Insignificance

I think I could sit here, staring into the distance forever. So many lives, so many times. I wonder how many people have lain here, on this cold stone floor, in the middle of the night, with that single lamp illuminating their surroundings. I wonder how many people have lain here and had thoughts similar to mine. Those of feeling out of place. Those of feeling so very small. Those of feeling so very alone.

I breathe in the cold air of this witching hour and feel an emptiness filling me. Remarkable isn’t it, how emptiness has the power to consume a person? It is timeless, fathomless in its essence. Has no form no shape. And yet, it is so very tangible. It is at these times, when I realize how truly small I am. How insignificant. And yet, this is what makes me feel startlingly significant. Like in the map of this world I mark a spot. A tiny insignificant one, yet a spot. A spot that completes this patchwork of eyes, of souls of thoughts, of emotions.  I exist. And yet, I don’t. Not really. In a world so huge, with this emptiness consuming me, do I really exist? Do I really matter? Am I any more than a fragment? Perhaps the fragment that is forgotten. A tiny bump in the vase, that is missing one piece, and yet no one really notices its absence. The bump that fingers simply never feel. So miniscule, that the piece that fits in there is kicked under the couch, forgotten. Yes it completes the vase, but no one really notices this tiny flaw. The eyes never stop roving, never notice the absence.

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How To Waste Time At Work While Looking Busy

Im doing an internship, which means, I do a lot of looking busy and doing the given work (which is not a whole lot) between wasting time. Yes, this is still better than staying at home, and no I am not a complete slacker, I do all my work on time, but is it really my fault that I do it in a quarter of the time my head expected and then they have NOTHING for me to do? So I work slowly…..while wasting time. Which means…my bad sleepy days are okay. 😛

But I definitely have to look busy.

One of the bad days I had, where I did not want to work I did THIS.

Sometimes, I listen to music and type….the lyrics. Obviously, I can’t type the line fast enough so the song is generally far ahead, and then I simply write what I hear whether I skipped a few words or whole lines along the way….this makes me look efficient, typing away that I am, studiously, with music on to tune out distraction. By the way, who can actually write while listening to music? I can’t. I end up with all my thoughts a convoluted mess mixed up with the song lyrics.

Another thing I do, is email myself stuff from my phone, tidbits that I wrote at random intervals. So I look super important, checking the various emails and properly copy pasting them onto documents and then working on them…..

Surf the net for movies to watch when I get home 😛

Update my list of books to read.

Make a list of all the things I need to talk to specific people about. (For instance when are we going to watch Catching Fire???)

I also read random news bits that will definitely not increase my knowledge of anything of importance that might be going on in the world but will tell me about dogs who managed to live, after a car bumped into them, by luckily getting stuck in the bumper.

Bathroom breaks.

Water breaks…(only works when the water bottle on my table is empty. NOT a problem. More bathroom breaks for me. J)

Open Paint, paint the entire screen black, minimize the ribbon, then discretely check my reflection for weird pieces of hair sticking out. Discretely being the operating word.

Swing around on my awesome swively chair and stretch….looking like the person who hunched over her laptop working slavishly too long and is now taking a well deserved break….

Eavesdrop on people around me. (Yes it’s a bad habit…but vastly entertaining to one looking to waste time :P)

Frowning at my screen  while simply looking through pictures on Facebook, managing to look immersed and completely befuddled so that when somebody asks me what’s wrong I can say, “Wha..? Huh oh no, nothing really….just this thing bothering me…oh well I’ll fix it.” With the appropriate air of a distracted beginning and a reassuring end, reinforcing their belief that I am slavishly working away. (Cannot attempt this while wearing glasses. The reflections of the pictures in the oh-so-unfaithful glasses can be seen. :/)

And of course, writing blog entries…. Like this one.

All in all, a productive day at work. 🙂

People Who Like To Read

I’m sitting at my internship, and sneakily surfing the net, reading blogs and pretending to be busy. I have work. Which is where the need to look busy comes in. but I simply do not want to do it. What I want to do is pull out that book (Game of Thrones) from my bag sitting 2 inches away, along with a packet of super spicy chips (also in that very bag) and stick my nose in there for an undetermined amount of time (possibly a long long time on account of wanting to read the next book and the next and the next and so on till I’m done, which will take some time of course).

So for the time being, what I’m doing is wasting my time in a weird private rebellion against everyone who decided quiet reading time, unlike lunch time, was not required after kindergarten. Hey if there is food for the tummy, my poor soul needs its food too. And that food would be the book lying in my bag….sending me taunting winks….tempting me to invite the wrath of the work gods and simply read. I feel like I’m wasting away from the longing. And yes I am aware that I now sound absolutely pathetic, but I feel like a weepy mess of a deprived person.

Writing this at work made me look sufficiently busy for ten whole minutes, however, it whetted my appetite for that BOOK. Two hours, two minutes and 11 seconds to go till I can grab my book and escape into the Seven Kingdoms. (Provided my dad picks me up on time of course.)

Sigh. The trials faced by People Who Like To Read.

Summer/Winter- Amazingly Consistent Feelings

Something I unearthed while going through the things I wrote back when summer was at its peak:

I look up at the fan rotating slowly, moving the hot heavy air with each stroke. I roll over on the bed, twisting the sheets, almost drawing them off. I stare at the edge of the wall, where it meets the floor. It seems mesmerizing for no reason at all. I don’t blink, I don’t move. My eyes feel gritty. As though I had just woken up, when I had actually been up for 6 hours 20 minutes and 36 seconds. The clock ticked as another second passed by.
I should get up, wash my face.
What for though? To lie back down?
My body is weighed down. Too lethargic to even blink. Sweat is dripping into my eyes. Rivulets travelling down the side of my neck. I almost go cross eyed looking at the mosquito hovering closer and closer to my nose. I can’t even summon the energy to bat it away. It’ll come back soon enough anyway.
It’s just 1 in the afternoon, and almost a whole day to go. I can’t even contemplate that.
I hate summers. With an astounding vengeance. No matter how long I keep the AC on, no matter how many showers I take, I’m always sticky and sweaty. What I wouldn’t give to simply not feel hot for one hour.

And this is what I wrote a few days ago:

I love winters. The chilly weather, the quiet stillness. When I sit in bed, I don’t hear the incessant whirring if the fan. I don’t hear the hum of the AC. I don’t hear the buzz of the flies. And the most blessed absence? That of the mosquitoes. I don’t see them, feel them, hear them, hovering just beyond my reach.
I like how everything is a little muted, how the noises are a little less. The vibrancy of the billboards, a little less overwhelming. The jewel toned clothes, a little less painful without the burning sunlight.
I don’t wait for the snow, because well, where I live, snow doesn’t exist.  But I do wait for icy winds. So I can swaddle myself in blankets. Sleep with their comforting weight surrounding me. Drag them with me to the breakfast table. I wait for them, so that early in the morning, I can feel my nose pinken, I can huddle in an oversized jacket and look at the greyness of the sky.  I can  sit out on the balcony, and watch the world wake up, watch the sun creep up.
I love winters. It’s when hugs are a welcome warmth. When the quietness is comforting. When I can hear myself think. When I can stop worrying about the sweat staining my shirt and dripping down my forehead. When I can simply, be.

Its amazing how consistent my feelings are. :O

A Game

We stand there, facing each other. I lean against the wall as I look at you. Somehow we don’t need to search for conversation. We talk about Nothing and yet Everything. You smile at me teasingly and I widen my eyes as I stick out my lower lip in a pout, pretending to be hurt. You laugh at me and grab my hand, pulling me closer. I put my hand on your shoulder as you smile and tap my nose. It’s a game we play. I break out smiling and you tickle my sides. I wiggle away and laughingly, move back to the wall. It’s a tentative dance. A game. A touch closer, then back off. Smiling, laughing. Toeing the line, while just dipping a toe over it. I don’t know what we are doing. I don’t know how long we can do this. I don’t know whether this silent unacknowledged “game” will hurt us. I don’t know. But for now, I don’t care.

 

A new world

“We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love. ~Author Unknown”

I lie in bed upside down, craving a solidly frozen milk chocolate bar – preferably one that lasts me at-least an hour – and read blogs.
I’m new here, and this seems like a world in itself. I had wanted to start a blog for quite some time, and I kept putting it off. Too busy, too lazy. You should know, I’m an amazingly lazy person, one who could lie on an uncomfortable floor in sweltering heat for quite a long time, simply because I couldn’t be bothered to get up, fetch a cushion, and turn on the fan.

Which brings us back to now ( you’ll notice I gave an unfortunate habit of rambling).
Anyway, I keep reading these, and sometimes, clicking on people who commented on something, and reading what they wrote (it feels eerily like stalking to me). Its like a whole new world. I’ll read a blog that makes me smile in remembrance,  then one that’ll make me chuckle. Another will make me laugh out loud. Then there will be one that brings a tear to my eye. Another one will have me nodding my head in agreement. One that I will simply admire. It’s like a box of Jewels. Thrown together pell mell by someone. And I’m looking through it. Each time I pick one up, I unearth another. Each time I look at one, I see a glimpse if the owner. A ring inscribed with a heartfelt message to a fiancé. A bracelet, scratched with age and yet in good care, lovingly worn. An earring, broken and dented, as if thrown in anger. Every piece, original, beautiful, and a glimpse into another life.

I have always loved reading. I love fiction. A “book addict” would be apt. I have loved escaping into a world of wonders, of illusions. I did occasionally read blogs, and posts and articles. Yet it is now, dipping into this treasure trove, that I realize, this reading is very different. It is real.  And possible. Not like the reality stories and news pieces. Not the gritty stories of harsh reality. Simply, ordinarily, real. Something, that makes me feel that all those silly little things I think about, obsess over and fuss about, that make me feel like a drama queen, are things other people out there do exactly the same about.Gives me a sense of camaraderie in my weirdness.

I think I love blogging. Doesn’t make me feel less weird. But gives me a warm tingly feeling knowing there are other weird people out there. 🙂

Hands

I trace the veins on the back of my hand. Follow them to my wrist, to the insides of my elbows. I trace a ‘H’. A ‘W’. And then the intertwining lines. Soft touches, whispers on my skin. I watch my fingers play on my skin with unblinking eyes, almost entranced. Its obsessive, the repetitive motion. Soon enough, I’m staring, but I’m no longer looking. My eyes turn inward, and the fingers tracing my veins are no longer mine.

He is playing with my hands, turning them, caressing them, simply holding them. His fingers are intertwined with mine, warming my icy ones. Somehow, my hands are always cold, My fingers like icicles. And his, are just right. So he holds my hands in his, rubs them, envelops them, warms them.  Traces my veins, shaping the letters with his smiling mouth. His eyes intent, but laughing as he writes on my skin. His fingers, moving, always moving. Leaving ghostly messages on my skin.

I shake myself out of my reverie. I look at my hands. They are pale. absolutely frozen. I stuff them in my pockets and get up.

Pockets are warm enough.