We’re back!

May 15, 2008 at 11:50 pm (being a girl, bitchery, crushes, eyecandy, love, night) ()

I stumbled across my blog and felt an irrepressible urge to start posting again. I like this baby. Because, since, for me, this is the one place where a very conveniently small number of rules apply, I am not compelled to be myself. I can pretend to be The Queen if I please. I can also be something only a tiny number of us get to be- frightfully, truly, ourselves.

But oh! I forget! This is the internet.That which spurred a generation of truth- Be it in our profile pictures or About Me descriptions. So much, that when confronted with a lot of truth, the flies stuck to The Web had not quite had their fill.

Just to make our lives sound a little more realistic, we took to blogging about our fantastic sex lives, our unbelievably bitchy girlfriends and suchlike. Sigh. If I see one more Indian woman talking about her liberated carnal rendezvous in that tone visibly meant to say “Come on chumps, this is the 21st century”, I will go off to live in a hermitage. They would have liked to relate: “Sex is so oh-kay” with online equivalents of raised eyebrows and high-handed disapproval of the others. If their love-lives are so okay being public and neo-millenia, I wonder why the defensiveness reeks so much of the 18th century.

Having antagonized half the female blogging population, I will now proceed to talk about Sex myself. Not actually. But sooorrttta tangentially, I will admit. In my defense, this post is about luuurrve not lust. That’s bullshit, If I will be allowed to confess. Cos’ what difference does it make when you are hitting on good-looking members of the opposite sex; all the while feeling slightly uneasy about the insincere interest some not-so-good-looking members of the opposite sex throw your way? love? lust? primal curiosity?

Just in case you noticed, I described their interest as insincere while terming my own designs perfectly licit. I see no objection, in case you do. I can only forgive my own shortcomings. I am not Mother Teresa, nor Saint Francis of Assisi, I assure you.

I ran into one such good-looking (come on! Intelligent, too!) kid today while loafing around in school. The apparent interest in this person has always been made to seem indiscreetly minute. I think I recklessly smiled too much while trying to sound as impassively friendly as possible this evening. Well, he smiled too much too. What the heck. That may have been the last time I saw him anyway.
Another kid, while extracting a few undue favors from me, resulting in The I running all around town in the savage sun, tried to make it look like HE was doing me a favor by being so good- humoredly flirtatious. Beat it buster!

One more kid tried to sound extremely pally with The I while The I was trying to get some work done. A different imp played around with my name evoking nothing but matronly correction from my side. I was rather tactless. All in a day’s work.

To not make this an entirely trashy post(literally!) I should get down and dissect a few issues of academic interest. Do women totally loathe being hit on so much? The answer quite flatly is a No. That is if, the questioners agree to “totally” being made the operative word in that query.

Most women find the attention rather amusing and flattering. Of course, we would also like to be acknowledged as people that can think and act on our own principles sometimes. It wouldn’t hurt to look genuinely and-or appreciatively impressed when we come up with some good work instead of sporting looks of incredulity or astonishment. If all that concerns ‘looks’ is asking for too much, we insist the men of the world,at the very least least, look at our faces when they talk to us.

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Crying without tears

December 15, 2007 at 1:08 am (love, night, nostalgia, sadness) (, , )

Sitting here, like this, with a mind that screams silently and with a lump in my throat and eyes waiting to burst into song, wanting to reminisce about what has passed, about that which will never return; wanting to cry like a child, while a cynical, weathered old soul somewhere inside cackles at the irony of ruing over the past, I have nothing to write. Nothing, but the need, and the desire to express what I can barely word.

 

There is guilt, there is pain, and there is a bigger question staring at me and asking me if I have the right at all, to grieve over something that I did nothing to help. It is somebody I love, somebody I loved a lot. Did I understand this love too late? What stopped me from saying this when time was still merciful?

 

There was this someone that probably spent a life deprived of a childhood, love, happiness, while trying to spread it all around. The last few hugs are still fresh in my mind. It was the arms of someone who had, once, been a very strong person. Weak, soft and humbled, they were, after the fall. The last was the most painful. Cold, emotion-less, stiff. Whatever failed to convince you of the truth, this last hug was enough to convey the bleakness of finality. For someone that could never feel what all others seemed to feel, that was a rude jolt. It still makes me shiver.

 

Even a mention is enough to get me crying these days. Deep inside, I know that it is only because I am unhappy in life, that the unpleasant past has such a piercing effect. Acknowledging this makes me all the more disgusted with myself. I really want to stop feeling bad, about what has happened, and about Me.

 

Self-pity doesn’t even work anymore. Not in the usual sense. Would that really make things better? I know that today is better than this day, a year ago. At least, here lies the power to change. What is missing, if anything, is the spirit. Maybe a fight is waiting, in the wings. The Fight needs to happen. Now.

 

Everything turns magical once it is the past. That is alternately the most awe-inspiring and repulsive thing about the mechanism of reality.

 

Help Me God. And forgive me A for not being what you had needed. I pray for your happiness. Give me faith.

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