn.
I said...
We will talk about this later, knowing well that we will NEVER.
I want to...
Go home and sleep. Today, tomorrow, day-after until Sunday eve.
I wish...
I could do something productive, add value to someone's life, make someone smile.
I hear...
Raindrops.
I wonder...
If i will ever resume my PhD. If ever the dead will rise.
I regret...
NOTHING.
I am...
Not what I am.
I dance...
Miserably, except for Durga Pujo (which is equally miserable, but I don't give a rat's fuck).
I sing...
When I feel like.
I cry...
When I remember him.
I am not always...
What you think of me.
I make with my hands...
*Dunno*
I write...
About things that make me think. A lot. (Not like these...this is time-pass).
I confuse...
Myself all the time perhaps by reading too much.
I need...
Words and books to survive. I am dying.
I pass this tag to...
Whoever feels like indulging themselves.
I am thinking about …
Barclays, HSBC, ANZ, Bank of America, Nationwide, American Express, Visa, my car, alcohol and porn.
I said...
We will talk about this later, knowing well that we will NEVER.
I want to...
Go home and sleep. Today, tomorrow, day-after until Sunday eve.
I wish...
I could do something productive, add value to someone's life, make someone smile.
I hear...
Raindrops.
I wonder...
If i will ever resume my PhD. If ever the dead will rise.
I regret...
NOTHING.
I am...
Not what I am.
I dance...
Miserably, except for Durga Pujo (which is equally miserable, but I don't give a rat's fuck).
I sing...
When I feel like.
I cry...
When I remember him.
I am not always...
What you think of me.
I make with my hands...
*Dunno*
I write...
About things that make me think. A lot. (Not like these...this is time-pass).
I confuse...
Myself all the time perhaps by reading too much.
I need...
Words and books to survive. I am dying.
I pass this tag to...
Whoever feels like indulging themselves.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Fragments
Watched Yuh Hota To Kya Hota over the weekend. Interesting movie, but it reminded me of someone. It's strange how people come back to your lives and walk out with amazing alacrity. Empty embellishments? Whatever!
* * *
Splash, splash, splash! Memories, ah, memories. Someone very dear asked Othello from me. Brought back so many memories. Karen. Determined. Kind eyes. Warmth. And of course, ebullient praises for Iago. "I am not what I am." I could never really make up my mind; forever suspended in a state of quandary - to sympathise with Othello or to admire the sheer evilness of Iago. Karen never tried to persuade us. No good teachers do. They bring to you their bagful of goodies and they leave you to choose and to enjoy the delectable taste of them all!
* * *
Mistakes. Are mistakes like whores? Or are they virgins? Are they angels? Do they bring perspective? Do they dig our graves? Do we lie in peace? Do we die in pain? Do we trust ourselves? Do we cheat others?
* * *
Watched Yuh Hota To Kya Hota over the weekend. Interesting movie, but it reminded me of someone. It's strange how people come back to your lives and walk out with amazing alacrity. Empty embellishments? Whatever!
* * *
Splash, splash, splash! Memories, ah, memories. Someone very dear asked Othello from me. Brought back so many memories. Karen. Determined. Kind eyes. Warmth. And of course, ebullient praises for Iago. "I am not what I am." I could never really make up my mind; forever suspended in a state of quandary - to sympathise with Othello or to admire the sheer evilness of Iago. Karen never tried to persuade us. No good teachers do. They bring to you their bagful of goodies and they leave you to choose and to enjoy the delectable taste of them all!
* * *
Mistakes. Are mistakes like whores? Or are they virgins? Are they angels? Do they bring perspective? Do they dig our graves? Do we lie in peace? Do we die in pain? Do we trust ourselves? Do we cheat others?
* * *
Monday, July 10, 2006
Molly Bloom
How does betrayal taste? Can you define it? Is the experience explicable? There is a gallish feeling in my mouth. It's spreading all over. Like cancer. Slowly but surely. I am putting up a face. Twisting, turning, cursing and then realising that it's destiny. Of late, I have taken a lot of recourse in destiny. As if everything is pre-determined. We are, like the old bard said, mere performers on stage. Show after show after show. But does an actor not get into the skin of the character? Does he not, more often than not, forget his real self and trudge along.
Trudge. It's my word of the day. Shakespeare's Gertrude has come alive. How frail can women be? Molly Bloom. Joyce.
What does it take to betray someone's trust? Old flames? Chilling desires? Unfulfilled fantasies? Incomplete experiences? Half-hearted commitments?
The memories of that unwanted day comes back. Colours and chaos. Chaos and desire. Desire and pain. Pain and compromise. Compromise and finality.
Words are hard to find. Yes, there are moments in one's life when words are ineffective, incapable and impotent. The long-drawn, painful, druggish exercise of writing is overtaken by the futile realisation of that which should not have happened, of that which could have been avoided, of that which stings like a bee and flies like a butterfly.
Life's like playing a violin solo in public and learning about the instrument as I play on. Trouble is, I can't hear nothing...
How does betrayal taste? Can you define it? Is the experience explicable? There is a gallish feeling in my mouth. It's spreading all over. Like cancer. Slowly but surely. I am putting up a face. Twisting, turning, cursing and then realising that it's destiny. Of late, I have taken a lot of recourse in destiny. As if everything is pre-determined. We are, like the old bard said, mere performers on stage. Show after show after show. But does an actor not get into the skin of the character? Does he not, more often than not, forget his real self and trudge along.
Trudge. It's my word of the day. Shakespeare's Gertrude has come alive. How frail can women be? Molly Bloom. Joyce.
What does it take to betray someone's trust? Old flames? Chilling desires? Unfulfilled fantasies? Incomplete experiences? Half-hearted commitments?
The memories of that unwanted day comes back. Colours and chaos. Chaos and desire. Desire and pain. Pain and compromise. Compromise and finality.
Words are hard to find. Yes, there are moments in one's life when words are ineffective, incapable and impotent. The long-drawn, painful, druggish exercise of writing is overtaken by the futile realisation of that which should not have happened, of that which could have been avoided, of that which stings like a bee and flies like a butterfly.
Life's like playing a violin solo in public and learning about the instrument as I play on. Trouble is, I can't hear nothing...
