such a beautiful disaster

Weekends are a strange phenomenon. After a long week spent meandering through things we label ‘important’ and ‘necessary’ and ‘unavoidable’, we plunge into a debauched, mostly insensate period of pure self-indulgence. You push yourself to limits, both physical and psychological, and walk more, talk more, run more, and lose more in two nights and two days. And to go back to that ‘important’, that ‘unavoidable’, ‘necessary’ routine seems more bearable after, perhaps.

I’ve had a fairly dissolute weekend, so far. My legs hurt, I’ve been sitting in a bathrobe all day, watching tv on my laptop and eating junk food to recover from my hangover.

On a vaguely different note, it’s funny when you suddenly realise that you’re an entirely different person than you used to be. I don’t mean on a superficial level, like the clothes you wear, or the things you’ve done to yourself but when you change completely on the inside and you know you’re okay with being the antithesis of everything you used to be. Change is a strange compound of inert and active; you talk about your new self, you idealise what you used to be and in an odd way, both are false. You are who you are because that’s who you believe you ought to be, or what you want to be in order to escape from something?

I don’t know.

something in me thinks, i’ve had one too many drinks

It’s a messy room that no one cleans but me.

Well, ok, a tiny old lady knocks my door every Tuesday, usually when I’m still asleep, and shoos me out before she does the bathroom, vacuums the floor and dusts the tabletops. The first time this happened, I thought it was a nice little poetic irony: the little old, white woman cleaning while I, the decadent young third-world student look on from my position of class-privilege. Later on I just felt bad for her having to work at an age when Indian old ladies go walking in parks, dress up and gossip at family dinners and generally make noisy nuisances of themselves.

I’m usually in here watching Prison Break, How I Met Your Mother or, of late, House. And eating breakfast/dinner, brunch, snacking, or the inevitable chocolate biscuits. I recently threw out all my empty dabbas and there were way too many for me to mention here. I’m addicted to them, I can’t help it! Whoever thought the idea of coating biscuits with milk chocolate was good was sadly mistaken: it is pure EVIL.

I also drink copious amounts of my favourite ginger and lemon tea, while reading incomprehensible theoretical essays that make me feel brain-dead after a page or two. In fact, that’s what I ought to be doing right now except a serious fit of self-pity hit me and I couldn’t stomach another word of discourse. Oh well, since Wednesday is usually my beering day, I will hang on.

No, I’m not turning into an alcoholic!

Sigh. If only things were as you wanted them to be, and people texted precisely when they were meant to!

:)

and for the tiniest moment, it’s all not true

Strange Saturday.

There are some days when you realise that anything you thought you were; anyone who knew you; any of those things that you took for granted about yourself… well, all of it is simply evanescent.

Every minute of every day, you’re changing.

And I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about it.

i beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies

Such an odd Sunday.

Well, if it comes to that, it was an awful, awful, AWFUL Saturday night, so the dazed laziness of Sunday was relieving.

W.B Yeats’ lines from The Second Coming have always spoken to me.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

Yeah, well, in this case mere anarchy seems to constantly dog me at every step. I remember thinking, earlier this summer, that the characters on Grey’s Anatomy lead terribly exciting, and eventfully melodramatic lives on a scale that I could never hope to reach. Apparently, I can.

But who am I kidding? I revel in drama. The few, relatively saner phases of my life have been spent largely staving off the boredom that comes with no drama.

Maybe that’s why I’ll never be a good existentialist. I rely too much on the conflict between ‘ought’ and ‘is’, on ‘intent’ and ‘purpose’, on other people’s opinions and my own desires. I need to be fighting something, all the time, because if I wasn’t, I would unobtrusively sink into the quicksand of my own inactivity and never emerge.

Haha, just by the way, I love the guy on Boston Legal. He is so physically unappealing but just… so arrogant and self-assured and intelligent and HOT!

don’t appear to care that i saw you and i want you.

[Chloroformed existence of a body wrapped in cotton wool]

Noises in the night set the heart racing.

[I want certainty, I crave assurance. As awareness grows, still it eludes me]

Wandering, ever wandering far afield in meadows of shadow and myth.

[I hate abstraction. I hate fragmented thoughts. And above all, I really, really despise this pretentious way of thinking and writing]

It’s so difficult to stand up for your convictions in the face of this wave of self-conscious irony that seems to be washing over everyone and everything you know. To be larger-than-life is to be ridiculed; to be steadfast is characterised as stagnant and gauche.

You disgust me, so often, that I don’t even know why I tolerate your company.

I need to LEAVE!