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.


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 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. 🙂