To write or not to write- that is half a question
To go over in the mind asleep;
Slings and arrows of wakefulness
To surface from its sea to consciousness
Or suppress them, end them. To sleep, to sleep–
No more– and by a sleep to say release
Let go of a thousand and more thoughts
That the mind is heir to- ‘tis euphoria
Devoutly to be wished. To sleep, to sleep–
To sleep, perchance till twelve. Ay, there’s the rub,
Of an eye, for ‘til the fresh rays come,
The thought has left this mortal coil.
This gives us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long and dark a night.
For who would bear the glares and ticks of time,
The spacing out, the offended glares,
The pangs of a body hungering for sleep, and its arrival’s delay
The sleep deprivations and the spins
This patient merit of th’ body takes
When he himself his bed made,
With bare hands? Who would fardels bear,
To fumble in the dark, for the light switch
But the dread of losing that thought,
It’s departure to new-found lands
From where it never returns, puzzles the will
And makes us pick those quills we have
And have them fly over flapping sheets
Thus does the clock above make fools of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
To shut the eyes tight, and ward off all thought
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of another thought
But enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard, their currents hasten
But sleep must lose the name of action– Sleep-deprived you now!
The fair inkiness! Black, In thy testament
Be all my sins remember’d.
P.S. as you can probably guess, it’s that time of the year again.
Born of home soil
And raised in a clay pot
That was lined by concrete and spiral screams
Grew up in the CRT
Surrounded by dots of LCD reality
Always dreamed of warmth
But I lived on a cloud
Red flowin’ love pipes mystery in shrouds
Learn to believe the overworked voice in my head
That from the retina burning blue light read
And learnt to live life when life means you’re dead
Optical fibres to my nerves and I’m well fed
Crumbling earth is the land never tread
When to shoot through the ceiling’s for what you were bred
The flapping noises of yellow a haze from the past
All I’ve known them for is to gather dust
Pull out the plug for there’s no one to trust
Locked the heart vault, now the key’s crumble rust
All I live in, my mirror screen
All I live in, my mirror scream
It’s the time kick back, have no fear, to give a cheer, and throw those books high in the air…
No, that wouldn’t be necessary. They already pile up that high.
Besides, I’m not one to throw books.
And that was the most pointless introduction I’ve ever written.
Anyway, let’s cut right to it.
Holidays are here, and while no one’s holidaying, it has been a pleasure to wake up at 11 am.
I won’t say anything about sleeping at 2… that’s sort of become the norm, hasn’t it?
I have, to my utmost satisfaction, replaced a computer textbook with a Ludlum book- of the Jason Bourne series- for a while… that’s ephemeral.
But anyway… holiday season.
Allow me to address some myths.
Some folks worry that all the holiday spirit and sweet will, well, do what sweets are apparently supposed to do.
Tell that to someone who’s cupboard cleaning has finally caught up with them.
Or to someone who’s turned the house upside down whilst looking for a lost novel.
Or to someone frozen in a kneel-down position, carefully filling the floor with chalk powder.
Or someone stretching out to six feet in height to reach that nail on top to hang some lights.
Or to someone who’s spent their vacation the way a twelfth grader does. Sigh.
Holiday season… that time of the year when wearing itchy embroidered netted weirdly shaped clothes is no longer an accepted form of torture, but a must.
I’m staring at a possibility of being put into one and told how ‘cute’ it looks this year.
How can a seventeen year-old look cute.
But I’m not here to rant. I’m making an observation.
I imagine male traditional must be a lot more comfortable than female trad.
The worst that can happen in Indian male trad? Embroidery. Heavy embroidery. Terrible fitting.
But female trad?
The way most of the upper clothes are made is quite different from your average tee.
They’re made to narrow down around the rib cage and the waist. The male ones aren’t, they ‘flow’.
You wear a fem trad by pulling it over your head. Think of the discomfort of pulling something that narrow over your chest.
Female chest, might I remind you.
Then there’s the next level, who’s levels of discomfort I cannot even begin to imagine: the sari.
All I can do is wear the most constricting military can get, and salute.
Yet, it might finally catch up to me- the dreaded trad!
(This comes from a T-shirt wearer!)
So wish me luck!
So, holiday season… I lost my rangoli making virginity.
First time, and I went straight in with the powders!
Incidentally, my mum gave up and bought stencils this year.
I gifted her a protractor that made its way back during a cleanup session, which she promptly returned.
“I’ll leave the technical aspects to you”, was her succinct reply.
And so I did.
What else can you expect from me.
I went ahead, went overboard and made a Bakelite rangoli.
You can’t argue with me, because it’s symmetrical.
I got an immediate reaction from mum: a facepalm. But she does admit I did a much better job than her!
Heck, even the structure’s accurate, check with the IUPAC!
So did I study today, or did I not?
(Except that isn’t a valid question… despite all my rants, I don’t study everyday, not until we’re two weeks away from apocalypse!)
“You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap.”
“Didn’t I realise that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?”
“We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are.”
I guess all three of them were right, weren’t they?
‘Jack’, Tyler and God?
We have the potential to be any, we all have it in us to be special unique snowflakes. Or we could choose to be trash and dirt of the world, but most of the time, we just don’t try to be either. We resign to, or just content ourselves with just being.
As ‘Jack’/’Joe’ (depending on whether you followed the book or the movie Fight Club) said, “we just are.”
Nameless, faceless beings, happy to rot away in a cubicle on minimum wage, or conversely, we just are, the label, that image, the good employee, the award-winner, the hard worker, the faceless, well-lubricated wheel cog.
Neither are we essential, nor are we causing trouble.
We just are, and that’s probably why, we’re replaceable.
Do we have any personality? Are you anything other than a well-labelled diagram? Is there any part of you a tag can’t define?
Is there any characteristic of yours that isn’t a Google-searchable Shutterstock image?
Can you define yourself outside of your resumé? Is it too hard, or much too easy?
Are you an online personality quiz? Are you your zodiac?
The daily horoscope?
Can I tell exactly how you’d react to this?
And is something wrong with you if you don’t?
Isn’t your name shared by a million others? Aren’t your traits in fifty others?
Aren’t you a compilation of influences, then?
Are you you? Who are you?
What about you isn’t replaceable? What about me isn’t?
Is this really me, then? Could an algorithm have picked up my style and be writing this right now, then?
Can I be predicted?
Am I just existing?
Not the melted snowflake nor the trodden shit, yet nothing at all?
That’s my excuse for not having blogged in a while.
Allow me to quickly update by bio, I’m a bit of a freelance agent, and I’m on a job right now.
And the job’s kept me under ground level, and far from a wi-fi signal.
If you’re reading this, I probably got very lucky one day and caught an open wi-fi!
The job has me sitting in a hidden, underground cabin, doing some intelligence work.
I’m sifting through data ranging over fifty years, learning all I can, compiling it into reports marked for certain eyes only.
I don’t know how all this will help any of you anytime soon, but I’m told it will.
Alright, let’s go with that.
It does get long and lonely at times, and all I have to keep me company is a small potted cactus and plenty of paper.
I’ve definitely used some of it to write stuff other than my work… there may be more material in tow here!
– Me wasting time when I haven’t any.
But anyway, Headquarters estimates that with good efficiency, I shouldn’t be in here longer than a week.
And when I’m back, you may end up being better informed about where all your vanishing spray actually vanishes too.
Or you may not.
My mother had once (or maybe fifty times) said, hard work never goes a waste.
To infinity and beyond!
Till I resurface, face front!
… Alright, I’ve got exams going on this week.
Designers across the world are “editing” occupation titles to make them seem livelier.
Engineers are now imagineers. Anything that sounds better than your dull ol’ truth.
I like the ‘intelligence officer’ angle more. Do you?