Quicksilver
September 8, 2009 at 3:20 pm | In Me + Myself + I | 5 CommentsTags: confusion, diary, growing up, thoughts, time
I confess I have been rather negligent towards this blog whose poor soul has been tangled up in webs and dust in some lone forgotten corner for what seems like centuries now.
Though the reasons for my absence have been many, I still cannot wrap my mind around the fact that I refrained from writing for so long. Actually, my mind has been giving me a lot of trouble in the wrapping department lately. Seems like every time I try to wrap it around something, the darned thing proves itself about as much wrappable as an Electrasol Powergel Dishwater Detergent (with Power-Jet). Messy and slippery, I mean to say.
It has now been exactly 56 days, 20 hours, 28 minutes and 31 seconds since I turned eighteen. And that, to me, is the most un-wrappable thing in existence.
For me, age has always been one of those ‘things’ that every one is forever harping on about along with shopping, shoes and other such unworthy things. Until now, however, I had managed to tuck the whole ‘Age’ thing in a remote corner of my mind, something amounting to ‘just a number’, and nothing more. But now, suddenly, age is no longer about the numbers, but what society calls the ‘deeper stuff.’ I mean, Eighteen. Even the word Eighteen sounds so grown up. Compared to, say Twelve, which seems cheerful, Fifteen, which seems carefree, and Seventeen, which still manages to seem quite friendly, Eighteen sounds too menacing and grim and cold and serious.
And yet, the thing that I’m not able to understand, the thing that’s absolutely driving me mad, the thing I cannot figure out – is why I still cannot come to terms with it, despite trying my best to. That’s the funny thing. I don’t feel eighteen. I’m not talking about feeling ‘grown up’ and all that, just feeling eighteen, for what it is, nothing else.
But now I think of it, it’s not just to do with being eighteen. I’ve always felt any age but my own. Sometimes I feel like a total kid, but at other times I’m weighed down by things and thoughts, far advanced than my age, that scare me that I’m actually a 60 year old trapped in the body of an eighteen year old.
Maybe, as JE puts it, it’s due to my being more interested in eating the cake than in the number of candles it has. Or maybe it’s just due to my mind resembling Electrasol Powergel Dishwater Detergent (with Power-Jet) as usual.
Anyway, of all the darndest things, ‘acting your age’ is certainly the most difficult. Is it something inherently impossible, or, does it, as with many other things, become better with time? If that’s the case, I hope it proves itself less slippery than Electrasol Powergel Dishwater Detergent (with Power-Jet) in the coming years.
My Tryst with Illness
December 4, 2008 at 4:26 pm | In Me + Myself + I | 10 CommentsTags: anecdotes, health, humour, illness
I have been doing a lot of serious thinking lately. Most unusual, but when you’re confined to bed with a nasty sickness and a headache that threatens to match the effects of listening to Justin Timberlake twenty times in a row, it’s all you can do, besides counting flowers on the wallpaper. It is curious that in times of ill-health, the brain will merrily turn off the usual routine: appetite is the first to go, then talk and then sleep.
The first hurdle doesn’t pose too much of an inconvenience, but the other two do. Talking and sleeping, as everybody knows, are the two most important things in the world. And being the kind of person whose personal philosophy is ‘I talk, therefore I am’, I, more than any other could fully appreciate the agony of swallowing that disgusting bowl of oats without uttering a word. It seemed my voice had turned rather like one of those foul gooey medicines I’ve been prescribed by my physician, whose mission in life seems to force down as much medicine as he can down his patients’ throats.
Now, sleep. When I had finished counting sheep, goats, and other barn animals in every language I know, and the insomnia monster refused to go away, I decided it was time for drastic measures. These drastic measures, I decided, were to be in the form of ‘Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul‘ an atrociously mind-numbing book which had been gathering dust on my shelf for the past three years.
I open the book at a random page and start reading…
It wasn’t surprising that before long I was positively giddy about him. My friends told me I had no chance with a junior. My sister looked concerned for my potentially broken heart. But you can’t help who it is that you fall in love with, whether they are older or younger, taller or shorter, completely opposite or just like you. Emotion ran me over like a Mack truck when I was with him, and I knew that it was too late to try to be sensible. I was in love. [1]
If that doesn’t make you fall asleep within five minutes, I doubt anything will.
Anyway, this ingenious discovery of a cure for insomnia notwithstanding, it would be wrong to assume that sleep was of help. If only the problems of the world could be solved by sleeping! I would definitely bag the Nobel Prize for Sleeping in that case. But I digress.
As I was ill, I wasn’t allowed to sit at the computer or watch TV or read, for fear of these activities putting a ’strain’ on me, as the doctor put it. I would have told him that the only activity that is capable of putting a strain on me is listening to Rihanna singing ‘Hate That I Love You’, but thought better of it.
One of the worst things about illness is the ever-present sense of idleness and exhaustion, co-existing simultaneously. Everything seems oppressive, and even the sight of fluffy teddy-bears seems annoying (at least to me). That’s when it begins to operate on psychological level. In an effort to drag my brain from the depths of despair, I hit upon a more brilliant solution. I raided my wardrobe and came up with the most disgustingly lurid clothes I could find. A bright-pink top that I loathe (I never wear pink) would do the trick, I thought. I know, stupid theory, but pink, whatever its faults, screams cheerful. And it worked, almost, my spirits had raised a notch somewhat.
I was down with viral fever, which went away within three days, but the Universe, not content with having its sinister plan executed in this manner, decided to add the finishing touches as well. General weakness prevailed, and I was convinced that it would be highly dangerous if I didn’t get well soon – no, not dangerous for me, but for the doctor, who was probably going to get strangled by me soon if he dared to prescribe me more of those yucky medicines.
When I was feeling better again I was allowed to walk around the house and climb up the stairs. I was so glad to have my health (and voice) back, I ended up in bed with sore ankles again later in the evening due to a hour’s worth of running up and down the stairs. I kid you not.
Anyway, the upshot of it all was that I now have a reputation of being ‘psychologically delicate’, which is rubbed in my face every time and which annoys me to no end. Hmph. When I end up finding the cure for cancer, I shall make sure I rub it in their faces at every opportunity I get. ;-)
[1] I have NO idea why these ‘Chicken Soup’[2] books are so popular. Sappy, cheesy stuff just makes me gag. (Yay, I always wanted to do a footnote!)
[2] Don’t you think it gives chicken soup a bad name?[3] (Whee! I did a footnote within a footnote!)
[3] Maybe they should change the title to Chicken Soup for the Sleepy Soul. (And Again!)[4]
[4] Okay, enough.
Nonsense is Sense
November 25, 2008 at 3:40 pm | In Musing + Mulling | 5 CommentsTags: anecdotes, nonsense, philosophy, random, stupid
‘Untangented decommisional clouds with goats playing gold-stringed violins doing the macarena.’
I have no idea as to why I scribbled this on the last page of my notebook. The words, nonsensical in themselves of course, just came floating out of my head subconsciously (Really, I wasn’t smoking anything). I stared at them, then started laughing. I told D, ‘Oh wow, look at this – it’s a life-altering literary masterpiece.’
He too, stared. Then, apparently realising that I was joking, smirked. Of course I was joking. I was acting stupid for no reason (as I am tempted to do so time to time). ‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’ I persisted. ‘Makes a lot of sense.’
This was a bit too much for D. He smiled ruefully, informing me in stern tones that it didn’t make any sense at all.
‘Of course it doesn’t make sense!’ I countered. ‘It’s not supposed to make sense. Can’t you see?’ I thought that was fairly obvious.
D, who seemed quite irritated at my deliberate fit of stupidity-et-randomness, scowled and snapped: ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean, anyway? It has no meaning whatsoever, it just sounds…dumb.’
Upon which, my tirade promptly followed:
‘What the hell do you mean by meaning? I can’t believe this. Jesus. You folks are so narrow-minded! Honestly, do you really believe that everything has to have a – a meaning? Come on; learn to bend your minds a little. Not everything’s supposed to have a meaning. Think about how our world would be like if we went about trying to cram everything into structures and hierarchies, plastering cold logic on everything! I suppose you’d want to assign logic to fairies and fluffy bunnies too, eh?’
By now, D was looking quite alarmed at this sudden outburst. Secretly amused, I went on:
‘No, you want to broaden your mind a little. Look, some things come with their own meaning. Some things don’t – and more often than not, those things do matter. Because it’s your imagination that decides what or how it is. Your imagination that shapes it, makes it, controls it. So, learn to accept absurdities because, believe me, even nonsense is sense. In a different way, of course. This world and the things in it – the real things, are wonderful, but the unreal is even more wonderful.’
D was silent, staring at me. Then, suddenly, he picked up the notebook, read through the nonsensical words, and said, ‘Well…yeah. Deeply thoughtful, that is.’
We both burst into laughter.
Brain Damage
November 20, 2008 at 5:40 pm | In Musing + Mulling, Verses + Vignettes | 8 CommentsTags: brain, humour, poetry, riddle
My fingers have been doing the polka dance all over the keyboard for the past ten minutes, in the vain hope that it would rouse my brain from its deep slumbers and write something. Unfortunately for them, my brain just about happens to be the most stubborn thing ever created.
I can hear it chiding now, but this time I am going to have my way.
*racks brains for something to write about*
Don’t be stupid, brain, I can’t possibly write about jumping monkeys on the moon. They don’t even exist, you silly bundle of nerves and neurons.
Oh no! Blasphemy! I repent!
Emily Dickinson, bless her, once said that the brain is ‘wider than the sky.’ (Never mind the fact that she would have redefined the whole geometry from a sky to a subatomic particle had she happened to live in our times). Anyway, the point is, the human brain never fails to amaze me. On two levels: its sheer brilliance, and its utter stupidity. Extremes on the spectrum, but both equally amazing, you see.
My awe leads me to this unforgivable crime, oh, horror of all horrors, a poem composed in its honour.
It’s a bundle of nerves weighing barely three pounds
Yet actually wider than a sky on metaphorical grounds
Oh, it’s a wondrous little mechanism, all right
(Though, like a squeezed walnut, not exactly a pretty sight)
Old Freud, he couldn’t figure it out
Not that he was the only one about
Scourging the depths of the cup of the brain
Ended up only with a teaspoon in vain
But the riddle teases us right back
It’s nowhere as as easy as a MySpace hack
Like an old geezer put on public display
But who cares, MySpace sucks anyway
It’s best if you just give it a rest
Though we will never entirely tire of this quest
It seems the answer may elude us for a while
But we’ll get there by a long mile
I am now absolutely convinced of the feats of the human brain; for this, of course, is something only a talentless waste genius like me could produce. Shelley must be rolling in his grave. You made me do it, brain.
Oh Good Lord, my brain’s rebelling on me. I’m sorry for all the late night studying, please don’t leave me, okay? You’re all I’ve got.
Mind Your Throats, Please
November 6, 2008 at 7:15 pm | In Randomosities + Rubbish | 5 CommentsTags: anecdotes, humour
Charles Darwin never really found out the relation between evolution and chewing gum, I believe.
It was sheep’s lungs dissection in biology practicals the other day. Now, if there is any thing I hate more than getting up early in the morning, it is dissection. I cannot bring myself to dissect a page, let alone an organism. Anyway, the professor was demonstrating and I was only half-listening, trying somehow to force my brain into imagining that the shiny scalpel I held in my hand was a paintbrush or something.
So, the professor grabs the lung firmly in one hand, makes a sharp cut and – I swallow my gum. Accidentally. Uh oh. I freak out, rush to the nearest water bottle, grab it and gulp it all down. Class and professor stand stupefied, staring at me gulping down water in such a frenzy, slopping it all down my front.
Professor (to the class): Ah, now, look here. A common case. This particular practical may cause one to feel nauseous.
(turning to and smirking at me): Especially, if one happens to be of a …ah…delicate disposition. A psychological problem.
I was too busy freaking out at my having swallowed gum to take notice of her petty dim-witted insults. She thought I was disturbed at the disection, well in a way I was, but not to the extent of feeling nauseous. It was that piece of gum that was probably clogging up my insides right now that I was getting freaked out at.
Swallowing gum was much more serious than a poor wee sheep’s lungs spread out before you waiting to be cut up in the…*shudders* never mind.
I had never swallowed gum before in my life. That’s right, not once. I’d always exercised as much caution during the simple activity of chewing gum as you would while handling radioactive materials. At that moment I was this six year old again, who had just chewed gum for the first time in her life. I thought I was going to die. Seriously. Luckily, that didn’t happen. The Professor continued the dissection and the snide remarks about ‘mental health’, but I didn’t care; I was grateful for being alive.
Later that afternoon I googled up ‘I swallowed gum’ and found out that the chances of an instantaneous death are rather low. Of course S and G and A all told me they’d swallowed gums loads of times before but I’d refused to be comforted.
‘Hello, I’m seventeen and I’ve just swallowed chewing gum for the first time in my life and I think I’m going to die.’
Oh well, I’m never chewing gum again.
Empty Spaces
September 20, 2008 at 4:46 pm | In Me + Myself + I | Comments OffTags: emptiness, fear, lies, sadness
I used to tell myself that I am too strong to resort to tears. I could survive it all. I could prove them wrong.
I can’t pretend anymore.
I’ve faced the worst of them and seen the worst of me. And yet I can hear myself saying that this isn’t the end. But guess what, I’m lying to myself again. It’s because I am a coward. I need to resort to lies all the time. I lie when I say I am fine, I lie when I laugh it off, I lie when I say I don’t give a damn, I lie when I fake a smile when all I really want to do is break down and cry.
I lie. I refrain. All day long, talking about everything and nothing at all, I fake it all. And in the end, that’s what I’ve become. A fucking fake. It’s so hollow, so useless, being, pretending to be, happy all the time. Pretending that you’ve faced worse, that you don’t need anyone, that you can endure anything.
I am sick of being strong. I don’t want to be strong anymore. I don’t want to act anymore.
I want to free myself from that ever-present sense of inadequacy. I want to get rid of fear and allay my doubts. I need someone to hug me and tell me that it’s going to be all right. I want this emptiness to go away, I want something to fill me up, and give me a reason.
I want to lie back down and gaze up at the stars. I want to cut my endless chatter off, and, for once, just sit and listen. I want the silver linging pointed out. I want to be reminded that I’m alone.
What Keeps Me Awake at Night
September 16, 2008 at 5:03 pm | In Musing + Mulling, Randomosities + Rubbish | 1 CommentTags: confusion, darkness, emptiness, life, questions, random, solitude, thoughts
Crowded spaces. Bright lights. Sounds.
Hollowness. Filled to the brim.
The skies bend over and the ground falls away. It’s not that the pain isn’t there. Just that it doesn’t sting anymore.
Fairy tales aren’t meant to be real. It is cruel to compare them with reality.
Reality isn’t always kind.
‘No, I’m fine.’ Why do you ask? You don’t want the answer any more than I want to give it.
I could walk away. But what are you running from?
Tears aren’t ugly. Denial is.
Solitude is company enough.
I don’t ask for much. Stories I can wander in. A song I can listen and fall asleep to.
A golden ocean of grass in the sun. A blue river of dreams. A green canvas of hope. And an endless, selfless beautiful sky, sky of starry nights, sky of warm clouds, sky of splashes of colours, sky of sapphires and rubies.
Dreams can sometimes be all that you have. And yet if you have nothing else but them, you have the biggest wealth of all.
How do you decide what you want?
Sometimes, the best thing you can do to erase the pain, escape the regrets, forget the moment – is to sing.
Why do the stars shine?
Why do I hold back?
Do the answers always lie beyond reach
Or do you create them yourself?
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