Slipping on ice

I’m really uncoordinated today. Worried about the tan shoes, pink tank, brown sweater, black coat, giant black bag. It doesn’t go. This irritates me. 

I’ve run out of food in my room, and the wind is somehow cutting through my multicoloured scarf. I’m catching a cold. Hot boy walking next to me is talking, but since he doesn’t have more than two brain cells in his head, it’s easy to tune him out and just look at him. A dimple flashes, and I nod at him. Satified, he natters on. No doubt about the last time he got drunk, or this weekend’s game. Seriously, does no one have stories outside those two?

My career is heading downhill, I can’t seem to hold on. I know nothing, less than nothing, and what I know is probably wrong. Mendel’s laws are overthrown, stupidity is upheld as a virtue, epigenetics and cancer. My horizons are broadening, the land shifts beneath my feet and I am barely keeping my head over the water. Nothing fits right. I’ve hit the dreaded 60kgs. 

The world is changing. I want coffee. No one makes chai here, and I just want to return to the womb. But here I am, sharing personal space with a random guy who has nothing but a few genes and a whole lot of harmones going for him, politely pretend-listening, but really cataloguing everything that isn’t the way it ought to be.

Patch of ice. My head was turned towards the hot guy. On the sidewalk, looking up at a flustered, concerned him, ice below.

I don’t think I have the energy to pick me up again. 

—

Not quite fiction, but it isn’t all fact either. The boundaries blur.

Musings

Three years of this blog (and the older one – but it’s like just the one blog to me) have gone past. I’ve blog addiction to no blogging, to a post every other day. I’ve been reading a whole lot more than I’ve been writing. And I had two epiphanies today.

1. I don’t know what to do with this web-log. I mean, I’m not really into journals. I’m not very open, and I don’t think I can deal with spilling my guts – even about, say a neat eat-place I found (Tadka, Jayanagar 4th block). So not journal-blog. The poetry has been leaving me feeling a bit exposed and a bit vulnerable. I can’t put up – just can not – the latest I’ve written. The descriptive snapshots are no longer fulfilling. I’m not writing that stuff anymore.The basic problem seems to be that I don’t know what I want to do, except write something. (I’ve joined ScriptFrenzy, btw. I have no doubt it’ll go the NaNoWriMo way – halfway to the finish line and ka-splat!)
2. Camphor-the-reader is an illusion. I’ve been re-reading this past month or two, and I realise that my willingness to read stuff has taken a sharpish dip. Familiar territory, here I come. And that scares me. For as long back as I can remember (4th standard, but I don’t remember much before that except school and rain and throwing salt on leeches in Gauwhati) books have been there. Why am I going off my most reliable addiction?

I’m not sure why this is here. Like I said, the journal makes no sense to me. But I think the ultra-organised logical phase is about to hit me again, which means the traditional blogroll may go back up; and the writing will dry up.

Oh well.

EDIT: #2 is no longer valid. I went and started the Amulet of Smarkand, and segued into the Anasi Boys and StarDust and now am reading O! Jerusalem again. And I am writing too much. Mom always said I did things by extremes. Looks like I’m doing too much rather than too little again.  And then will come the burn-out phase.