Pink Sock

Either there is nothing to be happy about or there is a lot to be happy about. 

Just that I can't find the other pair of sock. I can wear a gray one, and a red one. Not that it'll have a huuuuge impact on my 'aura' but, I want to wear either both gray socks, or both red socks. I can't decide. I will one day be screaming, running out of my place, dragging my television set along, my prehistoric cellular phone tucked in my pocket. I will go to the nearest dump and start collecting trash. May be there I find a pink sock to wear. 

I will do whatever it requires for me to become a mime artist cause that way the smile will be plastered on my face for ever. 

The mind is so cluttered like the room that thoughts refuse to die down. 

The thoughts are so random like songs on the playlist that sometimes I find myself thinking about the neighbor's couch cover. This place no longer seems nice. Its not mine anymore. It belongs to 85 other people. I can't be pleasing anybody anymore. Its constantly on my mind, constantly. 

I wish for this miserable feeling to disappear with the same speed as it appeared.

To-do.Ta-da.

There are so many things I will do. 

I will read A Handbook for My Lover after I finish this last book. I will clear out my shelves and organize everything on a weekend. I will make that DIY that I have been dying to make this Sunday. I will organize my DSLR photos and figure out how to upload them to Instagram. I will figure out how to light paint.I will lose those extra pounds by end of this month or the next maybe . I will start eating those goddamn fruits before they go bad. I will try those one-pot recipes for dinner soon. I will buy a new guitar and play better this time. I will start writing and reading one page before I sleep like I used to. I will start using all my beautiful notebooks. 

I could go on. You get the idea. 

On a hot Sunday morning, my brother and his wife were making me a nice little breakfast (yeah, they be awesome like that), when we got to somehow talking about health and disease (because of my penchant for the morbid, I'm sure). And then, for some reason, I had this very mainstream realization that human life is so fragile. 

We plan for days, months, years, lifetimes in advance but fail to realize that we may not have that much time to live. I could be here today and gone tomorrow and when I'm gone, all that will be left is a mile-long Wishlist and the stark realization that I didn't really do anything that I really wanted to. Not just the grandiose plans of backpacking through Aztec ruins and finding Reichenbach falls, but even the small plans of putting up my chevron painting and learning some new language. Farsi maybe. How about Spanish?

And how is that a fulfilling life? Buying a house or owning a car or having a walk-in closet have never been my goals, stability shenanigans are not working for me. I'd rather measure the quality of my life through my feelings: the times I have felt content and accomplished and productive. And smiled and laughed so hard, my cheeks and tummy hurt or been so overwhelmed, I teared up (it doesn't take much for this part to happen, apparently).

Someone said we will not remember what we did or said but we will always remember what we felt (or a version of this). And I have been getting stuck in a constant loop of "where did the week go? where did the year go?" So I have decided to just stop focusing on the goals that float tantalizingly at a vague point in the future (to achieve which, I have been going around in circles) and making myself feel all the best things(and by association, get a whole load of shit done). 

Sounds like a plan? Kthen.

P.S: This is NOT an excuse to do stupid things and say YOLO. Just clarifying -_-

Soak Myself Dry

Its just one of those days, when I write and I delete, I write, I delete.

Write.Delete.

Delete. Write.

Cycle continues.

Words seems so mediocre.

I thought of ways.

I thought of things.

I thought of movies.

I thought of books.

I thought of music.

I thought of quotes.

I thought of this.

I thought of that.

And every other thing I came up with,only seems to be going downhill.

And the task to write,

Something meaningful.

Somethin eloquent.

Something satiating.

Something heart melting.

Seems to be going uphill.

My alter ego shouted 

"Really man! Like really.Do you write to win someone. Do you think,writing your feelings in thousand different ways, will make any change. Do you really think so?

Do you think you will achieve an equinox, between the optimism your dreams and pessimism of her reality, by mere pouring your heart here. If you think so, I reckon you should think again."

I replied

"Maybe or maybe not. Maybe all my labor will bite the dust. Sometimes I do write with a connotation in the privacy of conscience that, it will melt her.I know that's a far fetched exaggeration, that's a dreamy dream. But mainly I write to drain myself of her. I want to write it off, all of her that I contains. I want to pour it all of her here, and soak myself dry."

Alter ego interrupted "How much of her do you contain?"

And truth be told I don't know. 

I don't know how much of her I contains.

And I doubt I will ever be able to soak myself dry of her.

It's been half a decade.

Yes five bloody years!

And to my dismay nothing much has changed.

My unconditional love.

Her unconditional indifference.

Nothing.

Nothing has changed.

Except for the clanders.

Endings

I have a story of my own to tell. 

I look for the endings first. Endings where boogie man blew magic sand and we all started dancing. Cookies arrived on unicorns and dolls and candies rained from up above the blood red sky. Trees swam and water cried big purple tears. Birds painted my walls and my walls walked away next morning. I married a planet and worms played at the orchestra. It was all but a colorful decay.

But endings with colours and sunshine filled in them aren't endings. There lies a valley somewhere, a crack, a trench. Waiting for you, like a monster behind a bush. Happiness - I envy the word for the wonderful meaning it has been allotted.

Its too bright. The happiness everybody is swimming in is too bright. I coil up in bed, draw the curtains and paint my own thoughts bright, connect stars and spell names I'd want to name my kids after.

This is it. So, are you still listening to me?

Juvenile.

Oh yes. I am melodramatic. Super melodramatic at times. I could only stay out of here for -counts- precisely I don't know for how many days. And I made it seem like 'now I'll be back only when am 40 and have 10 kids all screaming over the place'...

Anyway,

I wish to become a globetrotter. Someday.Somebody pay for my travel expenses and get me a column I could write for a newspaper sharing my travel experiences and earn crisp green paisa. This sounds the best thing to do. Then why aren't all of us 'globetrotters' ?

Or else.

I want to be a photographer. Don't snicker. I want to be one. Y'know, walk aimlessly around cities and countries with my camera. Take pictures of streets and buildings and food and old grandmommies, and old uncles and kids.And then have these kids run behind me calling me. Making me feel all important. Travel places, meet random people, click more pictures. Then go set up an exhibition of my pictures. And every newspaper will be applauding my talent. And you-know-what's-coming-next. I'll be famous!

Do I sound little juvenile?

Do I?

Fuck it.