Getting it all wrong

This life is so much more. So much about what’s inside, than what’s outside. It’s about how you feel, how you want to feel, how you love, who you love. About the relationships you have, about not being hungry. Hungry for food, and warmth, and love.

And still, here we are. All of us. Pinning it down to what the neighbour’s house looks like and how ours needs to be better. About what car we own, and what clothes we wear. About our visa status, and citizenship, and jobs, and degrees, and what not. Struggling to find the right movie to watch, the right restaurant to dine in, more money to earn. Basing all important decisions on very unimportant things. Does it need to be so chaotic?

When I think about it, the best times in my life have been when enjoying cool breeze, feeling no worry about nothing, drinking tea. May be having a smoke. May be alone, or with a friend by my side. Knowing that my folks are content, because I am too. That’s when I feel that I have got it all right. Right here, inside me.

Enjoy a song, that may not be related really 🙂


Poor Little Postman

I was listening to Mr. Postman by The Marvelettes. Some thoughts that came to me while at it:

Poor thing, the postman. He must be in such an awkward position when she keeps accusing him for not having a simple card or a letter, while he passes her by as she is crying. He knows his bag has no letters for her, but she insists that he wait and check for it once more. I feel more sorry for him than the girl. I am sure he tries to be sneaky when around her house, or choose hours that she does not expect him to be around at.

Second chain of thoughts – he must sometimes think, why don’t I have a girlfriend who would feel so strongly for me? Well, it would be weird if he has a girlfriend like that. Would she ask one postman about letters from another? That’s a little messed up, if you ask me..Anyway, enjoy the song

Persepolis – A Thank You Note

If Marjane Satrapi, or Persepolis does not mean anything to you, have you still heard of the Islamist Revolution? Yes or no, Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, a graphic novel written mainly from the perspective of a little girl in the war-ridden Iran, is a piece of phenomenon. Immediately after reading the book, I also saw the movie.

Adults end up talking about their own problems all the time. A child’s mind works differently. And then again, privilege of any kind blinds one to the world on the other side. The world, where removing hijab when there’s cool breeze, and giggling with the winds and girlfriends becomes an act of courage and freedom. And things like that.

The playful words of the little girl make you chuckle, and at the same time stab at your heart. Marjane’s extremely few privileges were her super family, her own sense of freedom, and the choices she made. Like her granny says – “Everyone always has a choice. Always!”

While I was reading the book, I wondered if all the progress we are making on one side of the world, all the fun we are having, all the extravaganza, is needed, when on the other side a little girl dies because her father was a communist, a woman dies for having worn lipstick or shown a few strands of hair, or a teenager boy dies simply for being one. And then you see people fighting for their freedom, laying down their lives, so they could wear lipstick, drink wine, hold their lover’s hand, listen to the music they like, and opine their opinions. That’s when you know, that one needs these things, to know their importance. If you don’t, you become North Korea. Before any sort of segue, here’s one of my favourite scenes from both the book, and the movie:

PS: Before you start counting your misfortunes, count your privileges, and know them well.

Dire Straits

Rusty dusty. Very very. The city lights from the window of the aeroplane make me feel something after all. Make me want to remove the book and the pen out of my hand bag and write something. But I look back inside and I don’t feel like doing anything at all, once again. I look outside again. It’s a huge ass motherboard circuit. The aeroplane shakes. May be it is feeling cold. What if it crashes and we all die?

What if, when you die, your pure conscience reaches a place – your conscience, without the body that was anatomically male, or female, or in between… that was conventionally beautiful, or unconventionally so.. that you hated to look at, or adored, by staring at yourself in the mirror.. without the body that you held on to, or that held on to you.. just your conscience, in this place. Where you are shown that everything you did when you were alive was pointless. Totally pointless. All the books that you read or wrote, all the music that you heard or made, all the friends that you enjoyed the company of, all your inventions and discoveries, all the struggles you endured, all the wine you drank, all the places you went to, including moon.. all the food you ate, all the cigarettes and weed you smoked, all the money that made you rich, all the sex you had.. all your guilt was pointless.. all the wrongs you did were pointless, just like all the rights you did.. all that yin and yang blending into a grey dot of pointlessness.. A big grey pointless dot that was yin and yang at some point.. you also realize that all that love that you had or did not, was pointless.. all that love, pointless.. and then you are given a choice to make:

  1. Disappear into oblivion, with no conscience too. What’s the point anyway?
  2. Become a human being again with two more choices within this choice:
  3. – Forget all that you just realized about the gravity of pointlessness of everything; start afresh again. Nirvana is not what I thought.
    – Remember all, and stay a human

What would you choose? Hmm?

PS: Whatever you choose, doesn’t matter. It’s pointless 😉

bicycleI saw her she saw him he saw me and we all saw more people who saw us and other people. We all kept seeing each other and walking at the same time. We almost smiled, almost. But we did not, almost none of us.

Saturday mornings with heavy hangovers and coffee cups that barely fit in hands.
Saturday mornings as light as the feather of an unknown bird, that saw other unknown birds who saw other unknown birds. Some of which pooped on some of us. Lucky birds wasted no time ever. Or worried about clean underwear.

A familiar face in the crowd makes almost half a heart beat skip. What kind of familiar? No idea.

Did we get paid yesterday? Shit yes. Still don’t want to check bank account. Don’t want to do things that make it sad.
How about some Beatles and tea? That’s a happy thought. Like lazy bicycles and their shadows.

My Story Book

Have you been scared, excited, happy, upset, on the verge of crying all at the same time? I am that right now. I have a story to share with the world. To write it out, shape it up, and give it everything that I can. It struck me three days ago when I was dead sleepy. I was too tired to even open my eyes, let alone get up, look for a pen in my stupid messy room, and write it down on a piece of paper after searching for that too. I was not scared about forgetting about it the next day though. I am mighty absent-minded and forgetful, but I remembered it, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.

Not sure how many days, months, or years it will take me to finish it up and give it a final form. But I have to keep having faith in it. Not sure if the happenings in my life will force me to change its vision, which I will resist. It will depress me on the days I can’t contribute to it. Depress me and make me bleak. But I have to keep going. Never give up. It’s been conceived. I have to commit to it now, and give it all the nurturing and love it needs. It’s going to be a story of dreams. But more than that, it’s going to be a story of love. I will make it happen, and this is where I will keep coming back to, when I need a kick 🙂