Kintsugi

It doesn’t take much to fall in love with someone.

Sometimes it takes a night of intimacy that leaves you wanting to wake up to them forever.

Sometimes, it takes lying in their arms on a lazy Sunday afternoon while watching the rains fall.

Sometimes, it takes dancing with them amongst people, aware of their gaze on you, on every move you make.

Sometimes, it takes evenings spent walking with your hand held, with fleeting kisses in the shadows.

Sometimes, it takes countless conversations over several months, turning curiosity and interest in adoration.

It doesn’t take much for you to carve a space for their warmth, for their company.

So you begin to pine. For tenderness, for the haven that allows you to be vulnerable, even if it were but an occasional grace.

And you remember. You remember every moment with every fibre of your being. You remember so much, your heart aches.

For it doesn’t take much to fall out of love with someone.

Sometimes, it takes being issued an ultimatum to stay or walk away from them.

Sometimes, it takes being left agape when you tentatively reach out for a kiss.

Sometimes, it takes being conveniently ignored.

Sometimes, it takes having your time and attention trifled with.

And so, with each failed attempt, you approach the next with even less to lose. With each occasion of having your needs denied, of having affection accorded to you in fits and snatches, you pull up the walls even higher.  

You are forever mourning the lack of foresight, the ease with which you give in each time. You are forever grieving the years you keep losing to being hung up over them, chasing them, crying over them.

Until the tables turn and affection comes your way when you least expect it, when you have long given up on the hope of it ever materialising.

But you find yourself cold in the very arms you once sought refuge in. You find no comfort in being embraced, your heart remains still, hardened to the core despite being caressed and kissed in the gentlest of ways. You are no longer moved by the tremble in their voice, the sighs punctuating each pregnant pause, the barely concealed undercurrent of pain that flashes through every now and then.

You could not care less, it would seem.

Too little, too late is perhaps an apt, wise adage, after all.

However you can’t help but ask: what does it take to fall in love with someone yet again?

Does it mean salvaging a bridge from being burnt to ashes? Does it mean refilling and repairing the cracks that snake down to the very foundation?

And, perhaps most importantly, does it mean according a chance at redemption even if those questions continue to remain unanswered?

Madeleine

Sometimes, you don’t need reminders.

I have carried the thought of you with me like an amulet. Hoping to turn it into an anchor, hoping for it to acquire life outside the four walls of my mind.

Like a colour that bleeds into everything it touches, I hear you speak through other voices, I trace your countenance in other faces.

I may have chosen to bury the corpse of our brief time together in the backyard of my mind, but I’ll be darned if I can forget the moment of no return.

Your eyes are the colour of hazel. Here I was, wrapped up in your arms, looking up to you, and in all that time, it had not occurred to me until I finally noticed.

In that moment, time seemed to stand still. I knew, against my rationality screaming itself hoarse through every fibre of my being, that I had fallen for you.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

You were supposed to be no more than a blip on my radar.

(And will you deny that it wasn’t true for you as well?)

And yet this fleeting encounter - which I envisaged to be my moment of vindication, a badge of appreciation, cherishment even - became the proverbial albatross to be hung around my neck.

Entice me with your hazel eyes, ensnare me with your silver tongue yet again, why don’t you?

And so I wait. I wait till I forget, and let time run its course through my world, blurring away the remnants of your presence from it.

I wait, even though the hope that you find it in yourself to make your way back...meet me halfway perhaps, is but a flame that continues to singe me even as I vainly try to stamp out it.

A Requiem

Image Credits: Lesley Oldaker

Scribbled notes tucked away in borrowed items on being returned. Chocolates left on the desk next to the earmarked book forever lying open. A brief voice note enquiring after the result of an interview. Languorous walks taken in a breathless evening, in defiance of impending deadlines and upcoming events.

And conversations, countless conversations. From moments stolen in between droning lectures to hushed whispers across the library tables. Between bouts of raucous laughter over long-drawn meals and quiet retellings in the dead of the night.

You ask for tangible takeaways. There are none.

You disagree. There are the yearly birthday gifts, that trophy from a hard-fought competition, photographs done up in a collage above your bed. Souvenirs bought and exchanged, interspersed with the occasional postcard or letter. A varsity t-shirt bearing your name, the yearbook with testimonials scrawled across its pages.

The curated albums, the saved messages. A digital trail of your acquaintanceship, retraced over and over.

You hold onto them in lieu of their givers. You parse the bits together to bolster your knowledge of them, reduced to little more than mental constructs.

It is another thing that your memories take on a life of their own.

I rephrase. You ask for tangible takeaways, albeit living and breathing ones.

However, your time has come. Who can stay forever?

In denial of their transience, you forge your memories into a touchstone, hoping against hope that it will weather the erosive caress of time.

But you see, oblivion - even for how impactful our vocation could be - is our inevitable reality.

Nevertheless, I take a step back from this moribund discourse. Your memories fan the flames of optimism, keeping you warm against the cold insularity of your current existence, your uncertain future. Your ideals are at their zenith, raring to go. You have found ardour and kinship after years of painstaking effort and proximity. Why should anyone put a dampener on this vital force?

The thing is, it is not the only comfort zone you’ll ever know. You are young, so young.

I say - revel in your takeaways, tangible or intangible, only as far as it leads you to the next door. To another bridge.

For a chapter can go only so far. 

Maelstrom

A quiet moment of gazing at the glowing sky was all it took for her to lapse into rumination.

After all, moments of deep introspection didn’t occur to her unless she was facing a vista. It took all of nature’s breathtaking beauty to still the chaos within her mind.

Chaos, or mere numbness? Her life seemed no less convoluted than a tangled ball of yarn, but she felt more like the needle entwined in the fibres, inert, unmoving… trapped.

Cornered, up against a wall like a frightened prey…unable to rationalise, one step away from lashing out, even as she awaits the killing blow. 

She can’t even remember the chain of events which got her to this unpleasant state of being.

But like everything, the cause didn’t matter either. Futile – everything was so bloody futile. Why was she even trying?

Her own reflection was nothing more than a carefully crafted mirage, vanishing in the realm of solitude to nothingness.

There had been something…someone, even, but the anchors had been torn away long enough for her to lose herself to the distant horizon.

And she didn’t know where to look.

Like broken shards of glass, beautiful yet merciless, her feelings lie scattered before her, wounding her with every step.

And so she trudges forward, leaving blood in her wake. A hazily marked trail, indeterminate yet significant to anyone who would bother looking for traces and yet she sought no salvation, no knight in shining armour.

Just a tiny little spark of hope – that damned double-edged sword – of being sought after regardless. 

Noesis

I miss writing. I really, truly do miss it. It’s something…to feel the clatter of the keys beneath your fingers, to see that image viewed in your mind’s eye come alive word by word. Or the times when I bother to take paper and pen, to see black ink scrawled across a pristine white background. [I hereby admit that my handwriting takes on a life of its own, compared to the neat, precise letters that I otherwise maintain.]

For now, I’ve decided to go the stream-of-consciousness way. My muse refuses to humour me, you see.

Strange that it does, considering my current environs – I call it my own English manor; this house atop a low cliff overlooking the sea, in midst of torrential rains that abate for only a few blessed hours during the day while the sky continues to remain overcast, making it a permanent twilight. Monsoon is my favourite season, and nothing calms me more than the rumble of the ocean. To see the two combined should have brought out my artistic ability in oodles. But all I see is a blank slate, with no colours around that I could even splash on it for random effect.

[Maybe I never had any artistic ability in the first place. Cue more randomness.]

But when the rains finally ceased long enough for me to venture out, I walked all the way down to the jetty. The clouds were there, all right, and the sea was as restive as ever.  The jetty was crowded with silly tourists getting themselves photographed at a dozen spots - none of them differing any more substantially than the previous ones – and corny souvenir shops. I lingered around just long enough to take in the sight of the waves crashing against the pier, and walked back home.

The next day, I venture towards the city, stopping short of the main beach. The place from where the coast began was thinly populated with hutments and fishing boats. The sky was shroud in myriad hues of grey, steadily overwhelming the pale rays of sunshine which broke through from time to time. Except for the sea, it was quiet. I wandered onto the wet sand, with the waves occasionally reaching up to my shins. The stiff winds had thrown my hair asunder, but I bothered enough only to rake through them to ensure that they didn’t get into my eyes.

And I stood still, the water lapping at my feet and the sea breeze rippling through my clothes, my gaze settled on the horizon, almost indistinguishable in the grey haze.

I felt nothing.

[Maybe this soul-searching business is overhyped, after all.]

There was a time, when the mere sight of the sea lifted my spirits to a state of joyous abandon.  It symbolized an inexplicable sense of freedom which I so often envisaged in my daydreams. A lot of my writing did have the element of water in the backdrop.

[And strange that I should be writing about not being able to write about the sea – it is still writing after all, isn’t it?]

However, to stand there today amidst what I considered as one of my infallible sources of inspiration…and not be stirred in the least, it was disconcertingly puzzling.

And yet the gale was inescapable as was the sound of the sea, thrashing about in the distance, its waves appearing no more than white jagged lines to my eye as I would idly sit by the balcony railing.

[Looks like that is all my consciousness is filled with at the moment.]

Maybe I am not able to appreciate my surroundings as much as I would like to do, considering that I am present in them to begin with. Maybe this serenity which I seemed to have taken for granted will come to me when I go back to my desolate, landlocked city.

My notions stand changed – some recrafted, some simply annihilated – and I rummage about in the remains, looking to see if in the process my creative ideals have been laid to waste as well. But I hope and I pray that they will resurface in due time.

Just as how some things wash up onto the shore, thrown forth by the ocean. 

Apocryphal Gleanings

 It was nothing less than a veritable storm. Amidst the howling wind and the cold rain, she trudged her way towards the cliff. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ was all she had said. Was what she would say, every single time.

No one in their right minds would choose to do so in such inclement weather. Then again, was she ever one of them?

(Times like these were when she was free to imagine and envisage everything possible about herself, including the very distinct possibility of being mad. You see, a thin line separates an oddball from a lunatic.)

But she plodded on regardless, taking a somewhat masochistic pleasure in the way the rain cut her to the bones and the wind made her shiver all over. The idea of catching a cold (much less pneumonia) was something she refused to entertain.

(Enough with the weather already, anyway)

The cliff looked over an ocean, equally restive. Nonetheless, it broke away from the constricting woods, enough to give one a semblance of a vast space. On a given day, it would be enough to remind her of the immense universe that she could glimpse through the distant horizon.

Today, even the roaring waves seemed to make her feel claustrophobic.

She walked over to the very edge, barely ensconced by the low fence, broken in various places. It was her wont to do, as perilous as it was – to stand at the edge and peer down at the sea crashing against the jagged rocks. One would think she was about to take her life…and sure enough, that would be the very thought running through her head as she would stand there. However, each time, she came back alive.

The point of this otherwise futile exercise being - to reaffirm to herself that her life was in her hands…quite literally, as long as she stood over the edge. That she was free to jump and put an abrupt end to her existence (quite meaningless in her eyes, either way) but she consciously chose to not do so.

That she further chose to get back to living, for as long as she was meant to be.

The thought both sobered and enlivened her. This little ritual, while not doing much to calm her demons, certainly reminded her of her inability to hurt herself to such an extent. That she would snatch back her power from others to whom she had unknowingly surrendered the same, from time to time, only to be affronted by her destiny.

Only to be reminded of how her own creation overpowered her. And so it was – the unceasing struggle, which she would try to defer and avoid, but never quite coming close to ending it altogether.

For, perhaps, that was the only meaning worth being pursued. 

Acquiescence

“Why are we here?”

He looked up from his work, startled at the sudden question. She did not face him but continued to gaze past the window – possibly at the clouds, if he knew any better – arms crossed, her expression impassive if not slightly wistful. Unable to discern the context of her words, he simply asked, “Elaborate, if you can?”

“I won’t. The question is self-explanatory. Oh and if you can answer this as well – who exactly are you?”

The words escaped him even before he could get up to face her (and perhaps check for fever first, before trying to knock sense in her). “What is wrong with you today?”

“Answer me!”

“But in what context?”

“You know which.”

“I do not. Unless you seem to have to forgotten how you willingly chose to kill time while I finished my assignments – there, the answer to your first question.”

“Incorrect. Also, I still don’t know who you are.”

“Oh, for the love of God! How can you not recognize me?”

“I don’t recognize myself.”

“Shall I bring a mirror?”

“Irrelevant.”

 “How about a blow to your head?”

“How about I offer you a knife instead?”

He finally walked up to her, stopping by the other end of the window, keeping the little distance to avoid overwhelming her. She held his gaze coldly, standing as if in defiance of everything around her. He couldn't help but chuckle. “Does it matter?”

“Unless it matters to you, no.”

“Why?”

“If you’re asking that, then it does matter to you.”

He looked away, glancing at the view before them; a moment of quiet reflection spent in taking in nothing more than myriad hues of white that played across a canvas of infinite blue, before turning to look at her, a slight smile as the only affirmation of their mutual understanding, to be met by a solemn nod in return.

“Let’s not state the obvious, shall we?”

The Last Laugh

That feeling, when you look back and realise just how many things (and even people) you have left behind.

Nothing, and no one, is ever indispensable, is it?

However, thrown in the eye of a raging storm, grappling for anchors that are yet unreliable, you hanker for the lost times, the transient comfort that sheltered life offered you – friends, confidantes…all yet to step beyond that point of no return, prepared to shake off those shackles that bound them to their volatile, vulnerable selves.

Not knowing that those sides will raise their ugly heads at the most inopportune of moments.

And you choose to blind yourself – hide behind the countless avenues of escape, driven to the point of maddening laughter, masking the involuntary cries of desolation as you get buried beneath a convenient façade, refusing to slip away even within the confines of your solitude. Those mindless pursuits, those numbing recreations – you give in to them, as does everyone else, each present moment postponed to another time.

You envisage a future unencumbered by narrow beliefs and constricting relations. A life carved on your terms and your terms alone. And yet the enormity of achieving that vision overwhelms you to submission.

It’s the same story day in and day out. You know the way, but it takes all of your courage to maintain the status quo, let alone break it and bear its ramifications.

And yet, things will change. People will come, people will go. You are left stranded in the middle of it all, watching it happen, living as if suspended from motion, dimly aware of how everything else moves ahead, except you.

So you retreat to your high-held composure; that infallible assurance that you were meant for things beyond the band-wagon and for you, time and space does not exist. That spiritualistic viewpoint, killing the tearing hurry of all human endeavours, the lowly outlooks of achievement and possession…reinforces your disillusionment in this worldly life and you give up even more.

You had two paths laid out before you and you can’t choose either. And yet, you have walked on both.

Would you ever be able to blaze your own trail?

Or will you run ahead, regardless of the path, only to be forced to look back?

Perhaps, you will have the last laugh anyhow – either at your own incompetence or your steadfast zeal to break all conventions. And then, nothing would matter. 

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 clichés, 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. 

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.^^ 

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.

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.

Mortifying Consciousness

I’m unwilling to do anything, to even write, but I force myself to grip the pencil and scrawl across the gleaming pages of my pristine notebook, throwing methodical mannerisms to the wind as I have no patience to bear with a forcefully elegant fountain pen.

…And yet again, I focus on the trivial. But that how is my mind works, my thoughts run. For it is my belief that it only takes a few words and an encompassing perspective to breathe life into the most mundane of things. And so it is – I spend every waking moment trying to create such scenes, in a vain attempt to appease my insatiable desire to feel…well, touched, even inspired.

A mammoth task for someone in the grip of disillusionment.

Disillusionment: a perfect word for describing the very void which everyone faces at some point of their lives and subsequently tries to escape. That vacuum which I’m currently face to face with. The void which speaks of nothing but the bitter, unchanging truth – reality is merely an illusion and this world, our lives are equally transient, expendable and perishable. We who are entangled in the charms of this world are only too aware of the ephemeral form we inhabit and gaze upon everyday in the mirror. And we, as always given to fear, run away, seeking to distract ourselves from our impending certainty – with what, I think I hardly need to illustrate.

It is through such existential ponderings that I have been stripped of all that I have ever known about myself – feeling nothing, unable to relate to anything.

How does it feel to wade through mechanical, repetitive actions merely meant to ensure your survival in the society, knowing you have absolutely nothing to look forward to?

This merely scratches the surface of this limbo-like condition.

However, enough of this morose stuff. My purpose to write was – as a person does during times of crisis – to try and create something that I could revel in, hoping meanwhile it will last long enough to take me through this dark tunnel of a phase to see light at the end. For my being is trained to respond to stimuli and my mind, as fickle as ever, always craves for the unexplored. It must be something profound enough to negate this state of nothingness that I’m presently caught up in.

But then again, what do I even write about? 

Oh Writing, Why Must You Desert Me?

Yes, yes, I know. I return a month later to show my face and all I have to regale my readers with are...rants, to say the least.

Damn writer’s block. I only wish I could show you the numerous snippets of attempted writing in the past weeks which have not gone beyond a 100 words, mind you.

But, if I’m not mistaken, I’m entitled to use this space to ramble away. It was my main purpose for coming on here!

So, what has this person been up to since the last date of posting, I hear you ask? Oh dear, if only I could go to detail just how school has nearly been the undoing of me (so much for being in the Cabinet/Student Council; which is more like dancing to the tune of a puppeteer, I tell you) or how travelling for competitions has taken the life out of me – and here’s the catch, both of them were proper literary events! One, a pithy little essay-writing competition which was a part of an inter-school event, the topic being (oh kill me) ecological benefits of cycling. So much for creative writing. I still managed the third prize despite my not so cohesive writing.

 Then the other, a Model United Nations debate; this time part of a college fest. Now, world politics is a pet subject of mine and simulating the UN with all its complex procedure and completely formal demeanour is quite challenging and fun too – meant for people like me who love arguing to death, while striking a balance between varied perspectives on matters of international significance. The agenda being? Terrorism and the Israel-Palestine conflict. For those who have even a little inkling of what the latter issue is (it would be too presumptuous on my part to consider even asking about the first one) they will know how extremely complicated it is to try and resolve it like the watchdogs of our world do, that too within a span of two days. And if you’re representing none other than the country of United States of America, you’re in for a disaster – do not ask how. Which I nearly averted with another third prize; talk about 3 being a lucky number. Have you ever heard of a proper U.S. delegate not interfering in any issue whatsoever? Well, you just met one.

And here I had thought I was one of most astute debaters my school could boast of, sigh.

Extra-curricular aside, here come the bone of contention for every student (unless you’re a self-proclaimed geek/nerd). Exams! The rotten thing is, I will resort to writing in the most flowery language possible when I should be preparing for the next day’s paper. Too bad it is not working for me currently, or else you wouldn’t have to go through this sorry excuse for a blog post. This month has been absolutely frenetic and it is going to be so right up till Diwali. Then, of course, the withering rose will bloom again, so much that the thorns will draw blood even at the slightest of touch. For now, this is my situation:

I would gladly like to answer in the affirmative but I'm afraid it's not possible until the writing bug bites me while I'm supposed to be studying Economics and Business Administration. Seems more likely now, eh? The impromptu hiatus is now an official one, folks. See you around the corner. :)