Why.

Starting with. Shwetak feels depressed again. And again. Today, Nivi and I talked. (Actually, She did the talking. I listened). There was so much I wanted to tell her. I guess she had a little clue about it. Maybe later I would let her know. Or maybe on one of those booze parties we've been planning for so long. And now you wonder.

Would I actually blog about what I wanted to tell her ??? Naah. I wouldn't. No, I can't. Dont worry, Nivi. I promise I would tell ya. We would definitely have our "conversations". And most probably we would end up screaming infidelities towards each other. And maybe stop talking too. Naah. That wouldn't happen. (hopefully)

I wanted to write. I have always wanted to write. When I aint listening to music, I want to write. I want to write about the birds, the bees, the stars anad the 6 feet tall trees that you wonder why are called trees. Maybe someday I would figure out a way to continue doing that. Its almost 130 minutes until its tomorrow. I have a list of things I need to get through with - tons of things which I thought I would get rid of, until today. Now I am left with 129 minutes. Ironic, the minute passed so quickly. Like 8 blinks of the eye.

Nothing in this world is stagnant. Everything in this world is chaos. Today, I think of someone, something, someplace. I dream. I wonder. I write.

why does death always seem to be a redemptive notion ??? Why does it seem that death would bring is salvation??? Do You live, just to realise how fateful it is, to be dead ?? Why is death so intriguing ???

And then, there are the people talking. There are always people talking. Shwetak doesn't have to be this way. Has it been forever like this ?? Did he chose to be this way ?? What is the demystifying reagent that would be helpful, to let the real him come out. Why is he always so scared that the person that he really is on the inside would scare people away ??

Its because he did. There was a time, when his existence seemed unnecessary. Life seemed to be so far away from reality. Nothing seemed to be true, nothing seemed to be trustworthy. His senses fooled him - and his trusted ones weren't the only ones who played games. He remembered the times, when the world came crashing down, tumbling down into a dervish' whirl of emptiness. And all he could remember was watch darkness surround him, making him believe of that unnatural gloom that always seemed connected with darkness. Like a shadow - an inherent quality of existence. Ironically, shadows appear in presence of light.

He believed that life would never turn out to be what he would think of it to be.

He knows what it feels like to feel alone. But in that midst of troubles, hardships and loneliness he met a new friend - they call it solitude. When he was alone, he would call upon it, and discuss - The aspects of life, death, and why would your mom make you drink the worst tasting shake in the world every fucking morning.

Like this very moment - I think. I wonder. I write. Did it hurt to come it in the open. The story still hides deep within though. I would rather not recall - but what the hell - I make the statement itself brings those thoughts back again. Would it hurt ?? I dunno. Lets wait till tomorrow. If it doesnt stick that well, I might pull it off the board. And I'm sure, it would definitely hurt if I don't start working on the list of tonnes of things to do. Another 74 minutes to go. Another 592 blinks of the eye.

And yes, its too fuckin cold. I'm in two minds to set my room on fire. Would generate some heat - for a change.

Shwetak farts. Exits.