Right now, I am torn between three options of relaxing myself-blogging, watching Norbit on HBO, lying on the bed in my dark room, the mixed sounds of raindrops hitting the pool and wet leaves rustling and rain hitting hard on the cemented courtyard and the window-pane, entering me. I chose blogging over the others though the last one allures me so badly that I might stop right in the middle of a post and head towards my room.
But I need to talk.
Words have an expurgating effect, like rain. An exorcising effect. Sometimes when you are frightened, oppressed by the tyranny of a ceratin thought that refuses to leave you in peace, try words. Words hurt, words heal...like time and rain...and friends and truth sometimes.
Truth has a strange nature. It hurts and yet truthfulness is a coveted virtue. And then again, truth is multi-faceted , many-layered and relative. I try sticking to the truth. I violate truth for my conveniences, to cover-up for my carelessness, my reluctance in co-operating with my parents on issues of food and medicine. And even that makes me feel guilty. But if it's for someone else's life, should I or should I not violate the truth, if need be? Even white lies are lies.
This is just a stupid and random post. So don't bother.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
I walk back home. The short, narrow pot-holed path to my home seems longer than usual, my bag heavier. I'm fingering the straps of my book-laden bag about to split at the seams as I splash through puddles and get splashed by speeding cars with blinding headlights that don't care a thing about my existence. I sit looking out of the auto on my way back home. The wind slams on my face and I cringe. I gather the loose starnds of hair from my sweaty face and tuck them behind my ears. The bill-boards outside shine bright. The earplugs in my ears belt songs one after the other and I lose track. I study faces and search for faces on the windows of the high-rises. I like the fact that they are indistinguishable from this far, that they are tiny blotches of indistinct colours. I turn to look at my co-passenger. There isn't a pair of dark brown eyes,watching over my trance-like state, drinking in every minute change in my expressions. Every song makes me cry. I swallow my sudden urge to hold a hand and cry like a child like I swallow my words and put them to sleep.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Over the past few months, I have entered quite a number of phone-numbers in my mobile phonebook. No, I haven't made new friends. I have retained old ones. Many of my friends have shifted base. JU has become the university they used to study in, Kolkata, the place they'll return to , to spend their short vacations... perhaps or never at all. And I go on adding city names beside their names on my phonebook, entering their new phone-numbers, hoping they wouldn't become as alien as these new patterns of digits. It's hard to let go. It's harder to stay back and wait.