Two flashbacks and the present

Today was good despite it being terrible. Good because I was able to accomplish things despite some situations being totally stacked against me.

I had my regular therapy this morning. It was interesting because of the parallels that I’m drawing to the twins Rahel and Estha in the book ”The God of Small Things” by Arundhati Roy. In a nutshell, that book has somehow captured a bunch of experiences (including traumatic ones) in my childhood, and by reading it, I have kinda relived them and also gained perspective on how things are like for kids in Kerala.

I also realized that the twins are kinda my friends now. Imaginary or not, they are likely to understand and feel the stuff that I went through. Roy’s writing has also inspired me to get back to trying to write my own stories. You know, that thing I keep on trying to make happen, but it hasn’t yet. More on that later.

Sometime later in the morning, I decided that I’m going to take it easy with my physical therapy exercise schedule. Like taking the leg day off, and in my case it is literally taking both the leg days off.

Must have been the beers last night. Oh yeah, I did walk (cough, cough) over to a watering hole last night. Met up with friends from a team that I’m no longer working in, but sure I’m working with.

Why the italics and coughing, you ask? Because I limp/hobble instead of walk.

Okay. But why? Rather, how? And what physical therapy? What’s going on?

Well, well, well. I guess it is time to lay it all out here.

Nine weeks ago

Did I tell you that I’m very much into motorcycling? If I hadn’t, I really should write about it. It’s been going on for a couple of years. Serious stuff. Bought a Honda CB350 two years ago. Bought all the safety gear. Started riding long and regular. More like a mental feat than a physical one. Meditative and awe-inspiring. More on that later.

One bike is not enough for two riders with distinctly different everything, including riding style, temperament, and preferences. The second rider is J, of course. Yeah, he’s also into motorcycling. Pretty much has always been, but has finally turned a corner in terms of doing motorcycling seriously.

This meant borrowing someone else’s bike. Thankfully, my friend and band mate is a sweetheart, and he has been lending his bike for the last two years. But this was tiring, primarily because I had to pick up the bike from his place, which is about 1.5 hours from my place (in Mumbai traffic) and that added about 4 hours of extra ride time on an otherwise 10- to 12-hour riding days.

The solution was simple. Get another bike. So we did. But it was a bit of a rush, and the monetary transactions didn’t go through on the night of the first long ride with J riding with all the newly-bought safety gear.

So the night before, I did my 3-h schlepp to get my friend’s bike. And so we did what we have been doing for a few months.

But this time it was J’s ride. And my friend’s bike isn’t as fast (or safe) as mine. And I ride slower and safer than J. And J rides my bike. I can’t fuck up J’s first big ride. So I ended up making a risky decision with my friend’s bike jamming its brakes on me.

But wait, I was wearing protective gear, right? So no scratches on me. The bike’s got a few, but minor. But then what happened?

So I buckled my knee in an effort to quickly get back on the bike. The incident did happen on a very poor part of the road to Mahabaleshwar (it’s a gorgeous hill station on the Western Graters, approximately 200 km southeast of Mumbai), and there were trucks around, with one kinda heading toward me. So I must have panicked.

Long story short (not really, right) I had multiple-ligament tear of my left knee. This was about two months ago, and I underwent arthroscopic repair two weeks after the incident. Done by my junior from my alma mater, but not at the alma mater, but at a private hospital. Because it would be easier for J to take care of me.

It was painful. Especially the first two days and then in the first two weeks, and so on. J took care of me. Even during the difficult times. I was difficult to be with, and it was difficult for me to be with others, but it worked out.

I was on crutches or hopping in the first 6 postoperative weeks. A week ago, I started using a walking stick. You know, one of those modern ones.

In the 7 days since, I have tried to find excuses to step out of the apartment and walk. The newly unveiled Metro 2A did give me motivation, and so did the walk to the bar to meet my friends and have a couple of beers.

Cut to present

So yeah, I took it easy. My excuse was that I had other problems to solve. Like my relatively expensive MacBook Pro throttling every time I do anything related to video capturing or rendering. I have been in touch with both Apple Support and Logitech Support (cuz the camera’s from Logitech), and despite them both being helpful (or trying to be so), my problem remained.

So I had to figure shit out myself. And I reckoned it was a good enough reason to take it easy.

Also, I had a bunch of walking/hobbling to do. I had an off on Republic Day and my surgeon (my friend) was free to meet, and I wanted to see if he thought I could expedite my recovery.

So instead of doing physical therapy, I watched art lessons on YouTube. Got inspired.

Wait, what? Art? Since when?

Six weeks ago

I was in pain and I couldn’t do the stuff that I used to. So I decided to revisit sketching and painting (watercolors). Revisiting because I used to sketch my lecturers at Medical College, apart from sketching cats.

I (re)started small, but since then, I have gone on to purchase some basic/serious sketching/painting material. I even have a fanny back with art supplies. You know, to pain rocks and stuff on the go.

So far, my primary subject is Blu. In fact, just before I started writing this, I was sketching yet another bust shot of her.

Just like the 1.7 billion people around the world right now, I’m learning almost exclusively by watching YouTube. It’s pretty cool, I’ll say. The video medium does help especially in this case as I watch time lapses of the experts doing art.

Cut to present

So on my way switching between three lines of trains (two Metro lines and a suburban/local), I sketched. On the way back too.

I felt good. Sort of taking pride in listening to art instructors say stuff like, “sketch every day”, “fill up your sketchbook”, “take a sketchbook with you wherever you go” and all that jazz.

But that’s not the only thing. My surgeon/friend concluded that I can indeed start going a bit more aggressive with my transition to full weight-bearing, i.e., without assistance. That’s just great.

In between all of this, I did manage to grab dinner at the Mallu restaurant where I used to grab lunches/dinner when I was at my alma mater, mentoring my surgeon/friend. That felt nice.

And then I come back home and go through a complicate list of steps to try and un-throttle the MacBook Pro. Didn’t/hasn’t worked out. So my only way out seems to be a factory reset. And if that doesn’t work, oh lord, I don’t even want to think that I might need to buy yet another machine!

So in between all of this, I thought I should listen to my instructors’ advice, but on something that I haven’t been spending time on—writing.

And that’s why I’m writing—and presumably you are reading—this.

Finding a purpose

They say that life’s all about finding a purpose. Something to live for. Something to aspire to. Somewhere to aim at.

I find myself in the mid-dest part of a mid-life lull where I don’t think I know have answers. Not that I claim to always have had answers or that I will have answers moving forward.

But right now, as I type this, I’m in the middle of a week where I just heard yet another reason as to why I won’t be finding some answers.

I find myself at a crossroads without really knowing what I’m doing to earn a living—which is not quite what I was supposed to be doing to earn a living, by the way—is what I’m supposed to be doing.

Sure, everyone has been there or they will be there. No big deal. At least not until they find themselves there.

I know that I want to learn things that I don’t know I want to learn. I know that I want to experience others’ thoughts and feelings and vision in as close a way as possible with the original artistic intent.

With the knowledge that I gain from there, I know I want to write and create art. I know I want to build a legacy with these artistic and creative endeavors.

I suppose I must make it clear that they visions that I have are not restricted to music. As a musician, however, I know that I don’t know if I’m the right performer for the art that I have created thus far.

The idyl of clarity—maybe that’s a bit too far—of a lack of fuzziness. Maybe I’ll have that in a month’s time. Maybe I’ll grow a big enough pair and decide to step away from comforting mediocrity to challenging uncertainty.

There Used To Be A time

 

There used to be a time I’d chronicle how today goes and the past one went. There used to be a time when I did not know that my attempts at attempting to emulate the greats and failing miserably was embarrassing but rewarding. There used to be a time when Sunday morning meant a ride to a mall and a cappuccino and deep Black Forest cake. There used to be a time when the lack of certainty in what’s about to come received less titration—in fact it used to be acceptable and somewhat expected.

There used to be a time when I would not find myself constantly working on improving the things that I was not good at, which I was tired of admitting that I am not good at. There used to be a time when reading meant getting lost more than studying the art of what is being written about and how it is being delivered. There used to be a time when greeting relative strangers in the morning was something that I would not flinch from; dare I say I would look forward to.

There used to be a time when being able to listen to the songs of your choice while not being tethered to the place you were in was a luxury that only the shrewd ones chose to have. There used to be a time when birthdays were days that were special, something to be celebrated with friends over an opulent, indulgent meal. There used to be a time when meals were explorative, varied, and flavor-oriented and not cumbersome nutrition-delivery activities.

There used to be a time when walking around town was light and explorative. There used to be a time when the chase of glory was something sunk in so far deep that it was difficult to be aware of its presence. There used to be a time when the sound of coconut tree leaves lapping against the wind used to be sufficiently distinct for one to notice it and to associate with other memories. There used to a time when catching up, with the world, on cinema is something that was less of a chore.

There used to be a time when falling in love and staying in it was more joy and longing than a burden of expectation. There used to be a time when home was still something to stay away from, but still something worth looking forward to coming back to. There used to be a time when the shades of blue and green and red were something that you did not know changed if you went sufficiently far away from where you were when you had the misconception.

There used to be a time when the delivery of art, or the attempts of attempting to deliver it, were not such conscious efforts of delivery. There used to be a time when the light was bright and the was mind was light. There used to be a time when I used to long less for how things used to be.

Correspondences - a new series

Over the past few weeks, I have been writing to my friends on non-social media platforms. I would like to consider this venture a humble attempt to practice the craft of writing. I consider these exchanges little fragments of the manifestations of my cognitve/spiritual existence in the material world.

To find them an independent space to live and breathe, and yet to have be loosely linked to the the online universe of my primary blog, I have decided to document the best excerpts from these on Neverlast, the micro-blog to Engayging Life. I’m calling this series Correspondences,

The links to the first four are below:

1. Correspondences #1: Doug (Part 1)
2. Correspondences #2: Doug (Part 2)
3. Correspondences #3: Steve
4. Correspondences #4: Mike

I hope you, the reader, enjoys them.

Books to Bind Us All

What is it that brings people together, only to impose themselves, their opinion, and their beliefs on the others? The force is gentle at first, but gathers strength with each exchange, fueled by a mix of pride, hurt, and ego. It waxes and wanes, it swells and ebbs, but it chips away at us and our relationships ever so slowly.

It is a cycle without a purpose, at least something that I haven’t discovered yet. It makes me wonder if this cycle happened the same way since we have known ourselves to be the way we are. And by that, I mean humans as bands, a term that I wouldn’t have had readily available to me if had I not read the Yuval Noah Harari bestsellers.

How did we get to pre-history, I wonder. May be because Band of Brothers—a phrase that I have often heard and read without really knowing what it actually refers to—came up as a book title just yesterday in a conversation. The phrase was used with the assumption that everyone in the conversation would know what it meant, which is one of the most fallacious fallacies one would encounter. My mind must have subconsciously guided my fingers to type the word band.

It was just another occasion when I found myself in the middle of an act of trying to rediscover my purpose/role in a relationship—maybe I should use the word acquaintance—a tenuous one at that. We were indulging in an illegal activity, where I was trying to please someone who I have been trying to please. Not in any lewd sense, but because he could—if he’d be willing to, of course—fill a gap in my life that has existed since the time I remember myself as a child. The activity was just a simple exchange of pirated intellectual property in the written form from me to him.

My intentional concealment of the identity of this person must not be misconstrued as a means to diminish them or their presence in my life, but instead is a show of respect to their privacy. Something that I have learnt the hard way on this very blog. I guess it is also a gesture of affection, an effort to shield them for prying minds.

I had met him in rather unflattering circumstances, trying to sneak behind his newspaper-reading self to find means to make myself presentable. My first act of initiating a conversation involved offering a tumbler of whisky at ten in the morning, mind you, in his very own house. It was an evidently unsuccessful attempt at concealing my anxiety of meeting him. We had then settled down into a jarring conversation about goods and bags of beverages to start one’s day.

A few years since that initial encounter, I had finally found this rather unimaginative method to step into his attention range. I had the tech chops that could help find things to occupy his spare time. It was one of the numerable straws to clutch at to strengthen a fledgling, and dare I say, flailing relationship.

I find myself writing this the morning after an unpleasant experience—I’m certain this is from both sides. It was a bizarre conversation about the frequency of possessive pronouns in conversational speech. Just an observation at first, but it went on to become something that defines a character as good or bad, of course from one’s own perspective.

Happenings like these is why we have not yet been able to break in our relationship so that we can get past the constant reminders that we need to continue building it. I’m not really sure if he feels the same way, but I’d be gutted if he isn’t.

One thing leads to another, and this morning we find ourselves talking about books—a book if I were to be precise. It is an anthology of sorts, somewhere in between a memoir and an autobiography. I’m going to call it Memories for R&Z, which is an oversimplified appellation distilled from its intent and purpose. A book that he is writing with stories that he has written—stories based on life experiences, with a healthy coating of humor. If things work out the way they could and should, I would work as an editor—more like a second pair of eyes—for the stories.

Our hope is to eventually get this book published, with a warm reception from an audience that would not solely consist of family. I’m well aware that the way toward the destination could be treacherous. The prior mentioned triumvirate of ego, hurt, and pride will definitely come to play. Of course, I’m anxious if the equilibrium of building and breaking will alter, and that the relationship with drift toward a less desirable state.

All this we shall see.

Disappointment and Dissatisfaction

It’s been another week. Another week of not being able to do what I set out to do. Another week of falling short of expectations that I set for yourself. Another week that tells me that there are more such weeks to come, and the weeks will clump into months, which will then solidify into years.

Yet, if I were to note the things that I was able to do, the skills that I was able to hone, the art that I was able to craft, the plans that was able to make, I would know that I didn’t do that bad. But I didn’t, I don’t, and I won’t. I have masterfully orchestrated the positive feedback loop (strange that this is one of few things that can be described as positive in my life) in which the feeling of disappointment and dissatisfaction with myself sets me up for the glorious streak of weeks, months, and years that I’m in.

As I write this, my search for a performance coach, which is in its third week, feels like yet another weak, uncommitted attempt at fixing things that may never be fixed. It is tantamount to transferring responsibilities of taking care of things that you ought to have taken care of yourself in the first place.

“You used to be good at mastering things and bringing them to the finishing line; that’s a skill that you have that we can work with”,

tells the second of four coaches in the obligatory free session. The conversation was quite pleasant and smooth. I felt comfortable sharing what I was seeking. There were no uncomfortable silences. There was a mutual convergence, probably because the coach was a musician and had goals that were similar to mind.

The meeting itself was rather unplanned. The coach had gotten in touch with me over email and text messages, requesting me to suggest a good time to meet. I was out riding all weekend. So when I respond around 3 pm IST on Sunday, I wasn’t expecting a call on my phone by 6.30 pm, which would then be followed by at one-hour conversation starting at 8 pm.

In between, I familiarize myself with his website. In the messaging on the site, I see patterns that indicate potential incompatibilities in the approaches and philosophies employed if we were to work together.

Yet, I prepare my story, keeping in mind the need for not wasting the coach’s time. I’m constantly reminded that they are all professionals and that they use the money these coaching sessions bring to make ends meet. The problem is that most of them charge more than I could ever afford. To admit this fact is painful and insulting. Makes me wonder why I started my search in the first place.

The two that I have met so far have assured me that they won’t let the cost barrier be the reason why I can’t work with them. I’m still not sure what that means in terms of their fees, but it does make me feel like I’m spending money to buy band-aids to cover up my wounds, instead of admitting that I require something else. Something that may not even be real.

When I read this article on The Atlantic, I was expecting to be feeling slightly more at peace with myself for being in the state of dissatisfaction/disappointment. Of course, I haven’t tried what the article suggests one try, but being aware of the possibility of a way out must help, no? It hasn’t.

Maybe it is because I ended up doing something that I said I’d do less of. Maybe it is because I haven’t been able to write for the past few days. Maybe it is because I just heard from my partner that my ex has had some unkind things to say about me. Maybe it is because my partner did not let me know about this until after I sent to my ex a note with an article that I read on The Marginalian about long-distance relationships. And then, in an unpleasant conversation with my partner, I was told that I sound like someone that I don’t want to sound like. Someone who, until recently, I thought I could help to not sound like how they sound like.

I haven’t been in touch with most people who I used to care about for the last two years. This includes my ex. My partner, who tries to be a messenger between me and the ones that I have left behind, tried the same with my ex. When he saw a sliver of light in the dark skies that have been looming over me, he tried to nudge me to get in touch with the ex. Of course I said I don’t want to. Of course I said I feel it would be better not to care about others until I have gotten myself back together. Of course I still think this is the truth.

The real question is this: will I ever get myself back together?

Dancing

I never liked dancing. Watching people dance is one thing, but doing it oneself brings a shudder. I guess I should not generalize it. Doing it myself brings a shudder.

I have been asked to dance at weddings, parties, discos, beaches, and shows—hell, even the shows where I’m one of the people responsible for getting everyone to move. Playing music to get others to dance feels a natural extension of my role in this world. Participating in it couldn’t feel more alien.

I grew up feeling that I lack a penchant for physical coordination and three-dimensional orientation. Things that people take seconds to figure out would take me minutes, and stuff that people would master in hours would take me days. I would be left feeling disappointed with myself to even dared to have attempted new things.

I remember having to confront two activities that I was eventually able to conquer—playing music and typing on a keyboard.

Everyone is aware that playing a musical instrument a difficult task, especially in the early stages. It is worse when the act of playing an instrument involves physical movements that have no equivalents in daily activities. Holding a few strings against a piece of wood with the tips of your fingers of one of your hands and trying to trigger vibrations in a few of them with the fingers of the other , while taking care of melody, rhythm, and precision, is quite a leap of grace for someone like me. I’m sure it is not too different for others.

Things get worse if you seem to be in perpetual competition with peers, which I was in this case when I was taking my initial lessons in guitar. My friend, who was younger to me, seemed to have so much more grace and leaning to mastering this complex motor routine.

Unfortunately, this friend—who I’m not friends with anymore—is also involved in the second example. On my teens, I used to frequent a friend’s place. The guitar-peer friend and I used to meet our older friend, a teacher of accounting, who was a couple of decades elder to us. We used to talk about music and technology, primarily computers and hi-fi equipment. Our older friend had poor vision and used to have trouble preparing tests for his students.

That evening, a few days after I got my first personal computer, I was trying to help my friend finish a test. I was at the keyboard and I was asked to press a key. I did not know touch typing then and I looked down a the maze of letters, symbols, and numbers under my hands. Every key looked like it could be the key I was looking for, but only one was the right one and couldn’t find it.

My friends were over my shoulders calling out where it was. They were laughing at my inability to see things that they could so easily do from farther away. I felt bad and felt my heart racing. My body was telling me that if in the setting of a jungle, this sort of inability would be tantamount to risking my life.

A couple of more letters later, I stood up from the desk and told them that I’ll learn the layout of the keys before I try doing this. Within a week of practicing for an hour daily, with the help of a free typing tutor, I could type without looking at the keyboard.

As I type this, I know that I will feel confused if I look at a keyboard that I can easily touch type on.

In both situations, I had to dissect the process of mastering a skill, work at it for durations longer than someone else would, and slowly bring me up to a level where I can stand shoulders levels with everyone else.

So what about dancing? Why haven’t I attempted to start the process of breaking it down into bite-sized chunks? I don’t quite know myself.

I started writing after I heard the song “Dancing In The Moonlight” by Toploader earlier this morning.

“Dancing in the moonlight

Everybody's feeling warm and bright

It's such a fine and natural sight

Everybody's dancing in the moonlight”

The song sounds great but the lyrics are as unavailable to me as are blue skies that are hidden behind the thick smog this morning.

I guess I feel a certain sense of physical revulsion toward seeing myself dancing. I’m not talking about looking at myself in the mirror. Instead, more like splitting my consciousness from body and observing myself from a metaphorical tree branch.

Something doesn’t fit right. I have not quite ascertained if my discomfort stems from seeing myself emulate the physical movements that constitute dancing. Or is it the difficulty in seeing the discordant feelings of joy and contentment told through my face and my eyes, which if was able to do, would fees like a betrayal of my true self.

Unlike the processes of smoothing over of the two cavities, which seem to have left indelible memories, I don’t feel the need to mend the situation I have not yet felt inadequate because of my inability to dance, nor have I felt the need to aspire to emulate someone or something inspirational.

However, I must confess that I have at least one person in my life who likes dancing who, thanks to their generally uninspiring, condescending, and irritating nature, continues to push me away from dancing.

Six Months

It's been a long six months. Six months since the last time I wrote here. Six months since I thought things had changed. They indeed have. The world is not what it used to be. I'm not what I used to be.

COVID-19 is here to stay. It has changed the world. It's been almost four months since lock-down was first imposed in India and in Mumbai. We are still working from home. Possibly forever in some way or the other. Walking around without a mask, commuting for leisure, going to the movies, performing and watching live music, dining out, and vacations/travel all seem so unattainable. Maybe we'll never go back to how things used to be. I don't think my plans to pursue higher education will ever materialize. I don't think I will be able to move out of Mumbai/India.

J has stayed over at my place most of these four months of lock-down. It started as a regular weekend stay over at my place. Then came the lock-downs. Initially, we both struggled to come to grip with sharing spaces with someone else, with both having lived by ourselves alone most of our adult lives. It took a while for us to settle into a routine. The routine itself was fun, sans the arguments and stress. We watched a lot of good stuff, the best among which was the sensational TV drama The Wire. He had so many wonderful meals. On most days, we had tea on the balcony with the backdrop of a cleaner, quieter, and greener Mumbai. During these months, J did help me put together a lot of things that have improved my workflow, both for editing/writing related work and for music.

Work-from-home just means more actual work hours than ever before. At work, I'm working on creating a course for junior editors. This means that I never feel I have done enough. This coupled with the fact that I am trying to put in a solid 3 to 4 hours of music or related work most days and have almost 2 hours of cleaning housekeeping to do every day, I am sleeping less and I'm more stressed and wound up than I have ever been before. Maybe it is the stress of having lived together with someone for so long after so long. No matter how much ever I seem to be doing better, I just seem to get more an more unhappy and unsatisfied with what I do. As my friend put it, I will never ever be happy. I'll always figure out more things to worry about and feel unhappy about.

I got back to some of the Berklee courses for music production that I have been meaning to finish. I have also invested in some good quality gear for my home studio. Finally, I am learning more (from better quality sources) regarding music writing and production. All of this means that I am writing better music than ever, and I'm getting better at production and mixing. Hell, I'm even getting better at singing. And yet there is no certainty in when I'll be able to release the music that I have been writing. Just before lock-down, things looked promising. My close friends who I write and perform with for a project had finalized on a producer/engineer, who was excited to be working with us. We were expecting to cut several EPs starting in May 2020. Considering the way things have turned out, nothing is certain. Maybe this is how things will be. Or maybe I need to figure out getting even better and release some music of my own. All-in-one and DIY.

It's been over a year since my Mom passed. Two years since my father did. I thought their passing would make things more straightforward in a very selfish kinda way. I won't have to worry about them falling ill or needing to reschedule things to be with them. That sounds so wrong, and yet so right. Even though I winced while I typed this in, I long for a clear path (the home run) to my immediate goals, and I thought not having the added responsibility of taking care of my ailing parents would make things easier. It might have but I don't feel it one bit. Life seems to be more challenging than it has ever been.

My sister started writing for fun. Not a book or a blog, but simply writing to express herself. It started with a piece that she was expected to write for a college reunion. She did the drafting and I did a substantive edit on it. It was fun for me to read her thoughts expressed in the way that only she could, especially because they were vivid memories from my childhood and adolescence back in Kerala. These days, I don't get to talk to her much, and the occasional communications that we have are around these micro-journal entries that she shares with me, often in Malayalam.

I have been working on text generated by two of my travel mates and close friends. Blummer is writing an autobiography, and the couple of chapters that I have had the pleasure to read were such windows to his remarkable life! Mickles3 has sought my help in putting together a chapter for a scholarly publication. Both of these, along with the experience that I had with my sister, make me want to start writing again. Maybe I need to aim higher than a blog. Maybe a book or two? Maybe.

Along with that...

• I have fallen in love with fountain pens all over again.
• I feel inspired to write Bowie/Depeche Mode type music.
• Blu(menthal) is just gorgeous but is an arsheole.
• I'm not young anymore.
• I want my sister/friends to know that I want a do-not-resuscitate order if I get severe COVID-19.
• I want to read books, but where do I find time?

My Addiction

I can't see, I can't breathe, I can't lay still, without the sight of you
I can't scream, I can't fight, I can't play cool, without you being there
I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't stay still, without the sight of you
I can't dream, oh my plight, I'm such a fool, without you saying hey

Like dark chocolate
Like a cup of latte
Like a glass of scotch
Like an OCD
So hard to shake you off

My addiction, it's a contradiction
My addiction, it defies deaddiction
My addiction, it feels like corruption
My addiction, no one's jurisdiction

I can't feel, I can't shield, I can't bear it all, without you inside me
I can't leave, I can't move, I can't just live, without you being there
I can steal, but I can't give, I can't keep up, without you inside me
I can't plea, I can't flee, I can't but slide, without you saying hey

Like dark chocolate
Like a cup of latte
Like a glass of scotch
Like an OCD
So hard to shake you off

My addiction, it's a contradiction
My addiction, it defies deaddiction
My addiction, it feels like corruption
My addiction, no one's jurisdiction

Life-plague

I have just realized that my life is a miserable wreck driven by a person who has turned himself into something that he would have never let himself be. I just turn down one thing after the other and have cultivated this habit to procrastinate things that don't involve others. I don't why I do it and I can't find someone to blame it on other than me.

I am writing this after wasting a perfectly good Saturday doing nothing. It was meant to be a weekend to be spent with M at Alibaug. That got canned after sometime last week, I said that I am cancelling the weekend plan. At that point a I was going through a painful life event - breaking up with Vinokur - and I had lost my fucking mind.

Yesterday evening, I had a chance to spend the night with M. I pulled out of it at the last moment citing sleepiness and tiredness as an excuse. I was actually kinda disappointed that my apparently glorious weekend was turning into a nightmare. Then, today morning I got up late enough to cancel an outing with M downtown.

Afer that, I was in a state of mind to pull out of meeting with him tonight as well. I withheld sending the cancellation message and spent the entire day sulking - sleeping in that stuffy, ill-ventilated, hot thing called my apartment, which is infested now with stingy red ants. I had enough time to clean up my apartment - something that I used to love doing - but didn't do that.

This tendency of procrastination and saying no almost like a knee-jerk is plaguing my life. I don't know what has changed, but whatever it may be, it's making me stop being what I used to be. I need healing time. I need some time when my life flows, when everything doesn't have to be this demanding. If I don't get that soon, I'm going to be officially mad!