Saturday, 23 August 2008


Random times like these would never bring out the writer in me. I'm stuck at a pub without the finances to take me beyond one mug of the smallest measure of beer they serve. I've been inhaling a sizable volume of smoke (mostly my own) and it's made me realize I could be claustrophobic (just got corrected), I'm letting the apparent suffocation get to me. Maybe the growing hint of a headache has something to do with it. Maybe it's the fact that I've been sitting idle for the past one hour checking out reflections in a mirror to amuse myself, waiting to rush to the comfort of my bed, but held back inadvertently by reasons beyond my control. I look around in desperate hope of finding the smallest conversation piece to cling on to, and end up finding it in a voice I least expected. 

We're talking loneliness, how some of us are intrigued, sometimes mystified by the ability of certain individuals to grace a bar stool in the company of none, or maybe even go the extent of dining alone. All this, while a million eyes across the room strain, question, sometimes pierce. Eyes of pity, some of disdain. After all, it is despicable to make such displays of one's condition, subtle yet bold. When asked how I'd react in the given situation, my exact words are, 'I don't give a fuck!' followed by a slight chuckle. The ease with which I've erased 'conscious' from my list of attributes amazes me. But then, I don't usually say things I don't mean (if an exception flashes, shut it, i said 'usually'). So there I am, talking of how I'd like to travel to a city where the only one I know is the person writing these words, dine by myself at a fine restaurant (complete with a 3-piece suit and shoes to match), just to know how it feels like to spoil oneself. As I mouth these traditionally inconceivable desires, I realize there's a large part of the erstwhile (3 years ago) me that no longer exists, but I'm not complaining. Call it progress taking its toll or the maturing of an ideal, this is an existence I've come to terms with (for a short while), and will live like I wasn't supposed to. It's times like these that bring out the writer in me. The change is irreversible.

Saturday, 12 July 2008

Resurrection Revisited

The two times one (me) is pushed hardest to write is either during severe bouts of solitude or at the onset of a potential romance. My inactivity over the past one year and a little beyond that should be an indicator of how devoid of excitement life has been. However, the truth's far from it. I've seen (since my last post) levels of agonizing ecstasy that've left me no room for myself to the extent of facing identity crises on a less than frequent basis. A year back, I heard that engagement (opposed to the relative idleness I'd grown accustomed to) would help make life more meaningful. But, contrary to what I always said, 'equilibrium' is harder to achieve than it is to spell.

Time flies, often aided by a subtle gallop. The sheer speed of things around me has thrown me off track on more than one occasion. There used to be a time when I could sit for hours thinking about the emptiness in a voice I'd heard over the phone a while back or the potency of a religious message the press had reported as delivered, late one afternoon. The problem with losing yourself in the web of involvement is that you often turn out mechanical. The routine that had become my existence helped me blissfully push myself into the shadows, one dimension at a time. My words had almost found their resting place.

More than anything else, I'd been chasing. Chasing people, dreams and fickleness, often resulting in compromises I wouldn't previously allow myself the privilege of affording. I figure I've lost more time worrying about matters of no consequence than I would've lost oversleeping (by no means a small amount). Maybe I've become stuck up, as can be seen in the way I write. Maybe I need to let go, where is the fire? I searched the world to find a ray of motivation, useless. The irony of life is how you already know the answers to the questions you ask most often. I've realized popular belief has had it wrong all along, sometimes you can make it on your own. I looked inside myself and found desire drowning in a corner. I threw it a rope.

I write today to discover myself once more, to realize that the blood running through my veins still runs warm, that I am capable of touch, chasing the winds of imaginative realization as they soar once more showing me there’s much more to being who I am – a fool finding his way around the planet, knowing his freedom is the one thing it can't take away.