01:29 IST
The Downstairs Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India
It seems as if I avoid writing to you. I look for excuses - tiredness, laziness, busy-ness to get away with it. Writing to you means confronting the self. You're Clarity. You force the self to focus the gazillion whizzing thoughts into a single stream. You force expression, in words. The self has been trying to avoid that. Why? Perhaps the self is happie inside her little bubble of bliss. In the bubblegum love, in the pointless lust, in the insipid work, and in those distant dreams. She doesn't write, because writing will force her to burst that bubble, and enter the bleak reality of existence, where only self exists.
Chronicles of the internal world are much more important and entertaining than the chronicles of the external world. Unless something extraordinary occurs in the external reality. A mix perhaps, the one that I used to maintain, is still a good idea.
A wise person once said,
...it is my duty because this might be the inner chronicle of what we are. We have to articulate ourselves, otherwise we would be cows in the field.
I'm not a cow.
External
Up at 9am. Snoozed. Droopy eyes and droopy hands opened up the FB page on a dying phone. Finally up at 11:45am. Called boi. Boi didn't pick up the phone. Trudged upstairs, popcorn and hot water consumed. Lunch consumed. Decided to stay in pyjamas. Came back downstairs and began to go through Dadi's footage. Stayed distracted as kept opening FB page. Went up at 5:30pm to have coffee with sisters. Stayed upstairs. Napped with sis, spoke to boi, dinnered, came downstairs. Spoke to boi again, facebooked. Cried in salty tears, now writing.
Internal
Anger at waking up late. Worry, lots of worry over boi's health.
A thought struck me as I watched Dadi's footage. What if, instead of making a documentary, I used a mixed media pattern and formed a blog of sorts, chronicling her life, using text, video, audio, photo, all in a blog, and then maybe offer it to tablets? Having always written in that form, I feel more comfortable in it. Think that might be a more impactful story. Will work on it.
Saw boi's ex's picture today. Very pretty, prim and proper. Unlike me. I guess I could be called pretty, in a completely different, scruffy way. I felt sad. The boi showers me with sweet expressions, so many and so sweet that they feel empty. Almost as if he is trying to convince himself that his feelings for me are true. I fear they are not, and he himself may not be aware of it. I fear he is on a rebound. You know, you try to get over someone by being under someone else? I don't think he knows that himself. Wow, deceit without the knowledge of deceiving. I hope he gets better soon. I really do like him, and want him to be at peace with himself.
He dated someone in a not-so-distant past - it's a fact.
He still likes her - its a belief.
Perhaps no one knows anything - the truth.
I should sleep. Nighty night. You're the only constant factor of my existence, the only one I trust implicitly :)
The Downstairs Room, Inderpuri
New Delhi, India
It seems as if I avoid writing to you. I look for excuses - tiredness, laziness, busy-ness to get away with it. Writing to you means confronting the self. You're Clarity. You force the self to focus the gazillion whizzing thoughts into a single stream. You force expression, in words. The self has been trying to avoid that. Why? Perhaps the self is happie inside her little bubble of bliss. In the bubblegum love, in the pointless lust, in the insipid work, and in those distant dreams. She doesn't write, because writing will force her to burst that bubble, and enter the bleak reality of existence, where only self exists.
Chronicles of the internal world are much more important and entertaining than the chronicles of the external world. Unless something extraordinary occurs in the external reality. A mix perhaps, the one that I used to maintain, is still a good idea.
A wise person once said,
...it is my duty because this might be the inner chronicle of what we are. We have to articulate ourselves, otherwise we would be cows in the field.
I'm not a cow.
External
Up at 9am. Snoozed. Droopy eyes and droopy hands opened up the FB page on a dying phone. Finally up at 11:45am. Called boi. Boi didn't pick up the phone. Trudged upstairs, popcorn and hot water consumed. Lunch consumed. Decided to stay in pyjamas. Came back downstairs and began to go through Dadi's footage. Stayed distracted as kept opening FB page. Went up at 5:30pm to have coffee with sisters. Stayed upstairs. Napped with sis, spoke to boi, dinnered, came downstairs. Spoke to boi again, facebooked. Cried in salty tears, now writing.
Internal
Anger at waking up late. Worry, lots of worry over boi's health.
A thought struck me as I watched Dadi's footage. What if, instead of making a documentary, I used a mixed media pattern and formed a blog of sorts, chronicling her life, using text, video, audio, photo, all in a blog, and then maybe offer it to tablets? Having always written in that form, I feel more comfortable in it. Think that might be a more impactful story. Will work on it.
Saw boi's ex's picture today. Very pretty, prim and proper. Unlike me. I guess I could be called pretty, in a completely different, scruffy way. I felt sad. The boi showers me with sweet expressions, so many and so sweet that they feel empty. Almost as if he is trying to convince himself that his feelings for me are true. I fear they are not, and he himself may not be aware of it. I fear he is on a rebound. You know, you try to get over someone by being under someone else? I don't think he knows that himself. Wow, deceit without the knowledge of deceiving. I hope he gets better soon. I really do like him, and want him to be at peace with himself.
He dated someone in a not-so-distant past - it's a fact.
He still likes her - its a belief.
Perhaps no one knows anything - the truth.
I should sleep. Nighty night. You're the only constant factor of my existence, the only one I trust implicitly :)
