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!

dear old democracy

 

Finally, after years of elections passed me by on account of my tender years, this year’s General Election seemed to arrive right on cue. Thanks to useful connection, I didn’t have to run around to get my voter’s id, though in the end, I didn’t get it. But no matter, my name was magically on the electoral rolls, and the DMK had managed to get hold of this important fact and came calling and helpfully gave us slips with our names, constituency numbers as well as the rising sun, tacked on.

So after a grumpy early morning extended wake-up episode, I rolled out of bed to walk 200 metres to my polling booth. Once we got there, I was astonished to see that the line barely consisted of some four elderly maamis, and so we assumed that we could just waltz in, exercise our constitutional right, and walk out.

Fate had other plans, as usual.

The machine broke down once, so we sat around waiting. Half an hour, was, as always, a euphemism for an hour and ten minutes of eavesdropping on interesting conversations among the maamis sitting next to me. It was quite astonishing: they were all positively vehement about sitting there till the machine was repaired, despite unfed children and uncooked lunches at home. No sign of the young people, though.

So finally, a man with bright orange hair and a sunshine yellow badge marking him out as being on “Special Duty” came in, jiggled the machine around and pronounced it to be in working order. So we got in line again, like the good ladies we are, and what do you know? Just as I pressed the button, the damn machine decided to go blank again. After much giggling and confusion on my part, many exasperated sighs on the part of the maamis, and dithering about by the election officials, the orange haired man returned and they changed the machine.

But yet, again, it refused to screech its acceptance of my vote.

My mother, always resourceful, gave her number to the polling officer, and asked him to call when the machine started working again.

So about an hour later, we trudged back to the polling booth, receiving smiles from everyone (we were now known figures, you see) and at last, the machine screeched, I voted, mum voted and we walked triumphantly home.

I certainly hope the person I voted for wins, though I’m convinced there’s not much chance!

hesaid/shesaid

The thoughts come too quickly. They could each spawn a novel in their own right and I can’t catch them all before they run away. Each sentence is too beautiful to throw away and yet when I sit down to write the words–that have bubbled to the surface shimmering in the light—disappear again.

I want to give it all away, she thought. Every joy, every sorrow, every fear never articulated and growing ever more monstrous in the mind; every fleeting moment of happiness that seems dangerously close to consuming everything, everything in its transience…but not. Give it all to someone else to live, so I will not have to live anymore. I can watch her struggle, smile, laugh, and cry and think – I will know her every thought and desire – but I will not bear the burden of being her.

The sentences still come, thrusting themselves against all logic of construction, all linearity of plot. Fully formed. Keep typing; for you never know when the words will run dry and the well of thought empty itself from too much use.

—

“I mean what I say”, he said.

“I don’t know what I mean”, she said.

I close my eyes and cannot see your face anymore. In a moment, you can betray. In a moment, you can tear hopes to shreds, throw away the future, rip someone’s memories to shreds.

In a moment, you took my words away.

“You’re too good for me”, he said, penitently.

(I don’t want you anymore, he said, desperately)

“Let me be the judge of that”, she said, hesitantly.

(I still love you, she said, desperately)

“I know I still want you”, he said, cunningly.

“I need time to think”, she said, confusedly.

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever truly loved”, he said.

(You’re the only girl who’s made me feel inadequate, he said)

“You make me feel like I’ve never felt before”, she said.

(I don’t know if I love you, she said)

“I never want to lose you”, he said.

(I’ll stay with you as long as I can stand it, he said)

the big bad world doesn’t owe you a thing

Two days till show day! [Finally! It's about time, really. I'm almost tired of being a guilty daughter clutching a watermelon for salvation]

February thus far has turned out to be like an extended holiday: lots of laughter, movie-watching and book-reading (as my previous blog amply proved), too much eating, some entertaining conversations and a general happiness. Life is absurd, sure. Especially when psychotic, deranged ex-boyfriends call one upon the event of having had a ‘minor heart attack’ despite being not quite 20 years old yet. In the aftermath of such situations, one is forced to conclude that everything exists to be laughed at.

How comforting, that. Along with my discovery that Soumya is indeed the granddaughter of God (Jesus’ child, of course). At least this way, I can use ‘influence’ to get into Hell.

Someone asked me the other day if I was okay. I must admit that I am a little (just a little!) touched when people bother. And it usually has the effect of making me go off on a pompous, martyred line, where I very bravely tell them I will be okay soon. And then proceed to narrate, in great detail, just all the ugly, unfair things that have happened to me.

But hey, fuck that. I’m apathetic to most things; the few people that I can care about are the ones that know it and they are welcome to take it for granted if they choose to. Haha, no, I am not about to turn into a fan of depressing books. I still believe in good things happening to good people.

In fact, the err…’minor heart attack’ gave me cause to believe again. As I said to the afflicted individual, it’s restored my faith in the laws of the Universe :)

it’s in your heart, it’s in your soul, you’re losing your control

I suppose it’s only justifiable that one of my last posts in 2008 should be about something I’ve thought/written/read about obsessively this year. After all that reflecting and absorbing, I’ve come no closer to what the concept of love means. As far as I can see, when you don’t have it, you crave it; when you think you have it, you’re not sure if it is It; when it looks like it’s about to slip away, you’re bound to do everything to hang on.

But what is it?

I asked someone what it felt like to be in love, sometime earlier this year, and the answer she gave me almost convinced me that I was in love.

But of course, there have been countless times when the question has drummed incessantly against my skull, like a headache that refuses to go away no matter how many painkillers you take.

Love is idealised; it’s meant to be perfect and passionate and irresistible and inevitable. Or so we’re taught to believe by every representation of it that we’re exposed to. But what we seem to neglect is the kind of realistic, everyday love that we see around is, in the lives of people we know, rather than uncommonly good-looking movie stars who’re just acting a part anyway.

Ideal love is good. It’s something I crave, along with about half the world. But does it exist? I don’t think so.

Real love, on the other hand, isn’t always good. It isn’t always about the flowers and candle-lit dinners and the little romantic gestures or the I love yous. It isn’t always there or always beautiful and passionate and perfect. There are times when you doubt, times when you hate, times when you wish you weren’t in love because then you wouldn’t have to try so hard or feel so inadequate or so horribly, crushingly lonely.

But then there are those times when just knowing that there’s one person in the world who cares, who will listen, who will be there, who wants you for you – well, I suppose it just makes up for everything else that isn’t there.

Or so I think.