Sunday, December 30, 2012

A Harbinger Of Solace



It was that time of the year again.

She was perched upon a rickety swing, in a desolate park, alone. The surroundings were mostly in tune with her current disposition, only intermittently broken by quiet laughter emanating from a group of revelers cuddled around a campfire in a corner not too far from the deserted playground which was currently her domain.

The sun painted the environs in myriad hues of orange. The air was mercifully still but nevertheless had that chilling edge to it, which cut to the bones and was more often than not the portent of an even colder night.

The chains clanked against the worn frame as she swung to and fro, her eyes riveted upon the fading horizon. One hand clutched a journal and a pencil as she racked her brains in vain, trying to ignite the flame of inspiration which would finally allow her to do what she was supposed to be best at – writing.

But words escaped her, imagination failed her and the revered instruments of her art weighed on her being like stones.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke her reverie. She did not look up.

The adjacent swing strained under the weight of its new occupant and was set in motion. She glanced sideways to see the man equally preoccupied, apparently on the same quest as hers.

Two perfect strangers, they had spent the past two weeks in the same manner.

She chuckled – slightly, derisively. An open-ended invitation to either remain in silence or initiate a conversation.  He took the hint, his lips curving into a half-smile as he muttered, “What a morbid way to end the year.”

“I couldn’t have asked for more, you know.”

“With a couple of lovely lines to bring a closure, that would have been the case, yes.”

“We still have until midnight.”

“Until midnight and all I’ll be able to describe is this numbing cold, in not too flattering words.”

“Spare me the rhetoric – why don’t you go out and enjoy yourself like those people over there?”

“You and I both know we’re better than that, sure enough.”

“How morose. There’s more to life.”

“Which could be denied to us if we don’t get back on track, you see.”

“Worst case scenario – we’ll be dismissed.”

“Unlike you, I can’t live with that.”

And so the banter continued, each choosing to sidestep the looming question. How prolific they were in their art was left buried under their increasing impatience to write and submit a short story to a prestigious competition. It was important – for the money and a little for the pride.

The string of coincidences that led them here were also that easily brushed off.

“Your idea of a collaboration doesn’t seem to be working.”

“I never proposed it in the first place.”

“Are you telling me that I was dreaming of that up till now?”

“Cut it out! Not like I’d want to share the money with you.”

“That is if you get any in the first place.”

“Neither will you, if you keep harping that way.”

They both turned away, brokering an unspoken agreement of not bothering the other any further.

Her pensive mood resurfaced, the brief pleasure of an otherwise worthless repartee having but all gone. They didn’t have the hour to kill today; there would be no tomorrow.  Her hand moved unconsciously, scribbling across the pages, throwing together random words that might, just might paint a cohesive picture at the end of it.

“Stream of consciousness doesn’t work with us; I thought you knew that already.”

She looked at him, annoyance flashing in her eyes before giving way to resignation. “I can’t think of anything else.”

Abruptly, he stood up and extended a hand towards to her. “Let’s go and take a walk.”

She acquiesced. They began to circle the park, the air now crackling with the smell of burning wood. The glowing embers had been deserted a while ago and were dying. They chose to sit by the fire – she drawing up her legs and warming her hands over the flames while he gathered branches and twigs scattered around to build them up.

“I would be content to just write about this setting. A fire entrances me like nothing else.”

“‘The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.’”

“I’m afraid that is exactly what is happening to us tonight.”

“Maybe,” he said, looking at her strangely. She returned the gaze with a question but he chose to focus on his notebook instead, scribbling furiously.

What the…? She was still stuck and he was writing away!

Fifteen minutes more of staring into the fire and she gave up. She didn’t want to spend the New Year’s Eve in chasing words and sentences – she wanted to go back home, to warmth and comfort even if it meant curling up with a blanket against the window, watching the fireworks and ushering in the New Year, alone.

(The competition be damned, meanwhile.)

She stood up to leave, glancing at the man before her, apparently blessed by the muse. He did condescend to give her an acknowledging nod, which was surprisingly more emphatic than pitying.

Walking away, she reflected upon how disappointed he was…sorry to see her leave but too proud to hold her back.

It takes a writer to identify solitude – chosen or imposed - in another. They can’t blossom otherwise.


Two days after that dissatisfying evening, she was back in the park. The settings had not changed and neither had the cold. Seated on her usual spot, the swing, she couldn’t help but feel as if her life was forever thwarted in anticipation of something to come, that elusive future that would finally allow her to start living.

But fate decided to surprise her, for once, when the same man who had been her silent companion for the past two weeks turned up besides her. To see him in reality than in her daydreams.

He handed over a single sheet to her without looking in her direction.

She smiled in spite of herself. “Muse not pleased enough to grant you a winning entry?”

“Shut up.”

She read. A story of a girl by a fire, an artist looking to kindle her own flame, the outpouring of which would be her tale to tell the world. Of a night sheltering two strangers in the cold. Of everything and nothing in particular.

Of how a writer never really needs a story to write; the ability to tell one is more than enough.

She looked up and smiled at him – the first, genuine smile she had shared with him, a gesture more personal than knowing his name.

Which she didn’t know, and neither did he.

But, they had an entire year (and perhaps even further) to know more of each other.

He took her hand and the deal was struck. And yet again, she couldn’t have asked for more.

...

Thanks to Hachiko for her help. ;)

A very Happy New Year to all my readers in advance. :)

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Felicity


She sets herself a task to write something. In the face of a seemingly insurmountable writer’s block, a difficult thing to do.

But the occasion cannot be missed. It’s a special day for someone and as is her wont, her best gift has always been a few well-written words.

What could she even write for a fellow writer?

So what would it be?

She sighs, thinking, reflecting back on the few months that had gone by without writing a word…

…had it not been for her dear, dear friend, wanting to see her revel in her expression, create art with those unusual words she loved to use.

That friend whose style was poles apart – so refreshing and original in its take, written straight from the heart.

She sighs yet again. This won’t do. She will not like it one bit.

Nevertheless, she wonders. Wonders and smiles at how things fall into place, how the most unlikely people end up befriending each other, only to be amazed at the similarities galore.

In a way, she does not and perhaps never will belong to her world – her world of innocence and childlike cheer. Of smiles and laughter, of Harry Porter and country music, of chocolate and 
doodling. Of simplicity and understanding.

Like a ray of sunshine in her dark, gloomy realm. I’m glad to have found her.

And so she settles on keeping it simple – her knack for elaborate, fancy prose has deserted her anyway.

Many happy returns of the day, my friend. May happiness and fulfillment find you always, so that you may never lose your smile. Remain the way you are, always. I’m glad I met you.

Unwittingly, she finds herself smiling as well.

...

Written for Hachiko...you know who you are! Happy birthday! :)


Saturday, November 10, 2012

That Which Lies Within



It’s been a while, isn't it? No matter how much I change, how articulate I become, I don’t think I’ll ever let go of words like these. There’s only so much that I can do in my attempt to be succinct.

And I ramble and make small talk, as usual. I have acquired quite the knack to play with words and fill in the gaps, prolong an insubstantial conversation, if you may.

But I believe I have lost the ability to express my innermost feelings, as hackneyed as it may sound. My expression has lost its verve, its clarity and depth – and I struggle to elucidate things that came so naturally to me a while ago.

How long has it been since my writing skills went for a toss and I hit a perpetual writer’s block, I have no idea. It’s become so perfunctory, so mechanical. Words, beautiful, unusual words which I would carefully pick to adorn my elaborate prose with, to create that breathtaking, thought-provoking effect – they entice me no longer. 

And I hate the idea of sounding conventional and drab.

But, I digress. Much as I would love to rant about my writing or the lack thereof – it is not what weighs on my mind.

I don’t even know if I want to acknowledge my thoughts anymore. Facing your issues head-on can be so exhausting. I don’t want to feel drained anymore. I’m tired of crying for the wounds that only get deeper with time.

It has never been my wont to blame others, to subject them to revengeful, venomous thoughts. Anger takes the form of despair and hopelessness and I succumb further and further to self-pity and martyrdom.

Have I reached a point where I can’t be honest with myself anymore? How utterly deplorable is that.

And so I try, for once, to channel my feelings into words, address them to someone, instead of letting them reverberate against the scarred walls of my own mind. And so I try to speak of that which afflicts me the most, which has no direct bearing to the person concerned but revolves around the said being, who serves but as a trigger, a reflection of my innermost desires and fears.

I wish I could call you by name, however, to lend you so much credence especially when you yourself have no idea about the effect you have on me, will be taking it too far.

But you are there and my feelings for you continue to hold me in their grip. Attraction…desire intertwined with guilt, with hesitation and with uncertainty. All under the looming question of your perceived worth…of who deserves whom, of the larger question of being seen together, of acceptance. 

How foolishly delusional it was for me to even consider the future ramifications that a relationship between us would have entailed.

I fell for your intellect, your seemingly haughty demeanour, the air of secrecy you deliberately surrounded yourself with. In haste, I thought I had found a kindred spirit – the walls, they appeal to me to be broken down just as I yearn for someone to recognize and do the same for me.

And it was the first time I had been in such proximity to a person I liked and it nearly killed me. I hate the fact as to how evident it was – in contravention to the controlled bearing I usually adopt.

And you saw through it, didn't you? You knew what was going on in my mind. Oblivion is a ruse neither of us can adopt.

But I’d give anything to be able to know if you knew, if you had any inkling of the cause behind my peculiar behaviour. You wouldn't have spoken to me the way you did, otherwise, would you now?

That is, before I destroyed that nascent trust, by being overbearing, by pushing things too far.
By doing so deliberately knowing that you are already with someone else.

I can’t apologise enough. And probably, I have lost all the respect I had earned.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Disenchantment


The chaotic pace that my existence has taken, and I’m yet to realize the gravity of the events that have taken place so far.

Have I changed? I don’t know. I know nothing anymore. Adrift in the turbulent ocean of life…I seek to anchor myself but in vain.

I wonder if you would be that anchor, that steadying presence.

I stumble through the days, marking off one date after another…waiting, always waiting for that elusive day where I would finally seek my contentment, my bliss.

Is it you that I seek? I wish I knew.

All illusions have been shattered, my carefully crafted reflection has been ripped apart – I choose to disregard the scheming voice of my mind, coaxing me to retain the shreds of my identity.

An identity I can’t believe in anymore. An esteem founded on the very base of faithlessness.

You can see through me and I couldn’t care any less. I’m no less dead to you, aren’t I?

And yet…I can’t, I won’t bring myself to take the first, tentative step. Nothing holds me back – my pride, my anxieties, the uncertainty of my entire being have been carelessly tossed aside. But I won’t call out to you.

It has always been my wont to wait. Anticipation is all I have ever known.

And so a part of me retreats to that timeless world, where my dreams lie suspended, awaiting resurrection. I see the glimpses of my former glory and despair envelops my entirety.

Can you see who I am?

And so I await, for this limbo to be broken, for this faltering life to breathe again.

Are you the one that I seek?

Or is this new-founded trust no less illusory than the hope of unconditional, selfless…impossible love?

...

And one thinks law school would kill any semblance of sentimentality. Yet this is the form my stifled creativity takes. 

I make no promises of appearing here again, not for a month at least. 

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Disavowal

It’s dark. It’s still. The air around me has a breathless quality to it, only intermittently broken by the sounds that stir the heart.

Soft, gentle melodies. Memories of whispered nothings. My own choking sobs.

You see, I have retreated to my shell.

Alone, surrounded with worn recollections of a brief life. The past has never been deader. Basking in the flimsy warmth of its flickering light, I stand now with its smoke curling around my being, the ash dusting my feet.

I chose to burn the past myself. And I stand; singed and charred, unable to escape the ramifications of the dependency I had so willingly embraced.

Who am I then, you may ask? Here, I do not take any form, portray no role I would otherwise be carrying in your realm. I’m simply a living, breathing individual, acutely aware of my mortality, my limitations – aware of the bitter truth that even if I sever all ties, others continue to bind me.

Is it pain that you see etched into my being?

I laugh. It is both mocking and rejoicing, intertwining bliss and melancholy. And I laugh – at you, at myself, at the entire cosmos. 

And I cry – for what I had been, for what I would become...for what I am now.

I have withdrawn and yet I’m still here. I both loathe and crave your presence. Isn’t life a beautiful paradox? To live while dying, to love with fear, to trust and yet be unsure?

So bring me back. Cajole me to return. For I long to do so, despite knowing that all I want is to be left alone.

But that is what life is. Who am I to say otherwise? 

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Ramblings of Boring Romanticism will be continued next time - you think I'll give up so easily on that, eh?

Monday, May 14, 2012

Ramblings Of Boring Romanticism - III


Second Impression: Talents charm the way to your heart

Ah, did you poor mortals think that I would forget my aspirations of enlightening you about this delusional love and the hallucinations it induces? No, I’m not talking about LSD, in case you didn’t read it right. In fact, the psychiatrists and the psychologists would find it easier to research these drugs instead of the topsy-turvy world of love which sucks in the most blatantly unemotional people from time to time.

A little harsh, do you think? Wait till I elaborate further, dearies.

I can presume you’re literate enough to understand the title of this little piece. Well, it is the second most common phenomenon after the imagination’s figment of looks. 

So, what would it be? Have your pick of the hors d’oeuvres – is it the bespectacled, soft-spoken ‘genius’ of your class who doesn’t forget a name (let alone a face and the features that follow below) or that dashing, reckless athlete, who may be a dud in real life but carelessly annihilates every single opponent, whether on track and field or in a one-to-one tennis match? For the equally gifted ladies, is it that divine singer who steals many a hearts with her soprano voice, or that exquisite actress who can plead for her life to be spared as easily as she can take one with her swift dismissal of ‘non-actors’?



Okay, I think I went over a lot of clich├ęs, but anyway.

My point being, ladies and gentlemen, that we’re equally trained to fish for the ‘stars’ among the crowd.  Your aptitude is what will either give others a run for their money or leave you to fend for yourself. No one glances twice at an Average Joe or a Plain Jane (unless they themselves are no better or…well, no sinister thoughts shall be mentioned here.) So you can forget about the dreamy Hollywood scapes of a girl-next-door turning into ‘the one’, or the poor lonesome boy suddenly transforming into the next hero of the day. (I don’t know if that’s what it’s like in the movies, mind you.)

Exceptional ability is always attractive. You don’t have to be gifted with looks to garner attention, if you can make a killing with your skills. Let my readers be forewarned that I, the humble author of this prose, is no exception to this stage. If you (the prospective singles, yes,  I’m talking to you) have a way with words and can as dexterously snare me with your enchanting poetry as you can cleverly talk like a proper intellectual and have an astute opinion to offer on nearly everything under the sun, then I’m all yours.

 This stage has its charms, if one goes by the logic that a person is always seeking to better him/herself and thus seeks people who seem more capable. There is no harm in learning new things or picking up a hobby or two. The downside is that gifts or talents don’t speak for an individual’s nature. Just because your love interest can write exquisitely, it gives no guarantee that he/she won’t use that strength to verbally (and through writing as well) denounce you every single time. Arrogance is seldom an invited guest, remember.

So think twice before you consider the mere capabilities of a person for deciding on a relationship. I’ve had my fair share of being suitably impressed by people, only to see them reduced to a shadow of their personas in real life
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Dear me, that's terrible. Call it a tentative step after emerging from a self-imposed writing break.  Feedback is appreciated. 

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Ramblings Of Boring Romanticism - II


First Impression: Looks kill, but so does ugliness.

Well, to my dear readers who didn’t quite grasp the intentions behind this write-up, let me be kind enough to detail it. I shall proceed to dissect ‘romanticism’ step by step and I believe you all will find yourself belonging to one stage or the other.

If you don’t, then I hardly think you belong to a race called man or homo sapiens (for the intellectuals; what did you think I was a mere layman, correction, laywoman?)

I shall presume that the subject I’m discussing is not rocket science that requires in-depth explanations, so I shall take the liberty to start straight away.

The title says it all: the first ‘stage’ of love – appearances.

Majority of people still consider looks as the most important thing – whether it be something as trite as off-hand judgements or something as important as choosing your life-partners. Looks call the shots, they say. And need I quote the oh so familiar ‘Prince Charming’ for all those lovely ladies and would be ladies have their eyes set out for, or the drop-dead gorgeous woman of the moment for those eager gentlemen and boys? (dare I say rakes, for them, there remains no such coveted woman, those fickle creatures)

Where does ‘love’ come into this, I hear you ask? Why, of course, my dears, it is already there! People ‘fall in love’ with people who are so beautiful, or handsome – this condition afflicts all ages (well, at least till you’re sane) and our eyes are trained to immediately discern beauty and ugliness in any populated place.

Still want examples? Haven’t you seen those teenage girls (I’m not one of them, mind you!) drooling over film actors or those boys (I’m not defining the age here) ogling those living mannequins walking down the streets?  

No, we women are no less guilty. But, but, we can be subtle!

The identification is done. Now comes the reasoning and logic.

Well, might I say that the phenomenon of falling for looks is something everyone understands?

A part of being in love is being wanted, and that is where all the trouble begins. For how wanted you might be, would be pretty evident from your stunning partner. Not to mention your own looks. “Oh my god, how lucky! She’s with what’s-his-name, he is simply so handsome! I would die to be in her place!” This, is for the girls and you should be familiar with these refrains. Otherwise, you are, I’m afraid, not normal.

As for the boys, I…don’t think I’m authorised to bring in any references to what usually goes on in their heads. Suit yourself, my boys.

Looks, as it is known, are temporary. You just might lose them with time, or God forbid, in an accident or an illness. If your oh so good looking ‘partner’ just might cease to be as appealing as he/she currently is, would you desert your ‘love’ and your partner altogether?

Need I answer this question? It’s evident; you must have been through it.

Thus, this culminates the first, headlong stage of love. Beautiful, stunning girls, dashing, handsome men – the world literally revolves around people who are good looking. As for the ugly ducklings, the poor things are simply condemned to a life of solitude. Would I call this kind of love interesting? Ah, forget about it. I haven’t managed to find the love of my life despite my not so bad looks so I wonder for those blissfully ignorant people, sigh.
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A penny for your thoughts? I'm anticipating more clarifications.^^ 


Thursday, April 12, 2012

Ramblings Of Boring Romanticism - I


Prologue: The disillusion named ‘love’.

If people were asked what was the one thing that would breathe life into their otherwise perfectly ordinary existences, (and I don’t mean air) the most obvious and expected answer would be ‘love’. Love makes the world go round, they say. Love is very life itself. That and other seemingly countless quotes, verses, songs, prose, playwright and all possible forms of expression can be found in every single language and art form that has existed till date about this very unique emotion that is, without exaggeration, at the very core of this world’s workings.

I don’t include certain kind of fanatics with completely different motives without the slightest lacing of this wonderful feeling to that list.

Now I could write, as I stated above, countless words on love and its various manifestations. But I won’t bother with them for now. My focus shall remain on the most evident thoughts that the mere mention of ‘love’ provokes.

Of course, it has to be romantic love, right?

Or rather, how impossible romantic love is, perhaps? The very reason why I’m penning this down today.


One wonders where the good ol' days went, sigh


Let no one mistake me to be a frustrated single who hasn’t managed to experience those ‘trysts’ with destiny, let alone find ‘the love of life’. 

No, I could be considered as one of those eclectic individuals who would ponder upon the nuances of this romantic love and wonder: is it really true?

I have every reason to believe this is the most-often asked question after ‘does God exist?’ without any need of surveys or statistics to support my claim.

Furthermore, the real question is this: if it weren’t true, why would it be projected that way?

That does imply that there is a degree of truth to the romantic love, now doesn’t it?

There comes my reason for writing this: I’m merely a curious individual, inquisitive and willing enough to try and explore this form of love and see for myself if it is that ‘charming’ and ‘enchanting’ and ‘ecstatic’ as the poets, the singers and the most famous lovers of the world have proclaimed.

Needless to say, I haven’t struck gold yet.

Not that this is the age to achieve it as most elders would be quick to admonish but I’m not taking into account the frivolities of teenage infatuations and crushes and the corny sounding ‘girlfriends’ and ‘boyfriends’ that drive these poor people up the wall.

Oh wait, I think I haven’t mentioned that I’m an adolescent, after all. Well, that should justify my curiosity, right?

Over to others to relate their (I would add so-called) experiences of this feeling which is rightly termed as romanticism.

Romance…and romanticism – so widespread, so prevalent and yet repeated to the extent of being a hackneyed term. The first word that comes to my mind when I hear of romance? Boring.

Care to prove me otherwise? I’m waiting, 

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This is going to be a six-post series (and hopefully I will complete the remaining parts) but this is as much of a prologue as you can get.

Friday, March 23, 2012

The Maudlin Conundrum


Why?

This one word is capable of posing the toughest question to whoever is willing to be asked. Why are we here? Why do we live the way we live today? Why must people pretend to be heartless and ruthless , individualistic, always pushing others aside for the sake of what is being asked of them; even though all anyone, everyone wants is to love and be loved? Why?

Why must I, like countless others, suffer the agony of this ill-conceived world, always bound by limitations and restrictions?

A lone girl’s incoherent wonderings, you may say. You may even go so far as to put to the whims borne by the sheer insularity that I must bear with, day in and day out.

Go ahead, look down upon me with your merciless stare and cruel smile as I writhe in anguish of my incapability to express myself, to articulate the torment in the deepest recesses of my soul.

You are no different. I was…I still am the same as you, always careful about not pressing my needs, my desires upon others, holding back words and thoughts that could wreak havoc on the delicate and yet shifting balance all strive to achieve; despite being pained at the very farce being made out of my life as well as of those around me.

Do not gaze me down with the veiled superiority that you possess…that you moved on with your life, held yourself together while I miserably failed. For a day will come…oh, whom am I kidding? It is there everyday, the mirror to haunt you in your dreams, the few moments of solitude that is always thrust upon you where you are face to face with what you really are and what you ended up becoming.

Why do you think people choose to throw themselves to things which will serve them no lasting purpose?

Look me in the eye and tell me whether you are truly happy. No…don’t give me all those nonsensical excuses – I’m contented, but I don’t have this…I can’t be happy until I achieve that…my relations tend to get troublesome, otherwise I think I’m fine - is your physical, materialistic life the measure of your fulfilment? I wish it had been so: it would have spared me the gnawing vehemence of seeking to tear apart my world, if only to discover it was real or not.

You and I, we are both besieged by demons of illusion. You cannot deny this – it will take me a little while more to work on your scripted persona, to delve into your equally distressed soul.

Do not sigh that way. Call me a heretic, for all you are worth and you will still know that I never meant to embellish my realisations, painting them as true for everyone else. Is it a crime, for me to show you my most vulnerable, perhaps deplorable side? Am I not allowed to practice the cherished virtue of honesty, even within these confines where there is nothing else to lose?

Or are you wondering, hell, worried that I will drag you down with me in the withering comprehension of our duly chaotic existence? That I will strip you of all you held dear, deemed necessary for survival, to your original, raw form?

I dare you; go on and shake me out of my delirium, knock sense into me, if you will. 

But you know I am right. I always will be.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

A Tenuous Quest


I’m back from the dead! Or well, at least to me, it seems like that.

(This is going to be a deviation from my usual to the point posts, so you chose to read the rambling that follows, okay? I hope I make myself clear.)

Let me deal with all that I missed, nevermind the fact that I just barely stumbled out of finishing Boards before rushing to finish registering for CLAT and starting the preparations for cracking the same. (which also reminds me that I just learned how thoroughly I detest paperwork. Add to that how I ironically aim to throw myself into an administrative framework for a career. The Indian Foreign Service, with any luck.)

Ahem, before I completely forget about what I was going to say, back to where I started.

First, thank you all for your good wishes. With God’s grace, I have done well in my examinations. Now, I have been fortunate enough to be awarded by the very astute Supernick  at The Devil’s Workshop. The Overlord, of all things! To the awarder, I cannot thank you enough. I only hope I live up to all the praises.



My only contention is that I’m not eligible to pass on the award, mainly because I haven’t been stalking enough blogs. Scratch that, I haven’t been commenting as often to strike an acquaintance with most bloggers. So, my followers and all other readers, don’t be surprised if I’m suddenly here, there and everywhere. I should know as a writer that any feedback is appreciated and yet as a reader I hesitate to give the same. None of that anymore.  (It will take me sometime to catch up with reading, of course)

There, that’s done, what I had to say has been conveyed. Onto the part that will finally end the tiresome rant, I believe.

What I could all manage was a dismally short Inception fanfiction (my current obsession and I do have a tendency to randomly obsess myself with things, the predecessor to this wonderful movie being Big Bang Theory.) The reason I’m choosing to post it here is a hopefully not-in-vain attempt to garner more feedback than what I got on Fanfiction. Without spoiling it further, all I would add is that it’s written from Eames’ perspective.

Now I should really let my writing do the talking here.

... ...

He watches Fischer open the safe and spot the will, only to remove the pinwheel – their key to extraction – lying beneath.

It was done. The job was completed, successfully. He continues to watch impassively the scene play out between father and son.

Emotions. Sentiments. Feelings. So very captivating and more often than not the purpose of existence for majority of people.

To him, they were simply convenient.

An emotional block could easily turn out to be an insurmountable maze for a person of his profession but it was the very base for his deceptions as a forger.

Naturally, he has to get it right, always. In the world of extraction – and now, inception – there are no second chances.

It is at such times when he muses upon his ability to decipher the emotional strength of his subject from a perspective that allows no such indulgence on his part.

He only has to remember Dominic Cobb to be reminded of what attachments and even possessiveness can do to one’s subconscious.

(He would be lying if he claimed he knew the story. But it is not difficult to piece it together.)

It is almost strange, what love and fear – the two sentiments that comprise everything that could possibly dictate one’s actions – can do to people.  It is those feelings that manipulates every single time, always choosing to disregard the thought that he could be dealt with in the same manner.

Of course, he is no less immune; time will tell. No less immune than that stick-in-the-mud Arthur, with his seemingly subtle preference for Ariadne.

They had all gone to extraordinary lengths to cultivate the veil of professionalism and detachment to keep them from falling apart every single time they took on a job.

How long till it stopped working? He, despite his laconic, devil-may-care attitude, always comes face to face with that question.

The ignored thought still remains hanging: how long till he loses his grip on reality?

(After all, everyone is entitled to their share of self-doubts.)

But his mind quickly clears when the kick sets in and with a last look at his surroundings…the dream world, he undoubtedly knew of the one certainty he shares with everyone on the team (even Cobb, despite it being his last job)

He would be loath to leave it.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Castle Of Hope




“I hope I won’t lose my heart in this game of gamble called love.”

She sits by the dormroom window, wondering.

Daydreaming is a luxury she cannot afford. Pending assignments and reports, daily studying already lagging behind…yet she doesn’t care.

(After all, caffeine is always there to rescue her.)

But the thought, the nagging feeling doesn’t go away.

She’s had her share of falling for people. More than experiencing the bliss and the pleasures of being in a relationship, it was insecurity and despair and admittedly, envy.

Having one’s heart broken is enough to lose faith in love. Still, people persist, even for their entire lives, either going to finally find someone or being left alone.

She’s one of them. And she won’t end up alone. It is her belief, her solace that will someday turn into reality.

What is the harm in dreaming?

Maybe being a writer by hobby does make one romantic…perhaps foolishly so. But then again, isn’t it the hope, the desire of loving and being loved by someone is what adds a certain essence to those otherwise ordinary words?

Sometimes, the mere prospect of such a future is enough.

And that is why, even with a love life that is alive one moment, dead the next, she will keep hoping. She will look forward to playing the game called love.

Even if it meant losing her heart. For eventually, love is nothing without surrender.

“I’d lose anytime. But, if I believe that I can do it, then I can do it.”

........................................................................................................

Written for my dear friend (and once writing colleague) Terry-May, who is and shall be my first overseas friend. Happy Birthday, Terry! I sincerely hope you like this. 


With this, I embark on a month-long hiatus. Shall be back once I'm done with the Boards. Till then, ciao!