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.
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.
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