Tuesday, July 16, 2002

Wed Morn : 2:30 a.m

It’s a perfect night to weep. For you, me and the ants on the street. For our movements and our plans. For feet that scamper and eyes that dart. For life that will never be.
When I’m sad, I bawl. And hug. And sleep. Mornings, I move on. Emotion is trivial and survival the noblest goal of all. Every problem has a stopgap arrangement. The meaning of life is 42.
I asked a friend how he would like to be loved, sensibly or senselessly?
And he said 'sensibly'.Knowing if he were loved because it was him. And if it were ever to be gone, he wouldn’t wonder if it was ever his to keep or lose.
I don’t think he would much appreciate the irony though:)

Tragedy is awesome. And love magnificent. Burning embers are grand. Yeah yeah, that too!

Tragicians don’t bawl. They weep, in blood-sucking agony.
In raising sorrow above all else, they drain themselves of the ability to adapt.
We bawl and move on.They weep and die.

I loved ‘Devdas’. Screw the critics. Costumes, sets, colours, no doubt amazing. But the protagonists have outdone themselves.
For a change, SRK is really really good. I went with the sole expectation of seeing him ham frame-to-frame.
Love Bollywood when it does a great thing every once in a very long while…
Smashing ‘pikchar’.

Don’t understand his love. But is easy to feel his despair. And know his faults. And weep.
Clincher in all good stories, ‘focused conflict’.
Push. Pull. Fall.Break. Repair. Run.
Beautiful.

I wish I could write stories to make you weep.
I always knew I belonged in Solang!


Which era in time are you?

I do not want to be responsible.

Responsible indicates a 'cause and effect' rule. NO way Jose!! Doesn't work that way.
In limited, controlled atmosphere, all other factors remaining constant, maybe it does.
But not in my life...
And that's ironical. Because all that I do and think and imagine is towards creating this utopian bubble of self-sufficiency and 'I know what I'm doing'....and that's crazeeeeee, cause I DON'T...

I do not know if what I say is what you hear and I can't hear what you say. Every speck of dirt that I throw out of the house comes back through the window to settle into a crevice in the loudspeakers. Every ant crushed leads an army of ten thousand to the kill. And sounds stay suspended in mid-air.
Impulse combats thought and instinct bails out complacency.My hands are not my own and my fingers weave an unknown web.

Powerlessness is powerful.The unknown is comforting and my eyes are glazed.Shut the door, draw the curtains, snuggle in.