Seems like every night is a dark and stormy night. The stories don't get written. The movies don't get seen. And people continue to perfect Phil Spector's Wall of Sound inside my head.
If there's one thing that's relentless, it's time. Not my best friend, currently, no matter how loudly I sing along with Mick Jagger.
Alongwith my sense of humour, I seem to have lost my talent for excess. Can't drink too much. Too financially-challenged to shop too much. Tired of reading too much. Or maybe just plain tired.
Arsenal kicks Real Madrid's all-star ass. And then loses, the same week, to Blackburn. Blackburn, I ask you?
It isn't even March, and I've already used up my annual quota of patience, tolerance, and turning-a-blind-eye-towards-obvious-idiocy. For those of you who believe work stress is something to be corrected by breathing correctly and playing calming New Age music, you've obviously been fortunate enough to never have worked in my office.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
These foolish games/ Are tearing me apart.
If playing games inside your head were a sport, I'd be an Olympic medallist. Truly.
To keep my mind off my career going downhill, I distract myself with relationships. To stop getting depressed about relationships going, coincidentally, nowhere, I make my way towards writing. To duck getting suicidal about writing, I try to cheer myself up by blogging.
In the midst of this idiotic haring around 24/ 7 trying to use up energy that will otherwise be spent on unhappiness, I find myself wondering, what the f*k is the point?
What's the point if every single thing in your life is a temporary distraction from the previous one? What's the point if nothing keeps you afloat for longer than a day, a week, a month, at best? What's the point if you keep abandoning one meaningful thing after another and another and another?
What are you left with? And is this the way life was meant to be?
Somehow, I seriously doubt it.
To keep my mind off my career going downhill, I distract myself with relationships. To stop getting depressed about relationships going, coincidentally, nowhere, I make my way towards writing. To duck getting suicidal about writing, I try to cheer myself up by blogging.
In the midst of this idiotic haring around 24/ 7 trying to use up energy that will otherwise be spent on unhappiness, I find myself wondering, what the f*k is the point?
What's the point if every single thing in your life is a temporary distraction from the previous one? What's the point if nothing keeps you afloat for longer than a day, a week, a month, at best? What's the point if you keep abandoning one meaningful thing after another and another and another?
What are you left with? And is this the way life was meant to be?
Somehow, I seriously doubt it.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Suicide blonde/ Was the colour of her hair.
For all the reading I do, I hardly remember a quote. In fact, any lines I repeat from memory usually date back to my impressionable college years.
Like these, from Wilde's The Ballad of Reading Gaol (for the record, Reading is a town in Berkshire, England; and Reading Gaol isn't some form of imprisonment where you're locked up in a library):
For he who lives more lives than one/ More deaths than one must die.
Like these, from Wilde's The Ballad of Reading Gaol (for the record, Reading is a town in Berkshire, England; and Reading Gaol isn't some form of imprisonment where you're locked up in a library):
For he who lives more lives than one/ More deaths than one must die.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road.
All my life, I've had a clearer picture of what I didn't want, rather than what I did. (Not that it's had the slightest impact on the actual course of things.)
As a fledgling advertising writer, I looked at the many single, older women around me, and swore I would never follow that path. The singleness I had (have) nothing against; it was the accompanying trappings that sent a shiver down my spine. Thus was born the Older-Single-Women-In-Advertising Phobia, though I'm sure it applies equally well to other professions.
It's been many years since I warned friends and family to slap me if I did even one of the following: 1. Abandon my advertising skills for PR activity. 2. Let vanity/ insecurity run my life. 3. Spend far too much on dressing far too young. 4. Be deluded/ removed from reality/ easily flattered. 5. Depend on alcohol/ New Age stuff like yoga and reiki/ going out every night/ shopping/ boys (alright, younger men) for my happiness. 6. Become crap at my work.
No slap as yet.
And I'm not quite sure if it's honesty. Or kindness.
As a fledgling advertising writer, I looked at the many single, older women around me, and swore I would never follow that path. The singleness I had (have) nothing against; it was the accompanying trappings that sent a shiver down my spine. Thus was born the Older-Single-Women-In-Advertising Phobia, though I'm sure it applies equally well to other professions.
It's been many years since I warned friends and family to slap me if I did even one of the following: 1. Abandon my advertising skills for PR activity. 2. Let vanity/ insecurity run my life. 3. Spend far too much on dressing far too young. 4. Be deluded/ removed from reality/ easily flattered. 5. Depend on alcohol/ New Age stuff like yoga and reiki/ going out every night/ shopping/ boys (alright, younger men) for my happiness. 6. Become crap at my work.
No slap as yet.
And I'm not quite sure if it's honesty. Or kindness.
Friday, February 10, 2006
It's the end of the world as we know it/ And I feel fine.
What's amazing isn't one's ability to go through something and survive. The truly stupendous thing is the fact that we forget. Maybe we spend time shutting it out, erasing the details, trying very, very hard to re-wallpaper that part of our minds. Or perhaps that is the way of human life. But forget we do.
Forget all the things that were supposed to keep you from this very place, this very time, this very dilemma. Forget the promises you made yourself (and others, but hey, you forgot.) Forget the assortment of things that have gone such a long way to making you who you are today.
So it is that only the worst parts of history are condemned to repeat themselves: in war, if you're looking at the larger picture; and in love, if you're not.
Forget all the things that were supposed to keep you from this very place, this very time, this very dilemma. Forget the promises you made yourself (and others, but hey, you forgot.) Forget the assortment of things that have gone such a long way to making you who you are today.
So it is that only the worst parts of history are condemned to repeat themselves: in war, if you're looking at the larger picture; and in love, if you're not.
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