Archive Page 2
Detached
He remembered – looking at the computer today – looking out through his window yesterday. How he’d opened it even though it was cold, and how once he’d opened it felt nothing. Not excited, not cool. Not even cold. He remembered throwing his drumsticks at the wall and thinking to himself as the sticks flew across his room, bouncing on the wall and the stool and the carpet – all of three seconds – what purpose that served. It didn’t make him feel powerful, or even funny.
Today, as he looked at the computer, he felt sorrow sitting with him, laughing at the same things he was laughing at and dancing in his head to the same songs he wanted to go home and play the drums to. With a sense of wonder at his new detachment from himself, he tried to analyze what was happening, ignoring the parts that he couldn’t understand as long as they seemed negligible (like an engineer). His thoughts seemed funny to him, like a stranger you see on the road who’s doing something that’s so alien to you can’t help laughing at him.
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“All I do is whine”, he said and looked at the ceiling, remembering the bedbug he’d seen there yesterday night. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t stopped, it had just changed into today’s rain and tomorrow’s forecast mentioned rain in passing as well.
He waited for the thunder and the lightning, or at least a glimpse of the moon behind the clouds. The silence seemed to be saying something, but he knew it was just cheating him out of his melancholy.
Just like he knew that all he really was doing was staring at the ceiling, wondering why all he did was whine while waiting for the thunder and the lightning.
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Time
The clock ticks,
like a clock ticks.
The pages turn,
The story moves,
in spurts and starts,
to its conclusion,
And I sit
on my Futon,
The clock ticking,
The pages turning
and The story moving.
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While I was watching the ceiling,
the rain was making the outside beautiful.
When it stopped raining and I looked outside,
a bed bug walked across my ceiling.
I managed to catch a glimpse of the bug,
and I saw a little bit of the rain too.
and that got me wondering,
what I was complaining about.
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I wonder,
When Pink Floyd said
“There’s someone in my head,
But it’s not me”,
Were they thinking of me,
In the future,
At 1 AM,
Almost awake,
Not asleep,
Wondering what I’m doing,
What I did yesterday,
Wondering when, along the way,
On some other night,
I slipped out of my head,
Secretly,
(Hopefully not)
Never to return -
And then found that
The person
I looked at in the mirror
When I brushed my teeth the next morning
Bore a strong resemblance,
To me, but was different.
No.
They probably didn’t,
But the song
Is not what this post was about anyway.
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Uff, he said,
The truth, it takes many forms,
and troubles me
much.
Uff, he said,
I don’t want to wonder,
I don’t want to have to look,
beyond what I can see,
Uff, he said,
Why can’t I know,
Directly, (without the middleman)
Why
do I have to play
With you, and tease you
And get teased,
Before I reach a conclusion,
of what I want to do next?
Sigh, he said,
I’m just kidding,
It’s fun, really.
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There’s always that
Bloody Light
At the end of the tunnel,
Blinding me to the
Lack of light where I stand.
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The whip
While writing, you can make anything be like anything these days. Take a whip, for example. Imagine this whip, lashing out at my lines whenever I pause to think. Whenever it lashes out, a new line begins, even though the sentence is the same. Mostly.
I don’t really know why I break up the lines. It doesn’t make sense, it isn’t necessary and these days, it doesn’t really make anything sound better. I’m not even sure if it did anytime in the past either. Stupid whip. I’m sure half the people who used to read this blog don’t read it any more thinking I write nonsense. I’m not sure I would read a blog like mine if someone else was writing it.
However, that sort of gives me a direction to think when I’m wondering who I’m writing for. It’s something I’ve always been confused about. If I write only for me, why is it public? I even don’t write private posts as a rule. If I’m writing for others, why don’t I edit my posts. Okay, I might be lazy. So if I’m writing for others and I’m lazy, why do I write mostly nonsense?
I like writing. That’s part of the answer, I’m sure. But not the whole. I’m not sure I’m interested in finding out the whole. I have other things to think of, like closed loop control for a glider tracking a trajectory through the atmospheric boundary layer.
********************************
On different "make anything sound like anything" note, the whip can be a good thing too. Hmm…maybe not.
I was thinking of getting knocked down and getting up again (You never gonna keep me down, like in the song). The whip doesn’t really fit there.
Ropes do. Maybe one the many uses of Indiana Jones’ whip fits. Who knows?
Anyway, the point is that I’m never going to be kept down :) Atleast I’ll keep trying.
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Freedom
Those smells,
That breeze,
With all those leaves,
Fluttering Freely,
Captive to the whims of
The season and the tree.
The grass,
Tied to the ground,
Except for the lawnmower’s blade,
Or an occasional playful hand.
The sky so blue,
The blue so warm,
The blue.
An illusion so interesting
Sometimes it hurts.
The birds so free.
Now they are free,
Except for all those
Things tying them down,
That come as part of being as a bird.
(Kind of like us).
Freedom.
The idea is so interesting,
So fascinating
Sometimes it hurts.
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Sport
It’s interesting,How interesting things are,
When you’re interested.
Anyway, coolness apart,
Somdev qualifies for the US Open,
Saina wins some major Badminton tournament,
And totally unimportantly,
Force India gets something on the podium.
I’m so used to splitting my sentences,
That I can’t
Stop.
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