'This IS a story of boy meets girl ...

... but you should know upfront: this is not a love story'.

Sometimes, stories don't make any sense at all while you're living in them. You acquire a glimmer of understanding of the "moral of the story" only when it has ended. But what if you don't believe in endings? Perhaps the epiphany does not signal a summation, but a beginning; an opportunity to start over with your new-found wisdom.

I don't believe in endings; but I do believe Frank Costello (The Departed) when he says, 'A man makes his own way. No one gives it to you. You have to take it.'

Let's see who blinks first.

'A place that has to be believed to be seen'

A few months ago, I read A Moveable Feast, Hemingway's memoir about his first few years in Paris. It is the first book that I have read by him, and I was instantly struck by the immediacy of his descriptions. He talks about sitting in cafes, scribbling away with a pencil in his notebook. That sustained urgency of instantly capturing what you encounter does reflect in the book, too. There are no passages of lingering beauty, as there are, for instance, in Proust or Fitzgerald's works, but there is a very distinctive allure to his writing, too. Hemingway proceeds from one meticulous description to the next, almost as though he is presenting a disinterested, purely informative report of his days in the city.  However, when you least expect it, right in the middle of, say, a systematic recreation of an innocuous lunch that consisted of oysters and wine, he abruptly interjects a pithy, yet often immensely moving, observation. All of a sudden, without any anticipatory flourish, he seems to unveil the very heart of the subject that he was talking about. This recurring feature in his style of writing seemed very apt, to me, for a book which is an ode, of sorts, to a city. 

Even though his book is about Paris, which is a highly unique city that has served as a muse for many, the approach he adopted while writing about it seems ideal for writing about almost any large city (I will eventually arrive at the reason after providing a long-winded, non-Hemingwayesque context). Lately, I have had several similar conversations about the nature of cities with different people. I have noticed that cities frequently tend to be misunderstood, especially the "fast-paced", "relentless" cosmopolitan ones. People seem to have the strangest expectations of cities, and, perhaps because I have spent a large part of my life in cities, I don't quite comprehend why. 

Although it might sound slightly kooky, places, like people, have specific temperaments, too. If you know only too well that Ms. XYZ is inherently self-sufficient, it would be a tad unreasonable to be disappointed when she does not wholeheartedly empathise with you for feeling desolate about having to go grocery shopping alone. Similarly, when I hear well-informed, city-dwelling people berate gargantuan cities due to the absence of a "sense of community", and the general "lost in a crowd" sensation that they exude,  it seems slightly off-kilter and paradoxical to me. Skewed expectations exist for smaller towns, too, of course, and I find them equally strange, but with cities in particular, I find that one requires an especially acute sense of wonder to be able to spot the beauty amid the chaos. Hemingway seems to have achieved precisely that effect. He spots the magnificent in the mundane, and derives wisdom from the banal. The landscape and standard of living in cities is such that we usually overlook the absolutely spectacular aspects of the place, and eventually stop expecting them, too; that is why I think urban beauty is one of the most unique kinds, because it takes you by surprise, and leaves you all the more awe-inspired by it. Cities, like any other place, or like most people, too, need to be recognised for what they are to be truly seen, understood, and appreciated.

'I've never seen you there.'
'You must not have been looking.'
- 500 Days of Summer

Selfest of selves

'My memory of the London of my youth is the memory of endless vague wanderings, of a sun-dazzled window suddenly piercing the blue morning mist or of beautiful black wires with suspended raindrops running along them. I seem to pass with intangible steps across ghostly lawns and through dancing halls full of the whine of Hawaiian music and down dear drab little streets with pretty names, until I come to a certain warm hollow where something very like the selfest of my own self sits huddled up in the darkness.' 
- Vladimir Nabokov, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight

'If you're not angry, you're not paying attention.'

Have you ever felt pure, unadulterated anger? I am not referring to the frustration induced by that man steadfastly chewing insert-fried-food-here loudly, and ruining your two hours at the cinema. I mean that blinding   rage you experience when someone has finally stepped on that last nerve, and you are about to snap. Immediately after this fury, impotence strikes, because you realise, much to your dismay, that you cannot act on your animalistic anger. You have to address the issue at hand in a "reasonable" manner. Sublimate.

Now, forget about that crushing helplessness and niggling rationality that follows immense anger, and rewind once again to that moment of luxurious fury. If you dissect it sufficiently, you'll notice that anger is usually one of the most powerful sentiments, because, well, it makes you feel empowered. For those brief seconds of glorious irrationality, you feel incredibly righteous. You are willing, for once, to trust your instinct entirely, because you are unbelievably certain about the other person being in the wrong. Anger eliminates the necessity of ceaselessly questioning oneself. However, that confidence dissipates rapidly, because anger generally flares and subsides like a flame gun. It is rarely sustained.

It's quite strange, though, that we seem to be the most self-assured while experiencing what is commonly regarded as one of the most bestial sentiments, which is highly transient and is, ironically enough, followed by powerlessness. Is it customary to demonise unapologetic self-assertion? Or is it reasonable, because if we all walked around assuming we are right, we would be inhabiting a globe full of fundamentalists?

I have a lingering suspicion that anger is a much misunderstood sentiment. To add to the confusion, here is a Philosoraptor-esque combination of quotes:

'Anger is a short madness.' 

―  Horace

 'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.'
―  Friedrich Nietzsche

Leap Year

As clichéd as it may be, but let this be a leap year in more ways than one. 
Let this be the year that you choose to leap above what prevents you from moving forward. Leap beyond your own fears, plunge into the the unknown, and emerge with a little piece of yourself that you didn't know existed. Leap away from excuses, petty concerns, being judgmental, and blaming other people. Leap over immaturity, and grow up - it's never too late. Leap away from the past, and leap as rapidly as you can away from the people that restrain you, or make you feel small. Leap above self-deprecation to make other people feel better; let them take care of themselves. Leap into yourself, and seek within yourself what you desire from other people. Move from one leap to the next, because pretty soon you'll have arthritis, and will be unable to walk comfortably, let alone leap. And because Bukowski does the inspirational stuff quite exquisitely, I shall now hand over the mantle to him - 

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

[The picture is from here]

Epiphany - On Lowe

Do you remember those 'Love is . . .' comics? I thought of a similar 'definition' today, but minus the little figurines: Love is, or at least should be, like a Jack Johnson song. It should exude a sense of comfort and wonder, of shorts, flip-flop slippers and laid-back glasses of lemonade, with little umbrellas in them, by a breezy beach. The association of the much-dissected sentiment with intensity and inevitable pain is long-standing and possibly erroneous. Of course, it can't always be pleasant. The rose-tinted glasses will fall off soon enough. But if it's too unpleasant for too long, then you can't brush it aside by saying the nature of the emotion is such; the nature of your relationship is the one you should be worrying about. 

"Hello, good morning, how you do/What makes your rising sun so new?"

Another year, another bout of amazement at how quickly time seems to stride past.

I always plan to write about the things that I have observed or experienced over the year, but never quite get around to it. This year, I seem to have begun, but am quite unsure about how to go about it. It all seems like a pleasant blur. But one of the foremost things that I have learnt towards the end of this year is that where I will be tomorrow, or the day after or the next year, is not set in stone. There are no guarantees, no comfy predictions, and no 'foolproof' plans - and there is nothing more exhilarating than that. Clichéd, yes, but carpe effing diem indeed!

Happy new year!

". . . I hope you're done with yesterday,
All the things we've heard have left and made their way,

Say goodbye to your sorrow,
And hello to tomorrow!"
- Wolfmother, 'Tales'

The Best Medicine

It's strange how you spot and retain little bits of insight from the most unlikely places. About two months ago, I was reading a lengthy interview of Anne Hathway's in 'Marie Claire.' She had apparently been in an approximately four year long relationship, which came to an abrupt halt when the man in question was imprisoned. A little while later, for her appearance on a talk-show, Hathway wrote and performed a humorous rap song, wherein there was a light-hearted reference to her former relationship. The interviewer seemed surprised by her ability to almost immediately joke about what must have certainly been an immensely traumatic incident. When she was questioned her about it, Hathway said, "That’s always been the way I deal with things. You make a joke of it. When you feel like a lot of things are out of your control, there is a certain power in being able to say, 'Ha! I’m laughing at it first." She goes on to say, "People deal with horrible things all the time. Downstairs in this pub someone has a parent who is battling cancer. Someone has just lost their job ... Life is really fucked up and it’s really painful sometimes." Laughter, according to her, is a way to "doggy-paddle" until one can accept the circumstances and move one. 


No, she certainly isn't saying anything extraordinary. I'm sure similar suggestions have been implied in a dozen different ways in self-help books or depressingly optimistic posters/cliches. But somehow, what she said in that interview seems to come back to me occasionally. A feeling of control does arise in being able to chuckle, if not laugh, at your so-called plight. Perhaps that's what makes Woody Allen films so endearingly funny and poignant.  


If you're able to laugh at something, it usually means that you're able to regard it objectively, to accept it, and to dismiss it as mildly amusing - and that is a gigantic step forward if you're anxious or distraught about that something. 


Well, those were my two cents for the Wisdom Jar, now here are Kurt Vonnegut's: "Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion.  I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward."

Sleeping Beauty

You have built a fortress of fantasy
(and other odds and ends) around you,
My wiliest weapons cannot penetrate through.

I am weary,
And, to be honest,
A little teary.

But I don't wish to bore you
With my foolish rhymes
That aren't worth your time.

I can't keep trying
To wake you up,
But no, I am not giving up.

I know that
You know
That I still won't let go.

Whenever you emerge from La La Land,
I hope you remember
I'll still be waiting to hold your hand.

I am merely tossing the ball back in your court,
(It is yours, do with it what you please.)
And if I do see it glide my way,
I will catch it, whatever the time of day.

The Riddler

I was scrolling through my blog, and I noticed that most of my posts contain several questions. In fact, one of them comprises entirely of questions.

While it is essential to question what you encounter, perhaps it is this incessant inquisition that leads to hitherto non-existent complexities. Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living; but a life that is too closely examined doesn't really seem worthy, either. Magnified flaws are often all that one can see after prolonged scrutiny.

"... It occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility ... One gets sometimes such a flash of insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of meddling."
- Joseph Conrad, 'Heart of Darkness'

"Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps"

"Let's pretend that we'll be here tomorrow 
And I'll try for you to be a little more on time ...
Let's do the things we normally do ... Don't hold my hand for longer than you need to."

- 'Let's Do the Things We Normally Do", Dido.

Why is it so very difficult to say exactly what you want? It's much easier to tread gingerly around what you are trying to convey, and hope that the other person will eventually comprehend what you really mean. Is it the fear of revealing your true needs, and thus rendering yourself vulnerable that prevents you from pointing at the heart of the matter, and placing it on the table for discussion? Or do you balk at the idea of your real requirements being rejected? Besides, it's feasible to formulate excuses for the other person ("They mustn't have understood what I was trying to say") when you haven't laid all your cards on the table.With the truth, however, one is forced to act, and abandon one's rationalisations about the responses one receives to the aforementioned truth.



Then again, can you ever be entirely certain about what you truly, absolutely need? Certain enough to let go of   people who cannot fulfill that need?

"Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing-desk?"

If no-one is around to hear a tree fall in a forest, does that mean it did not make any sound at all?
If I do not share my occasionally paranoid/overwrought/super-anxious/entirely irrational thoughts, will they cease to exist?

The Hatter: Have I gone mad?
Alice: I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I'll tell you a secret - all the best people are.

"Pozitively Pozitive"

Does anyone truly believe the claim that thinking positively leads to pleasant events, while negative thoughts induce unpleasant occurrences? Or is it just another adage that encourages us to believe that we have control over what may, in fact, be utterly random? Yes, I suppose I am becoming far too cynical, though I can't deny the fact that assuming the worst is exhausting. Optimism would, in fact, be a relief. But then again, I fear that if I persuade myself to not assume the worst, I will be: deluding myself/not preparing myself adequately/basically, not girding my loins, and other such irrational fears. A middle path must be sought.

Whoever thought that even optimism could be an ordeal?

A Kooky Compendium or "She's called "Henry," and it's a lot of explanation, but don't worry about it, kids, okay? Just tune in, turn off, drop out, drop in, switch off, switch on, and explode."

     Sometimes, I can't help being pessimistic and resign myself to the idea that everything I wish to express has already been said far more eloquently by someone else. Maybe it's one of the perils of being an English Literature student, or maybe it's the perpetual condition of the Postmodern era (another hazard of being a Lit. student is saying seemingly pretentious things like "Postmodern era"). Whatever the reason, the fact remains that I occasionally feel like baby-Jim Carrey in the The Truman Show - he tells his teacher that he wants to be an explorer, and she pulls down a map of the world, and says, "Oh, you're too late! There's nothing left to explore!" Yes, I know, that's far too bleak a circumstance, and I do believe that every sentiment or thought can be expressed in several different ways by several different people. But it's just restful to succumb to the closeted and concealed cynic in us once in a while, isn't it?

     Having provided a relatively lengthy explanation, I shall proceed to list the several quotes that have mesmerised me lately:

Marlon: Where the hell's Fiji? Near Florida?
Truman: [pointing to golf ball] See here?
Marlon: Yeah.
Truman: This is us... [guides finger halfway around ball] and all the way around here... FIJI. You can't get any further away before you start coming back. 

- The Truman Show

John Keating: We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for... That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse... What will your verse be? 

- Dead Poets Society

Clementine: [whispers] Meet me... In Montauk.

- Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Alvy Singer: Love is too weak a word for what I feel - I luuurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two F's, yes I have to invent, of course I - I do, don't you think I do?

- Annie Hall

‎"Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget... The weariness, the fever, and the fret. Here, where men sit and hear each other groan... Where but to think is to be full of sorrow." 

- John Keats, 'Ode to a Nightingale'

"Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?"

- Gerard Manley Hopkins, 'Spring and Fall'

"Why, then, O, brawling love! O, loving hate!

O, anything of nothing first create."

- William Shakespeare, 'Romeo and Juliet'

"Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow."

- Bob Dylan, 'Mr. Tambourine Man'

And to conclude: 
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passion a quotation."

"What if this is as good as it gets?"

Have you ever wondered, while eating a scrumptious chocolate cake, whether you will ever eat cake that is as delicious ever again? Does that niggling thought turn your spoonful of chocolate into ashes, because you now know that it will be your last? Or does it make you relish your serving all the more, because you know that you will never enjoy any other cake as much?

Do you recall a time when you were immensely moved by a line in a book or a poem, a scene from a film, or by the way the guitar was strummed in a particular song? Did you ache to share the exact sentiment you experienced? Did you try to communicate, and fail? Did you receive indifference as a response? Did you wonder why you couldn't experience the moment by yourself? Did you resent your compulsion to tell someone else about it? Did you remind yourself of the times when you were unreceptive of someone else's earnest observations?

Is there anyone you yearn to forgive or be forgiven by? After convincing yourself that it did not matter, are you occasionally struck speechless by the debilitating bitterness between the two of you? Are you tempted to succumb and abandon the reasons you were adamant about being worthy of inducing a permanent rift? Do you despise yourself for your temporary weakness? Do you find the weight of a lifelong grudge bearable? Could you forgive yourself if you forgave or asked forgiveness of him/her?

Are you addicted to your cell-phone? Do you often find yourself looking away from whatever it is that you were doing to verify whether you received a text-message? Do you compulsively check whether your text-messages were "delivered" to the recipient? Are you irritated when you receive messages from someone else when you are awaiting a response from the eternally elusive "somebody special"? Have you ever abandoned your cell-phone when you went on vacation and felt the burden of expectations fall away?

Why are we so certain about what we want until we finally receive it? After months of anticipation and trepidation, why does that which we so ardently desired give us cold feet? Is it the fear of being disappointed? Is it that recurring concern that this will most definitely not be as brilliant as that was? But is it necessary for everything to compare to what we had in the past? What is in the past is in the past for a reason, isn't it?

"You know what I am? I'm a dog chasing cars. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I caught it."
 - The Joker, 'The Dark Knight'


This year - Let go.

On the Coinage of a Phrase

Genre-elitism: noun. 1. The condescension evinced by an individual convinced of the superiority of his musical tastes.
2. A sense of entitlement, which is induced by an individual's firm belief in the supremacy of their favourite genre. 3. It is manifested by disparaging or disdainful comments about any other genre; along with spiteful, sardonic remarks about those who like genres other than their own. 4. Their sense of self-worth seems to have been derived entirely from their taste in music.
Genre-elitism is usually unacceptable and unforgivable beyond the age of fifteen (or sixteen, at the latest).
Related Forms:
adj. genre-elitist, noun. genre-elite

Aisha kyu?

A realistic, albeit annoyed, interpretation of Aisha

            The recently released film Aisha had created quite a hubub prior to its release, particularly amongst the urban, college-going youth. On seeing the trailers, it is not too difficult to guess why – the effervescent, barely-past-adolescence Sonam Kapoor, Ira Dubey, Abhay Deol, and co. seemed to strike a chord as they fretted about “sixteen pack abs,” and being eternally single while waltzing around high-end malls. The promotional snatches seemed to promise a glossy, cheerful, and luxurious romantic comedy, a genre that still seems relatively novel in the Hindi film industry. However, the movie, in its entirety, seems to induce a different response.

            Aisha tells the tale of an ostentatiously wealthy girl from Delhi. She seems to while her time away by shopping, socialising, match-making, baking elaborate desserts, gardening with possibly branded gloves on, and organising events free of charge. It is hardly surprising, then, when she squeals, “I love my life!” in one of  the many voice-overs in the film. Of course, in the course of the film, she asserts that she hates her life, and the hate is induced by several trivial complications, most of which she brought onto herself due to her meddling and misunderstandings. Eventually, all’s well that ends well.

            One of the most significant aspects of the film is not only its female-driven cast, but crew, too. The director (Rajshree Ojha), script-writer (Devika Bhagat), producer (Rhea Kapoor), and casting director (Amrita Sehgal) of Aisha are, as their names suggest, women. It leads one to the inevitable question of how (and why!?) a crew consisting of women alone could create a protagonist, who seems to be the epitome of utter cluelessness, and the diametric opposite of how one would perceive an intelligent, city girl. Having firmly ventured into the 21^st century, it seems feasible to believe that the damsel-in-distress has died a ntural death. Ojha, Bhagat and Sonam Kapoor, on the other hand, seem to be intent on resurrecting the deregatory female archetype through Aisha, who does not bat a heavily made-up eyelid before promptly calling her knight-in-shining armour when her car breaks down. Nor does Aisha have any qualms about abandoning her decidedly gullible friend, Shefali, at a guesthouse in Delhi, with a man she herself seems to dislike vehemently. The director described Aisha as “an extremely frank and open-minded girl, who loves to live in her own fairytale world.” How “open-minded” is it to evince disgust for the “middle-class”, and to discourage marriage solely because the boy (Saurabh) doesn’t belong to a higher strata of society? Buying criminally expensive apparel, and facilitating a make-over to ensure a match for the “behenji” friend doesn’t seem too “open-minded” either. In addition, it is all very well to spend one’s childhood in one’s own personal universe, when noone else is affected by it, but when an influential twenty-something girl refuses to emerge from it, it isn’t endearing in the least, but incredibly annoying. The implied empowerment of a women-centric cast and crew is negated by the plot, which, eventually, relegates the female characters in the film to women who are defined by their respective partners, and who do not hesitate to spend their father’s money (Rs. 53,000, to be precise) in one gigantic shopping-spree.

            Sonam Kapoor’s character moves from one disastrous event to the next, and brushes them all off under the guise that she was “only trying help.” Realisation does strike during the second half of the movie, after all her friends simultaneously seem to declare, “We are not your projects,” or something to that effect. After weeping, and drinking Moet through a straw, Aisha decides to apologise. While all the characters are magnanimous and forgiving, for the audience, it seems like too little, too late. Ojha described the film as a “coming-of-age” film. Nonetheless, Aisha does nothing to endear herself to the audience before she came of age, while she was coming of age, and when she does apparently come of age.Unlike Udaan, which is touted to be a coming-of-age film, too, and which is one, in the true sense of the phrase. While Abhay Deol’s character, Arjun (Sonam Kapoor pronounces the name as “Archan”), seems to represent the voice of reason in the movie, and does try to rectify the damage Aisha incurs, one can’t help but question his presence in such a film. Ira Dubey, Cyrus Sahukar, and the Angelina Jolie-esque Lisa Haydon deliver competent performances, and act as foils to the uni-dimensional Aisha, and the uni-expressionistic Sonam Kapoor. Another grouse against the movie would be its similarities with Clueless (1995), wherein Alicia Silverstone plays a rich, teenage girl, who takes a “lame” young girl under her wing. Certain scenes, such as the one where Shefali gets rid of her ex-love’s belongings, are identical. Since Aisha is, apparently, inspired by Jane Austen’s classic Emma, it seems quite ironic to find scenes from a highschool movie duplicated in the film.

            It is true that Aisha never claimed to be a “serious” film, but to lose oneself entirely in frivolity  doesn’t seem appealing, particularly when the “lightheartedness” is coupled with immaturity, and silly, discriminatory behaviour. If Aisha characterises modern-day fairytales, I can’t help but exclaim, “Aisha kyu?!”

Hit me, baby, er, for the first time?

Tragic accounts of relationships gone sour seem to abound. Everyone either has their own story, or knows a friend of a friend of a friend who does. It makes me wonder whether Carrie Bradshaw's assertion in a Sex and the City episode wasn't as ludicrous as it initially sounded - "Maybe we were better off when we thought less, and kissed more."

Lately, I've been thinking about, well, thinking! And the over-analysis most of us seem to dabble in more and more frequently. It's becoming increasingly difficult for me to distinguish between the times there really is a problem, and the times when I'm just creating one due to a self-induced implosion in my mind. As self-deprecating or masochistic as it may sound, I can't help but feel pretty certain that the so-called issue is usually due to the latter. This is mainly because, more often than not, two days after addressing a "problem", I begin to see the futility and insignificance of what seemed like such a grave concern a few days ago. 

I agree, a refusal to address what rankles isn't the most sound advice. It leads to pent-up emotions, which will find a vent in one way or the other. But think about it. Despite the minor grouses now and then, the fact remains that I like you, and you like me (and I don't mean romantic relationships alone). No amount of "discussion and deliberation" about "complications" will change that. Or if my feelings or yours have already altered, a conversation won't be sufficient to change that either. What one really needs, in my opinion, is a way to rid oneself of all those sapping negative emotions.

At the risk of attracting the ire of feminists everywhere, I can't help but be drawn to physical violence as a solution and substitute to the "We need to talk" conversations! Smacking someone is less messy than talking about "feelings", it's utterly satisfying, and it's cathartic beyond imagination. Besides, I need an excuse to pull a Tyler Durden and solemnly say, "I want you to hit me as hard as you can." 

Promise I will be forever yours
Promise not to say another word
Nevermind whats done is done

- 'Still', Foo Fighters.

Here is Now

The question of whether or not one should take drastic measures to protect oneself has been meandering around my mind lately. Should I feel obliged to my future self, and extricate myself from any potentially hurtful situation? Or should I continue to adhere to "carpe diem" (thank you, Dead Poets Society)? The answer, I suppose, is only logical. If you are aware that by doing xyz, you will wind up wounded, it is solely your responsibility to swiftly shy away from the aforementioned xyz.

There is, of course, a catch. Nothing is so very conveniently "cut and dry" in the Real World. There are no labels declaring, 'DISASTROUS' (or 'DELIGHTFUL') on individuals and/or situations, to indicate their impact on one's future. Most of us lesser mortals simply proceed based on our intuition, or learn to "read the signs" (For example, a date who seems to develop a nervous twitch in the presence of law-enforcing individuals is definitely a terrible sign, and must be abandoned; or kept on the bench until desperate, desperate times). However, situations usually acquire an incredibly complex nature, baffling the intuition. The signs, too, are ambivalent at best. At times like these, though it is slightly mortifying to admit, I often resort to Sheryl Crowe's wise words: "If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad/ If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"

Yes, I do indeed worry about the days to come, and how they might be far beyond my depth. I worry, too, about biting off an amount, which, far from being chew-able, is most likely to induce severe choking. Nevertheless, I strive to remind myself that in the "Present misery v/s Future misery" debate, I have chosen to support the latter. Besides, why assume that I will be overwhelmed with unhappiness at all? Isn't it highly fatalistic to undermine oneself to such an extent? As clichéd as it may sound, but right here, right now, is really all we have.

"They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."
- The Dead Poets Society.


(On a ligher vein)


"I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFTOPS OF THE WORLD."

"It's these cards and the movies and the pop songs...

...they're to blame for all the lies and the heartache, everything."

Tom: What happened? Why didn't they (Summer's past relationships) work out? 


Summer: What always happens. Life.