>Happy New Year(s)!

>i don’t think i stuck to my resolution of blogging regularly, reasons for which will be given in detail at some later point.
But i’m tryin real hard to keep my new year resolutions realistic and follow them:

  1. Quit- Its time to get rid of those vices which arent really best for my health. i’m already on my way. stopped drinking- only beer now. and the other one, well believe me i have started reducing.
  2. Wear a scarf while travelling in pune so as to protect myself from the harsh pollution and prevent asthama.
  3. go to the gym and eat healthy. try to go to gym and try to eat healthy. at times at least.
  4. thats about it.

gotta go, booze party on at home. im not drinking.

>Touche

>Touche, you say
lest they know the secret
and cast their evil charms.
Your eyes shine bright
with the desire burning
and yet you deny.

You long not for riches
and fame and glory,
and neither wait for the
frog prince and a fairy tale.
This mundane world cannot
provide what you are looking for.

All you seek is freedom,
locked within a framework
of skin and bones and reality,
Out there lies wild abandon,
hanging uncertain in the air-
yours to escape away into..

A secret dream to run away
into that mysterious world
of dreams and illusions-
probabilities and impossibilities
explode and implode within,
all yours to explore. Touche.

——————————–

i have no idea how i ended up at this..
i wont insult poetry by calling this a poem,

😦 … im losing it.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2586014590072785138&na=4

>Back to Whining,

>

Ok, here I am again. Had been trying to delay this moment for as long as I could- writing that is. Changed my template for the nth time this month I guess. Reverted to my original template, though sadly I’ve lost all the links. That can be done sometime else though.

Following my resolution to write everyday, I think I’ll follow a pattern of sorts such that at least every blog of mine has one post per week. And maybe I should start sparing some attention to those blogs where in I’m listed but haven’t made any contribution ( especially the “Taking India Ahead” blog in which I’m really interested but have never managed to post anything). So I’ll be alternating between my blogs. Enough of my schedule.

I’ll stick to the nature of this blog- which is whining. Its less of a habit and more of a lifestyle now. All my friends know I’m an incurable whiner.

Few days back I’d submitted my article to the college newsletter. There I rant about how people have these misconceptions about us since we’re very actively involved in college activities et al. While writing it I remember I was whining as usual and tried to infuse as much humor as I could manage to come up with. But I was so shocked when I found the whole editorial team found it harsh. Why? These guys are like me, I wrote that article on behalf of these guys and they find it harsh, asking if I really feel all that antagonistic and how I should voice my feelings, opinions etc. And all I could think was- am I the only one? Or is everyone else too chickenshit? The worst part was all these guys went on stressing about me having a platform (the newsletter) to “voice my feelings” and didn’t seem to relate to or identify with what I had written at all.

Everyday I meet people who ask me if I’m attending class and pass comments irrespective of what I answer. Initially, it was a joke. But hell the joke has become such a pain now. I’m used to jokes. I’m short and I’m hyper-active/talkative. So people get lot of opportunities to make jokes. And I honestly don’t mind. At least I’m making some one smile and laugh. But these taunts regarding college work and being busy seems so mean. Its like God made me short, so the joke’s on God anyways. But here, its my work and life which is being made the butt of these gags. And when I make any comments, it’s a big deal and blasphemous to them.

And sometimes I feel bitter. At the work that I’m doing and at the people. Its partly my fault. I got so busy that I started drifting away from friends and others. When you work with somebody 24/7 you start hanging out with them and inevitably your timetable’s such that you spend all your free time with them. And then friends don’t appear very generous to accept you as you are. And that sometimes seems to be the worst part. If “friends” don’t understand, how can you expect others to understand? So, once you become part of an organizing team or fest or anything, people just seem to wander away or you seem to get alienated. And somehow, it all seems so sad. I remember after third sem finals got over and everyone was planning vacations with their friends and group and I was just hanging around, shuttling between office and PCell, wishing shallow goodbyes. College is definitely not what I’d thought it would be. No boyfriends and large group of friends. No gang of girls and boys. No fun- romantic life that movies depict.

But then its my choice. I chose to work and get involved in college activities. So might as well accept the consequences. But I never imagined the consequences would be so drastic. Its not all that bad either.

Hell, I just cant help complaining either ways.

>An excess of phlegm perhaps

>Let me just type. Let me just write. I do not know what will result from this exercise.

But I need to do it, nevertheless. I hate not being able to write. That was my only outlet.

I feel suffocated, strangled, drowned, tied up and restless without it. There’s this inexplicable tightness clutching at my heart and I have no clue why and how to deal with it. There are these moments when you are restless and nervous. As if you know there’s something miserable waiting to happen, just around the corner and you don’t know what to do when you are face to face with it. That is how I feel. Any given moment when I’m not busy doing nothing important. Its physiological, mental, psychological and a lot of other things. There’s no word for it, yet.

There are no dreams. My mind’s become barren. Imagination has become infertile.

Does growing old do that to you?

Those days, when you were bursting with innocence, hormones, feelings, wishes. Those musings, pouring of words and tears, smiling into space thinking about nothing and everything, and those escapades into unreality- where have they gone?

The artist inside has ceased existing. There was no space for life. It was crowded with ambitions, mundane aims, selfish needs and walls. Walls around my heart, soul, mind. Nothing comes in, nothing goes out. Forever locked. Frozen. Yet burning within me every moment.

This is so juvenile. Still, its necessary.

There is this canvas waiting to be filled. But it remains white. White is a color? Or there’s such darkness that its black, impenetrable. Even grey fails to come on it.

Is it just that my outlets have closed or do I have nothing to express?

Either ways, I feel un-alive.

The entire world is an illusion. Do I just tread through this illusion waiting for it to end on my death? Or do I live it out? I have to live it out. Breathe in the scents and dust. I want to feel pain and happiness. Immeasurable pain and indefinite happiness. And express it the way I want to.

Nothing is stopping me. But I find myself incapable.

Something within is dying. There is the optimist lying docile.

There’s so much I want to do, want to achieve. But they all seem meaningless now that I feel incapable of doing what I thought I was best at and loved to- to write.

Maybe its my fault- I am lazy. Despite that, I just feel incapable otherwise. Its as if I’ve become handicapped, lost my limbs or lungs or heart or just everything.

Being sad and hurt allowed me to vent it out and write. Pain helps. I tried, in vain.

I think its true. As they say, external wound and pain are superficial and its when the heart is bleeding with sorrow and grief and misery that you really suffer. The turmoil within is worse than the injuries on surface. But I don’t have either. I tried the latter- got my ears pierced again in an attempt to “feel” the pain. Needless to say, it didn’t help matters much.

Even loneliness is something that’s so detached. Yet so deeply entrenched into the psyche. I feel miserably lonely at times. That solitude doesn’t encourage any creativity.

I think I’ve run out of reasons, of miseries to put blame on for my incompetence.

Nothing seems to help.

And I resort to whining, which just tires you out and saps your creativity further.

Maybe I should just continue to write. Somewhere, sometime I’ll find a way out or a way in. I must force myself to write everyday. I have to let things affect me. See, hear, feel and experience. And express everything. Maybe that will help.

I have to keep trying. I must.

>A beginning.

>

Let me just type. Let me just write. I do not know what will result from this exercise.

But I need to do it, nevertheless. I hate not being able to write. That was my only outlet.

I feel suffocated, strangled, drowned, tied up and restless without it. There’s this inexplicable tightness clutching at my heart and I have no clue why and how to deal with it. There are these moments when you are restless and nervous. As if you know there’s something miserable waiting to happen, just around the corner and you don’t know what to do when you are face to face with it. That is how I feel. Any given moment when I’m not busy doing nothing important. Its physiological, mental, psychological and a lot of other things. There’s no word for it, yet.

There are no dreams. My mind’s become barren. Imagination has become infertile.

Does growing old do that to you?

Those days, when you were bursting with innocence, hormones, feelings, wishes. Those musings, pouring of words and tears, smiling into space thinking about nothing and everything, and those escapades into unreality- where have they gone?

The artist inside has ceased existing. There was no space for life. It was crowded with ambitions, mundane aims, selfish needs and walls. Walls around my heart, soul, mind. Nothing comes in, nothing goes out. Forever locked. Frozen. Yet burning within me every moment.

This is so juvenile. Still, its necessary.

There is this canvas waiting to be filled. But it remains white. White is a color? Or there’s such darkness that its black, impenetrable. Even grey fails to come on it.

Is it just that my outlets have closed or do I have nothing to express?

Either ways, I feel un-alive.

The entire world is an illusion. Do I just tread through this illusion waiting for it to end on my death? Or do I live it out? I have to live it out. Breathe in the scents and dust. I want to feel pain and happiness. Immeasurable pain and indefinite happiness. And express it the way I want to.

Nothing is stopping me. But I find myself incapable.

Something within is dying. There is the optimist lying docile.

There’s so much I want to do, want to achieve. But they all seem meaningless now that I feel incapable of doing what I thought I was best at and loved to- to write.

Maybe its my fault- I am lazy. Despite that, I just feel incapable otherwise. Its as if I’ve become handicapped, lost my limbs or lungs or heart or just everything.

Being sad and hurt allowed me to vent it out and write. Pain helps. I tried, in vain.

I think its true. As they say, external wound and pain are superficial and its when the heart is bleeding with sorrow and grief and misery that you really suffer. The turmoil within is worse than the injuries on surface. But I don’t have either. I tried the latter- got my ears pierced again in an attempt to “feel” the pain. Needless to say, it didn’t help matters much.

Even loneliness is something that’s so detached. Yet so deeply entrenched into the psyche. I feel miserably lonely at times. That solitude doesn’t encourage any creativity.

I think I’ve run out of reasons, of miseries to put blame on for my incompetence.

Nothing seems to help.

And I resort to whining, which just tires you out and saps your creativity further.

Maybe I should just continue to write. Somewhere, sometime I’ll find a way out or a way in. I must force myself to write everyday. I have to let things affect me. See, hear, feel and experience. And express everything. Maybe that will help.

I have to keep trying. I must.

>Its really a waste..

>I’m sorry I’m here again to whine.
I have lost my creative skills. Whatever little i had.
I re- read my poems again and again. I don’t think they are great works. But i have nothing else. I want to view my own work. And i see no improvement from the past to the present. People get better as they grow. I seem to be growing back into immaturity and un-creativity.
Where have i lost it?
or have i stopped feeling?
The Romanticism has died out. All that i see is jaundiced by cynicism.
All i find is that yes life sucks, and there’s nothing that you can really do about it.
I see others going through intense feelings, highs and lows, and tangled love lives. And i mock it, find it juvenile.
Wasn’t it good to be juvenile and pour out your feelings?
Something decent always turned up with those juvenile feelings and musings.
I used to be a dreamer. A hopeless one. All i did was dream, daydream, imagine and dream. And some more.
I don’t do that anymore. And i don’t like it, at all.
To dream, to feel, to ponder and brood and think and go through those phases where you just go on weaving dreams and thoughts into an intricate maze so that you’re trapped in your own safe haven, shielded from reality- where is all that?
Escapism- thats the best opium.
Second Life does seem a very good idea indeed.
I miss poetry.
I miss words. And how i could find solace in them. In my own words. I didnt have to go looking for others’ poison.
I need to go back.

>Mannat

>She saw him being dragged away
by the roots of his hairs,
They held him bound in chains
and whipped and lashed.

She cried herself hoarse
seeking her lover’s escape,
begged mercy from the pirates
who had ravaged many a shores.

They took him beyond lands
unknown and a hundred seas.
Locked in sand filled dungeons
on an island nowhere on map.

She went searching for her man
from nether to high lands.
On unruly waves and wilderness
she carried her grief in her heart.

Parched by the desert sun,
weathered by the mighty winds,
drowned by the pouring rain,
Yet she marched forth in her quest.

And last found a tavern
to which none paid any heed.
The moonless dark sky
compelled her to take refuge.

There she found her man
clasped in another woman’s arms.
Tears betrayed the hurt
she felt in her happiness.

Her heart broke into a thousand pieces
and nothing could mend it now,
for forces of nature may bleed your skin
but love scorned burns the heart.

Then she walked into the sea
and let the sea caress her wounds.
Further she went into it
and slumbered in the deep.

Her spirit lies lonely and seeking,
the sea waves wildly lament her sorrow.
Whenever the moon begins a new phase,
she dies another death of perfidy.

——————————————————–

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2571719893087160562&start=1

I found this one in one of my old diaries…
and I have no idea why it had been titled Mannat then. Since I can’t find any better title, I’d just stick to this one.

>Technicolor Dreamboy

I don’t really know what I was thinking when I got down to paint this on MS Paint.
No, I do not think this picture represents any inner needs or feelings or such bull.
It’s just that I find drawing male faces harder than female faces, again no reason whatsoever as to why so.
Thats about it.

The picture’s not really technicolor, is it?