Coming to terms

It's been a long time.

It's been a long time for various reasons.

Today I have decided to complete this post after having contemplated on finishing it two months ago.

Today I have decided to forget that I'm a student pursuing a gruelling post-graduate course that usually eats up my Sundays.

Today I am not free.

I wrote my previous post sometime in December. I  know that unlike the past two years, I did not bother to come up with my usual year-end ramble about how much 2014 meant to me, my experiences that year, etcetera,  etcetera .

The reason for this exception isn't anything very special -  I'm still trying to hold onto the past year and the much-deserved warmth it infused in me. I refuse to accept that 2015 is another new start as every year has always been, or rather, has claimed to be.

The one thing I miss the most is the summer of 2014, especially our whirlwind trip to Paris and Switzerland. Out of the two destinations, Switzerland felt more like home to me; a second home that I had previously been unaware of, a home that had existed all this while, quietly, amidst snow-capped peaks and lush green meadows. This time we decided to deviate from the usual hotel accommodation, and chose to spend three days in a chalet owned by an old Swiss couple. Why did I fall in love with a locale and setting as humble as this? There are answers to this question, of course. I could owe it to the balcony overlooking the Alps, or to the contentment of letting words run in my diary whilst the mountains gave me company, to the wisps of smoke arising  from my coffee one particularly cold morning, to the wooden flooring, to the joy of wearing winter clothes and boots after a winterless year, to the winding streets of Grindelwald that led to an old station which could transport you back in time, to the snowman we built, to being overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the rugged yet kind nature that greeted us everyday, to being a part of the quaint surroundings - oh the list is indeed endless.

Every minute spent in the country that wasn't my own, counted, and more so because I knew what awaited me back home. I wanted to push away my anxiety and worry regarding academia, temporarily.

Though the holiday blues took a long time to fade, the year turned out to be a great one. What I have been left with ever since, is a dull craving to somehow experience it all once again, though dejavu will never be the same.

I have been asked to, or rather, been telling myself to stop myself from clamming my head with too many questions and expectations. I find myself wondering if I would have indeed done better, had I left this city to pursue my academics elsewhere. Would I be still loathing myself for being so dependant on my parents for everything? Would I still be that person to whom everything comes easily? A good university within the city, a fabulous vacation, good grades, a steady relationship with a good boy,  good food, and good friends. I'm probably jinxing everything good in my life by flaunting it on social media but the fact is everything good doesn't guarantee one hundred percent satisfaction.

I have gone on severals rants bout my dissatisfaction, and I have noticed that it's one of those things that lasts temporarily, fades away, only to sneak into your routine sometime later. And folks like me express it through words whilst there are some who find other mediums of venting it out. Also, I can't help but notice how stoic I sound.

As much as I would like to deny the fact that it was change that made the whole international experience so memorable and that it's the lack of change I have been sensing all this while, I have to come to terms with it. On one hand, it scares the s*** out of me on the other hand I guess it's the only thing that can guarantee some peace. My close friend told me that living on my own is a lot harder than I think. It will be really hard but I guess that's what I need. Change comes with a price.

It's turning out to be a long post, but who cares, I'm amazed at my train of thoughts. 2014 was a great year, because at some point it seemed like a year different than the rest.

It's time I acknowledge this year and appreciate it for its worth.

I have two examinations due this week and I'm not free. Coming to terms with that isn't so hard. 

Untitled.

What began as an attempt to reorganize my blog, change its look and start afresh with bubbling enthusiasm fizzled out to be a long sabbatical from writing, not to mention a writer's block being the most convenient excuse to spout.

For starters, I deleted the Facebook page that I had created for my blog. Why? Because my neglect towards the poor page began bothering me to such an extent, that I began to feel like a hypocrite who had initially promised to blog regularly with fancies of hitting 500+ likes within weeks. No, that page didn't deserve my neglect, and nor did my blog deserve to anticipate audience.

Moreover, I recently read something in Derek K. Miller's blog (archive), that instantly struck a chord with me. He says, "... I can't not write, but I've never been able to keep a diary, because I've always wanted an audience. I write my blog for myself, of course, and as something for my family and friends, as a record of my thoughts. But deep down, selfishly, I also want an audience of strangers, people who know me because of my writing, and who find some value in what I publish on its own merits, not because they are my friend or my relative."

For the longest time, I had wanted to pen down something along the aforementioned lines, without making myself seem like a pompous idiot, mind you! And I'm grateful to Mr.Miller for making it easier for me.

However, in retrospect the page was a reminder of my overambitious tendencies. Not only this page, but also my Soundcloud and Flickr profiles serve as classic examples of my habit of biting off more than I can chew. Followed by vehement denial on my part to massage my ego, of course. Interspersed with spurts of devotion. I realised this when my blog page popped on my newsfeed after what could have been months, the latest post dated around January.

I'm pretty sure you readers (if at all, there are any), might go all deja-vu on reading the previous paragraph. The same disappointment,  the more-than-frequent lapses, the same rant, all over again. It is but ironical that I'm only answerable to myself at this point, and not a so-called audience. Because,

a) The so-called audience resides in my mind
b) The whole purpose of a hobby is misplaced whilst trying to please this imaginary audience.

I consider myself as another victim of the Jack-of-all-trades disease. I write, I sing, I click pictures. But, can I proudly flaunt any one of those with conviction? Probably not. I sense that my quality has deteriorated in the process of focusing my energies on my unknown spectators. Let me just talk about writing. I realise I have been restricting the content of my blog in order to be appreciated by my friends and other fellow bloggers. Previously, I had to force myself to come up with inspiring posts, when all I wanted was to whine about the weather, or vent out my frustration, or talk about my break-up, or probably just describe a delicious mango. And here comes the weirdest bit - I wasn't obliged to do so actually; the Facebook page just amplified the need to popularise my blog.  Good riddance, I suppose. But I feel sorry that I couldn't stick to it.

What have I been upto over the past three months? Well post an unforgettable whirlwind trip to Paris and Switzerland, I unhappily returned to the oppressive Pune heat only to get neck deep in a college hunting process. June was worrisome considering I had nightmares about not making it to a good institute to pursue a postgraduate degree in Bioinformatics.I had to eliminate some institutes from my list and additionally appear for a couple of examinations. I was subjected a lot of why-don't-you-go-abroad and what-about-that-college conversations, plus feeble don't-worry-it-will-work-out reassurance. I had to run around from one office to another, and likewise make my poor dad run around to procure a Domicile Certificate, an unnecessary document to prove my residence in Maharashtra. My admission in Pune University, depended on that damned piece of paper. After dealing with nerves for what seemed like eternity, I was finally offered admission in the said institute which had always been my first preference. College resumed a fortnight ago, and I have been happy and occupied, ever since. Besides a good campus, crowd and staff, there's a coffee stall next to my department. What more could I ask for...

On the downside, I haven't been writing, playing my guitar, or clicking photographs that often. It bothers me. Classical music has taken a back seat; the playlists on my phone are craving to be updated. The persistent rains have draped a blanket of gloom on the city. Plus, Pune tops the list of India's Worst Public Transport Systems (I just made that up, but you can imagine), and commuting obviously sucks. Moreover, I joined the Teach For India volunteering service, only to withdraw from it because of my (already) hectic academic schedule. Also, saying goodbye to some of my oldest friends who moved out of the city recently, has affected me to an extent.

As of now, my motive is to be consistent in all my endeavours. I don't want to be that person who turns to her blog only when "shit happens".  My blog is indeed a solace during rough phases, but it deserves better. I am also contemplating on deleting my Flickr account and switching to a daily/weekly photoblog. That way I can concentrate on writing and photography, simultaneously.

On a lighter note, I will be turning 21 in two days. I don't feel excited as of now but I hope to, by tomorrow! My resolution for my 22nd year is to hold onto my resolutions, develop a thicker skin, and write more. At this point, I can only wish myself luck.

Thank you Akoustik, for standing by me through thick and thin.

There is no Secret

I never wanted to believe that book.

First of all, I love the comfort of staying in denial (well, who doesn't?). I applaud myself, as I type this because I swear, I'm not too comfortable with confessions. But then, I'm barely the person I was last year, who preferred basking in illusions. So hey, here's to self-awakening. Cheers.

For long, I have been trying to evade the law of attraction mumbo-jumbo. I must say I still disagree with it sometimes, especially its implausibility in certain scenarios. However, as much as I'd love to deny it vehemently, I think it's pretty fail-proof.

Oh man.

I'm not worried. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not..I'm..

Of course, I was worried. Worried about not getting into a good college. Worried about being subjected to a miserable social life. Worried about being in anyone's bad books. Worried about getting into a bad relationship. Denying simply brought me more grief in the form of anxiety attacks.

And it just attracted more worry. It still does, at times. I ask myself, what comfort did/do I cling to by perpetually floundering in a sea of unease? I suppose the answer lies within me. Oh, I tend to get intense, once in a while.

As I type this, I try to unwind or 'chill' (I loathe that word). But, anxiety is a loyal friend, that strives to stay as long as it can. I have tried or rather, am trying to abandon it with the help of my faithful Fender, or an occasional bottle of Old Monk (though I may add, this is hardly the weather to relish rum).

I think at this point, I'm drifting.

I don't remember what I intended to write in the first place. All I know is, I actually had no intention of finishing this post when I began typing and deleting word after word, two weeks ago. That was when my examinations were successfully on their mission of zapping my enthusiasm. But, strangely enough, I kept convincing myself that I was going to finish typing something that day, maybe spout some deep-seated wisdom that I usually reserve for myself and my moody conscience. Of course, that was a farce. I hope I manage to finish writing something, today.

I told myself I will steer away from romance (the sort that allures a girl on the brink of twenties, portraying itself to be rational) and the ephemeral rosiness it brings along, during my final year of undergraduate studies. I told myself a lot of other things like I'd blog more often. That I'd complete all the unfinished music, that bothers me till date. The fact that I had to constantly make a note of such things, makes me realize that I had always wanted to do the opposite. And that's why I ended up heading towards the opposite.

I entered third year, love struck. I now exit feeling blank.  I blog once in three months. My music lies unfinished in a virtual closet. Because, this is precisely what I wanted. I don't know why. But I think I do.

On the lighter side, the one thing that I did finish is my project. My final semester project was successful, because I wanted it to be so. And that time I didn't need to make notes, and set up reminders.

The book says the same. I don't follow the book. It's bullshit.

But I know I do. Subconsciously.

There's no secret. You get what you think.

Pictures in my mind

There are times when I open my blog feeling inspired, but then end up staring blankly at this box because inspiration seems to have disappeared in the blink of an eye, or isn't there to begin with because it probably must have been something I imagined.

Frankly, I'm not inspired to write today. I am writing because I feel like I should, and I am hoping I will get some inspiration along the way.

The year has begun on a tedious note, with academics and more academics, and one messed up entrance examination for a Masters degree in IIT (something which I had been looking forward to since the past six months). I know I'm beating myself over it;  I feel regretful and disappointed. I should have worked harder. I should have done this. I should have done that.
And these thoughts run a vicious cycle.

Sometimes, I wonder what is it that attracts to me to this institute. Is it the prestige? Its grand campus? Or the course structure? The crowd? I can picture myself studying there, but does the picture truly hold any meaning? Is it another chunk of my whims and fancies? I would like to say I don't know because it's convenient, but I do know. Let that be a secret.

Three months ago, I indulged in a counselling session with Mum. Yes, she was the counselor, and a good one that too. For those two hours, it wasn't my mother who addressed me. It was a counselor who had a third person perspective regarding my career and interests. We spoke about what worried me the most. I remember talking about dropping Biotechnology as a career option, and instead opt for a media-related field, something along the lines of photojournalism. And then began the tumult of questions.

"Why are you confused?"

"What appeals to you more?"

"What made you think about this?"

"Have you jotted down the pros and cons of both options?"

"How do you picture yourself in each field?

"Do you see yourself enjoying the field you've chosen?"

The first three questions seemed pretty straightforward, but the latter got me thinking. Imagining. Picturing. Maybe, the picture I had in my head wasn't going to be the real thing. I mean, it felt great (it still does) to see myself as a photographer, waltzing with a camera in hand and clicking pictures on-the-go . The flip side being monotony, extensive travelling, low stipends, and lack of creativity on a daily basis, was hard to picture. Not to mention, unpleasant to analyse. And yet the real thing is a mix of both. I just liked the former.

I had a stereotyped image of a career in biotechnology. I think I still do. I'm not too fond of wet labs, and research is something that doesn't appeal to me. On the other hand,  I haven't explored the field, and sticking to the stereotype seems to be a more convenient option.

I find myself asking the same question each day. What is it that I really want? Am I scared of flip sides and cons? Do I expect too much out of everything and everyone? Or do I just prefer seeing those pictures that I want to see?

One reads stories, hears rumors, swallows what the Internet has to say,  absorbs opinions flying around, or probably gets influenced by others, that invariably creates a slideshow of scenes in one's head. What are these scenes? Do they reflect the actual circumstance? Probably not.

Then again imagination always runs wild. It maybe positive. It could be negative. Rationality is something else altogether. And where imagination is, illusion exists. Illusions are unidirectional. Almost dreams.

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” 

- Edgar Allan Poe 

Whatever

Whatever is my favourite word.

Because it seems to sum up everything that I'm unable to articulate appropriately. Does that even make sense?

I am feeling quite disappointed today. As a matter of fact, currently I'm more than disappointed. I'm angry. I'm upset. I'm sad. And I'm Whatever.

Let me keep it simple and say that all the wonderful plans I had for December (with folks, of course) have gone kaput. Moreover, I can't seem to conveniently hold anyone responsible for my disappointment, and that's the icing on the cake (which has been burnt black in the oven). I could blame it on the situation, but, situations are unfeeling, heartless entities that decide to change their minds on a whim.

Life seemed to have been stationary, and pretty much humdrum a while ago (I just read my previous post). I'm glad that I enjoyed that phase while it lasted.

I have a major entrance exam coming up, and I'm nowhere close to finishing a syllabus that is easy yet endless enough to keep me flabbergasted all the time.

I shouldn't keep time for whatever. Whatever, is out of question. Whatever needs to be replaced by focus, books, and more focus.

Maybe a little party and good wine could be thrown in. After all, 2014 is round the corner. Though, I'm unhappy that 2013 is already on her way out.

I'll be off to Munaar for a week's getaway. See you soon. And a Happy New Year.

Or whatever.

Untitled.

Hi.

I could copy paste the first paragraph of my previous post, but in simpler and more blatant words, writing has taken a backseat. Probably the backseat of a bus headed to Timbaktu.

I should be studying for an examination that is due on Saturday. But, I'm spending time with a friend called Procrastination as of now. Friend is partially to blame for my sluggishness and couch potato-ness. Should I apologise?

I'm not dissatisfied or unhappy or frustrated, or anything of that sort. Strangely enough, everything seems to be stationary. Sometimes, I tend to forget which day it is and important dates such as birthdays. Sometimes, when I look out of the window and observe the sky, I feel as though the clouds haven't really moved. They're all still. Two pigeons visit my balcony every morning, and Mum has conjured a harebrained story about them being reincarnations of my late grandparents. My day is incomplete without filter coffee, "Romedy Now", "Lost", books, and my very faithful cellphone, not to mention social media.

The only things that are liable to change are my shower timings and sleep pattern. I have also been munching on 'Little Heart' biscuits. I haven't had time to explore new places for photography. I think I'm going to the railway station on my own during the winter break and capture various scenes out there on my camera.

Music hasn't been exactly forgotten. I anticipate some worthwhile jamming sessions with a friend. So that's good.

As much as I would love for some spice or masala in my seemingly mundane routine, I think I'd like to secretly savour the monotony because I know deep down that routines are liable to change, and that I might not be able to get this time back. I feel like some major change is imminent. It's like the lull before a storm, but,\ this time the storm may not be a storm. It could be something pleasant.

I think I'd like constancy for a change. I hate pigeons, but if they are supposedly my thatha and patti, I don't mind indulging in their company.

Cheers.

Mistakes

Hello.

How long has it been? A month? Or more maybe? I have been blatantly ignoring my blog, and writing to be precise. I have reasons to validate that but let's not get into that. "I have been busy," could suffice for now.

(Or maybe the lack of solid inspiration, who knows.)

I woke up half an hour ago, with the sole intention of writing something in my favourite blank box again. I have forgotten how much it has helped me get through stuff, happy and sad.

Have you ever felt like a mistake? I am not talking about having committed one. I'm talking about having felt like one. Your career, your college, your hobby, a decision - these tend to qualify as mistakes at times. But, the fact that you as an individual could be a mistake in someone's life, is something that doesn't pop in your mind very often. And when it does, it makes you contemplate, and just worry.

"I should not have been her friend," or "He shouldn't have gotten close to me," - as though you are the root cause of every problem, as though you are the one causing all the inconvenience.

The tiny voice in your head shouts "Be rational!" but all the rationality it tries to enforce upon you can be pretty useless, once your emotional side has taken control. You try to seek comfort in some sort of an assurance in your friend and that tiny voice as well , but it seems shallow as a puddle. And yet there are times when there is no one to guarantee you anything.

And when it comes to someone like me, who is as sensitive as a thermometer, this thought is food for further absurd analysis.

Something like -

If that person had his/her life's data stored in a computer, that needed periodic cleaning up, I would probably end up in the recycle bin, sooner or later.

Or maybe I was destined to be an Error 404, after all.

"Anyone who has never made a mistake, has never tried anything new," said one great guy.

I'm starting to wonder that I was some good after all.

Upside down frowns

I am happy.

Happier than I have been in a very long time. This summer has probably been one of my best so far, and not in terms of where we, as a family, went holidaying, but in terms of how things have shaped up for me so far.

I must admit, the whole guitar and music scene has suffered a bit for me, considering I decided to pursue my recent-found love for photography. Yes, a Digital Single-Lens Reflex Camera. I joined the DSLR cult.

I need to figure out a way to balance both. And, a way to control my ADD tendency towards my hobbies. I have begun to multitask way too much. I know multitasking is good, yet, not really at times.

Hobbies can't make one happy, alone. Or maybe they can. I don't know. I haven't really made new friends as such. Just maintained the old ones, and probably realized their worth. However, I may have become familiar with people who were strangers a few months ago, to an extent where their presence has become a refreshing part of my mundane routine.

I sometimes wonder what happiness really means. When you're plunged in the depth of your worst nightmares  and when the world is an epitome of melancholy, happiness becomes an eclipsed entity, an idea that becomes so obscure that its existence is almost as good as gone. That's when one scrounges for it in every nook and corner, and probably assumes it lies concealed in rings of cigarette smoke or submerged in a bottle of liquor. Or maybe it could be stolen from someone and be unleashed through pure sadism and malice.

But at least you feel happy at the end of your pursuit.

 What about the time when you step out of a never ending dark tunnel and step into sunlight? The rays could be from a warm summer's sun or probably from that of a cold winter, but, it's sunlight all the same. It makes your path visible. It's a far cry from despair, and its bound to fill your heart with zeal. That's the sort of happiness which is well deserved. The kind of happiness that makes you want to gulp it, breathe it, and fill your lungs with.

Then again, happiness could mean reading Murakami's book one morning with a cuppa filter coffee and a plate of cheese sandwich. Or it could mean climbing a not so high hill, one rainy afternoon, with a dear one you meet after what seemed forever. Or it could mean just going to bed feeling content.

Who knows?

I'm scratching my head right now. It doesn't have a definition. Or maybe it has a multitude of them.

 I am happy :)

Purpose, again

I have reinforced my faith in the fact that purpose kills plans.

And right now I'm enveloped by disappointment, irritation and menstrual stress.

I don't believe in coming up with pointless three-liner blog posts. But, right now, beliefs can take a backseat.

Purposeless posts do exist.

Purpose

Okay, I think I'm in a mood for one of my philosophical rants. It's been ages I know, for I have gone through my old posts. When was the last time I had actually sat down before this blank box with the purpose of unleashing a reflective verbal diarrhea?

For some reason I feel my attempt at that might fail today.

They say purpose is the key to achievement, to success and you know, all that. It is, but true that purpose does keep you unfazed through the nasty surprises hurled at you through the course of a  turbulent trip to *insert destination*. Nasty surprises have always followed a repetitive pattern of appearing during some of the fantastic phases of your life. Stephen King puts it quite aptly, SSDD - Same Shit, Different Day.

However, there are days when I dedicate an entire weekend to recording a new piece of music I have composed, but the whole attempt is a waste owing to an unfortunate process of recording, getting dissatisfied, deleting the track, re-recording, getting my hopes up high, discovering faults, getting frustrated, and so on. It's a futile consequence to a purposeful endeavour.

On the other hand, there are days when a sudden inspiration urges me to grab my microphone and guitar and I end up with a satisfactory rendition of my composition.

Purpose leads to expectations, and the latter are fickle minded when it comes to making one happy. What about a well-organized party turning out to be average with a low guest count? What about a trip planned way in advance with the ideal itinerary, that gets screwed up? You go well prepared for an examination and that turns out to be your worst one till date. You intend to deliver a well-rehearsed speech at a gathering, but one look at the audience is enough to drench you in cold sweat and incoherence. In fact, preparing posts prior to the A-Z blog challenge did no good either; I gave up, quarter way through.

Does this mean that being prepared, purposeful and expectant is wrong? Course not. It's just that one  diverts so much energy towards the positive outcomes of his intention, that the other alternative gets sidelined; the alternative of a failure. How can it go wrong when I'm ready and all prepped? No way, it's going to be kick-ass. And, that's where one falls short.

What about all those times when I picked up the first dress I saw on a mannequin, just an hour before a big party, that earned me several compliments? When my family planned a surprise trip to Thailand? When I delivered a heartfelt speech for my music teacher after a successful show? And when my friends and I threw an impulsive yet memorable party, a few hours after the very idea culminated in our minds?

None of us bothered about outcomes. Spontaneity aided us, and god alone knows what made our efforts tick. Technically speaking, we hadn't even given our efforts a thought. Come to face it, that party wasn't supposed to set tongues wagging for days to come or encourage Facebook statuses. But, it did.

Sometimes, it just depends on your luck, on the time, the situation, and the people around you; the appropriateness of everything at that moment which ultimately benefits you. Yet, sometimes it's just on how much we relax our ideals. The I'm-gonna-plan-my-summer-so-damn-well dogma could zap your energy, and before you even realise it, you are left with a forgettable vacation, not to mention scorching.

Moral of the story - I have come up with a abstruse post that may or may not be relished by you readers, but nevertheless leaves me feeling contented.

Breathe

I don't know why this month hasn't given me a sense of satisfaction. It began on a high note, you know. My first short story got published on Spark, I was rewarded with constructive criticism and appreciation likewise. I uploaded my compositions on my newly made Soundcloud account, and that seemed to be getting somewhere as well. But after that, life seems to have come to a stand still. And I seemed to be stuck in this rut.

I know it has been ages since I blogged. I can't pinpoint the exact reason for my abstinence from writing. Maybe it has been stress. The stress of harboring of new insecurities that have been lately popping into my mind. Or maybe, the stress of dealing with nasty surprises. Or maybe the very idea of dragging myself daily to a college that greets me with its revolting mediocrity. I don't know. But, I haven't been able to bring myself to write.

I'm staring at this blank box, waiting for my fingers to take charge of the keyboard, like they usually would. Instead, I get frustrated with myself for not being able to produce some sort of substantial content that could suffice as a blog post. Damn it.

An idle mind is a devil's workshop. Time being paralyzed, my mind has lately been occupied with thoughts of triviality. Even something as simple as reading a book seems to have become a bloody task. It's a phase of staring-at-words-till-they-lose-their-meaning, of worrying about others,  of analyzing the purpose of  studying Biotech, and of trying to convince myself that someday I'll be competent enough to look after myself (big, big thoughts of a lanky girl on the brink of bidding farewell to teenage).

Hence, I have been comforting myself with a camera,  a microphone, and this guitar. I have been advised to practice Yoga every morning, to calm my nerves that seem to saltate at the slightest stimulus these days (and the problem isn't PMS).

It's not like I haven't reached some kind of a solution. Breathing does soothe you. Shut your eyes, inhale slowly and deeply and vice verse. It's not that your brain is going to pause and linger in tranquility (if you read that somewhere, then that's bull).  But, the thoughts loosen up, and they float instead of ravaging in your head. You could let your worst fears play and replay as often as you wish and feel the fear element fading away gradually, until it dissipates into nothingness.


And you feel stronger. And calmer.

They tell you to listen to music, or paint. Or go stroll in a park. Or sleep it off. Or watch a stupid movie. Or read something inspirational. Or talk to someone. You could take your pick.

But, who thought that listening to oneself breathe is the best option of them all? I used to shrug it off. Never believed that paying attention to your lungs would be an excellent way to kick-start the whole relaxing process. One hears a lot of talk about surviving each day by learning from one's errors or by being thick skinned. Yet, in spite of keeping all that philosophical dissertation in mind one tends to overlook the fact that the very crux of survival lies in each breathe.

I suppose you get my point. I think I have had my quota of cliched mumbo jumbo. :-P

I need to take some time out to breathe. Breathing is easy peasy, simple pimple.

And.. I guess this is my post for the day.

To not let it be

Is it a good idea to tolerate a friend?

Or is it better to be blunt and hurtful, cut of all connections, and then probably embark on a new start later?

I don't know. All I know is that I suck at being honest to those who are close to me. I am afraid of saying no. I am afraid of displeasing them. I could compromise for their sake. I don't like being in anybody's bad books.

I get this feeling that I tolerate too much. Trample on shit saying "Really, it's not that bad." But deep down, I know it is a lot. A lot to handle, and from the past experiences I've had, I rather prefer to not make big deal out of everything.


Tolerating a friend is not a good idea.

My glass is half full

Maybe with Mojito
Maybe with lemon iced tea
Or maybe with filter coffee.
Depends on my mood.

They make me feel optimistic, somehow. Does it make sense?

 It doesn't have to always.

What are you supposed to do if you are forced to stay home during a two-month long summer vacation with the shallow comfort of a cellphone, a laptop, a T.V, a swimming pool, morning walks, an occasional cuppa coffee with a friend, maybe lunch, and the only family outing being a mere dinner?

To add to that, you hear your friends gushing about their plans to holiday in Europe, Australia, Thailand and the like.

I have had my share of cribbing. I have had my share of whining about my problems. After a point, even complaining loses its charm.

So now, I'd like to think of it this way - Maybe this two-month vacation is a chance for me to explore my skills as an artist, a writer, a singer, and a guitarist. Or a chance to make up for all those months of inactivity by swimming and walking. Also a chance to meet school friends whom I have missed ever since college began. It's up to me to optimize on these days of freedom, not boredom.

Optimism is bullshit, say my cynical group of friends.

It's not. It's that one that keeps me going against Misery's efforts to drag me down to Level Zero. 

Minding my own business

Sometimes my seamless concern for others disgusts me.

I think it's a girl phenomenon. Else it's just completely my problem.

Unavailing, otious concern. I'm talking about pointlessly analysing somebody else's life. Sometimes it could also be that silly curiosity that plants itself in my idle brain.

There's a reason why they say an idle mind is a devil's worshop. In this case the devil assumes the form of senseless scrutiny.

Why is she dating that dumb dude?
What did he see in her?
Wait, what did she see in him?

What will happen if he gets into that college known for its snotty crowd?

If I ignore her calls just once, will she get mad at me?

Why is he messing with his life?
He shouldn't smoke.
She shouldn't smoke.

Why couldn't she opt for the career of her choice?
Why can't she make her own decisions?

Why, why did she fall into bad company? I didn't expect that.

Why can't he cut his shaggy mane?
Why did he go bald for chrissake?!

And, amongst all these unnecessary questions and thoughts dedicated to others, I forget one important person.

Me.

Everyone talks about this thing called Ego. Self-importance and adulation. Oh, I was so proud of it. It comforted me when I was hurt. But, I couldn't comfort it when it got hurt.Well, this is completely off the context but it's a wonder that I forget all about it, worrying about others. I should put it first. Worrying about myself and my problems to an extent is healthier than to worry about the choices others make, and the trouble they invite upon themselves.

It's good to care but as I ponder, I conclude that I excessively indulge in thoughts about everything possible which is not in my control. For heaven's sake, my friends do have some rationality to their credit.

It's THEIR life. As Bon Jovi would say.

Almost half my brain is occupied with thoughts about others. Are they really worth all that space in my head? I don't know. I guess not.

Indecisive for myself but decisive for others.That's what it has come to. Control freakism-ish I suppose.

Would my best friend reserve that much of her brain space for me? I don't think my boyfriend ever did that either.

Minding my own business is something I need to grasp.
 

Guitar love and other stories

I hear and feel good music around me. It gets me all charged up and invigorated. The feeling is intense. Every catchy rhythm catches my ear ; the stimulus travels the course of my arms, reaches my fingers, gets them agitated until they relax on sensing the cool strings of my guitar. Steel strings. My fingers run across the frets lightly. It's a lovely feeling.

I have never felt so passionate about anything else. It's my nineteenth year. Three years ago, my beautiful Squier was gifted to me by my mother on my birthday. I fell in love with it. Head over heels. The first seed of this obsession that was sown that day, hasn't faded yet. Joined classes to get my basics right, but they stopped mattering soon; I was way ahead of my teacher, avidity for learning more songs overpowering me, making me impatient.

The classes stopped; they did so owing to reasons, of course, but my zeal to keep guitar-ing didn't end with them. YouTube. Google. Thank you. You helped me to a great extent. And of course other guitar enthusiasts who fortunately for me, have turned out to be my close friends!

But I realised. It wasn't just about the songs or making covers of original numbers, recording them using a pathetic mic attached to a headphone and uploading them on YouTube. It's about getting the basics right. It does matter. I try to play by ear as far as possible but sometimes it doesn't work. I am forced to blindly follow guitar tutorials on YouTube, that are helpful but what's the point in playing chords that are unknown to me and are merely reduced to various finger positions on the fretboard?

A confession - I'm no pro. I'm still a novice though close buddies and family may encourage me by heaping praises on my skills. I'm not satisfied. I was never satisfied. Maybe I should give myself more time. Three years is barely a duration to sum myself up as a guitarist.

It bothered me. Yes, the fact that my fundamentals in Western music were weak. I didn't know to read music. I was an ignoramus when it came to staff notations and all that jazz. It's only when it began giving me a complex that I decided to rejoin classes, this time, under the guidance of a new teacher.

The scene has changed, of course. I can read music. Somewhat. I know what C D E F G A and B looks like. I know my scales. I know what  triads, arpeggios, accidentals , key and time signature are . I know what Bass and Treble clefs look like. Wow. I didn't know what they were six months ago.

Another confession. I don't practice regularly. Mostly, I end up going through the pieces an hour before class begins. Is it just laziness? Or lack of sufficient interest? I don't know. Maybe it's a combination of both. It's my problem. My teacher is a great chap. An epitome of patience. He hasn't lost his cool at me. Ever. That makes me feel worse.

'Obsession' is not the accurate word to describe my love for strings. It's just this emotion that has remained constant since the past three years, untouched by my mood swings, anger, heart break or disappointment. My guitar gives me the assurance of possessing a talent (that is still getting nurtured). In simpler words, it has played a great role in boosting my self-esteem. It's there at the end of the day to comfort me and give my fingers, a much deserved treat.

I'm not such a fabulous guitarist, though I make myself sound like one, with a blog being titled 'Akoustik' and 'Obsessive guitarist' or 'lover of strings' being added to the description field of every social networking site. There is a multitude of mind blowing guitarists living in my city; several hundreds in the state of Maharashtra, several million in the country and innumerable in this world. I am just a barely visible member of the bandwagon belonging to my city.

I'm unable to compose lyrics. I have tried though, the result being a mediocre song about a broken heart. I probably need to sit somewhere  in solitude, clear my head and let the words flow. I find it difficult to improvise my own tunes. I probably need to close my eyes and let the tune flow into my head. Somehow I can never bring myself to do that. What is it that stops me?

I hear and feel good music. Sudden elation. Stimulation. Frustration. Impatience. I wish I could be as good as the creators of this good music. I wish I could meet more individuals who would understand my sudden craving to jam in the middle of the night; that sudden impulse to grab my guitar at 2 A.M in the morning just to reproduce a vague melody, stuck at the back of my head. How does a band come together? How come music aficionados find each other? How do they 'click'?

That sudden urge to jump on a stage and deliver a WOW performance gets to me sometimes. But sometimes the despondency of not matching up to great guitar-ing standards overwhelms me.

Making music. Am I doing it for myself or for others? Maybe if I keep myself in the limelight, it would do me a lot better. Maybe if I forget myself and just keep my guitar in the limelight, it would do me better.

A Bittersweet Symphony

Aaah!Life can be as sweet and fantastic as sizzling brownies with vanilla ice-cream or be as bitter as cod liver oil. It can soothe you like a warm bubble bath or sting you in the bum like a vicious bee. You can't mask the effect of the bitterness; you HAVE to taste it at some point or the other.

So yes, just when I think normalcy is going to set in, something has to pop to obstruct it's flow. Stress. Anxiety. Helplessness. Anger. Frustration. Sickness. A concoction of all these components, proportioned haphazardly. I have been in the I-am-low-I-need-to-vent-my-emotions mode, since the past two weeks. How can one enjoy life when others around him or her are miserable? Yet, I dragged my friends out on a Sunday, to watch Ek Main aur Ek Tu, which in spite of it's silliness and pointlessness, managed to distract me a bit. Sitting at home, feeling depressed by a sickly atmosphere wasn't helping, hence the movie plan.

Senility can prove to be a major pain to those who are not it's victims. Each day accelerates the aging process, not to mention senility. It hurts. I have never seen my grandmother so weak; my grandfather so tired, so irritable and so frustrated with life. But then, age cannot be reversed. A taste of the Bitter. I have learnt to accept and come to terms with it.

Our home needs some happiness. A generous taste of divine gulab jamuns, that melt in one's mouth. So that I see a smile on my parents' face and maybe a hint of a smile on my grandparents' faces. Some reassurance that happy, memorable times are ahead of us.

If there's bitter, something sweet will definitely come along. Cos' it's a bittersweet symphony, after all.

Can vs Can't

Another New Year resolution -

Replacing an 'I can't' statement with an 'I can'. Okay, that doesn't mean that I'll say stuff like "Hey, I CAN  be a real bitch!". It means saying stuff like "Hey, I can master classical guitar-ing!" and implementing it too, duh.

I underestimate myself, often not aware of the loser-attitude that creeps into my nature. Like the time my hands kept trembling while handling a bacterial culture in the Microbiology laboratory, because all that was going in my head that time was, "Fuck, I can't be so precise while streaking the media with bacteria!". That was embarrassing. Not to mention the amused stares of my colleagues and teacher.

I want to sing before an appreciative audience (Note the use of  the word 'appreciative' because it sucks to sing before a sea of blank faces, who applaud politely once I'm done with my performance but clearly do not comprehend the lyrics. Nevertheless, it's less terrifying). I can sing. I love singing. But I feel nervous at the thought of facing a multitude of faces, riveted at me, grasping the music and lyrics. I think I can't muster the guts to present them with a flawless performance. I think I'll pass out.

I get frustrated easily with myself. I can't tolerate myself when I get indecisive. There goes. Can't. I could probably handle and endure myself if I learnt the art of being decisive. Yes, it's definitely an art. An acquired skill that's a necessity. I will deny having been indecisive while choosing a career path. That is one thing I have prided myself for. I was firm. I knew what I wanted. I knew I could. I know I can.

It's occasional but low self confidence does tend to enter my system, stealthily and then becomes conspicuous by manifesting in the form of indecisiveness, under estimation and hesitation. There's no point wishing for it to go away as it will, inadvertently, if I 'can' do away with it. I don't know which part of me gets convinced by the 'can't' but sometimes, that part manages to convince me into avoiding the challenge and the non-comfort zone.

The 'can't' keeps me cozy in the comfort zone. There's absolutely no need for me to go that extra mile. But that comes with a price. A sense of regret. I could have done it. Maybe? And then I look at ineptitude and silently exclaim to myself, "I could have done it better goddamn it!". If only I wasn't so unsure of myself.

The path taken by 'Can' is obviously challenging, demanding and uncomfortable. It can be terribly difficult too. But 'Can' mostly makes you smile triumphantly in the end. Similar to wearing orthodontic braces for three years which involves staying away from chewing gum, bhutta and coke, not directly biting into a juicy apple or a supercheesy pizza and of course, cringing in embarrassment on looking at your shiny metallic teeth in pictures. But hey, once they are off, there is no dearth of compliments, you smile freely, and bite, nibble and chew hard on anything edible. It's all good.

Have you ever wondered that there is a trace of 'I don't want to' or 'I am afraid to' in every 'can't'? Of course I can be terribly mingy and sick. But I don't want to be that way. I could have ignored those every single individual who illogically hurtful to me. But I couldn't because I didn't want to. Because it went against my nature. And I was afraid to do so.

It's a bit strange but Carl Allen from 'Yes Man' is oddly inspiring at times like these.

YES MAN I CAN.

Sometimes

Sometimes I get the urge to holler "Why the fuck did YOU change?!"

At whom, you may ask. At those whom I knew well once upon a time. At those who have become strangers now. At those who lied and continue to lie that they won't change. Cheats. Why be so pompous and say things they won't ever mean, in a century to come?

Everything about them has changed. From mannerisms to appearance. I look at old photographs on Facebook. The difference glares at me. Should I feel sad? Should I feel frustrated? Or should I simply not care? The third alternative is the hardest. But that's the best one.

"We used to be such good friends." The constant usage of 'used to' implies Change.

I log out of Facebook.

Sometimes, it's better to move on and repress that annoying urge.