The Last Word

Tears on the Doorstep

2008-07-11T01:06:00.000-07:00

And for yet another day, she sat on the porch, waiting. Waiting for yet another day. She felt like she hadn't moved in ages. Maybe she didn't, maybe she did. It was hard to be sure about anything anymore. Legs crossed, her tiny head resting on a tiny hand, she sat fiddling with the ponytail that her thick, black hair was tied into. After what seemed like hours, or was it days, she moved to adjust her frock. When did she last change? She couldn't tell

Patience is not a virtue that comes naturally to all. Some are born with it, some with too much of it - but how much of it is a virtue. Patient or numb? Numb or in denial? In denial or eccentric? Eccentric or lunatic? Where does one end and the other begin. Who draws the line? She for one, definitely didn't. She couldn't know for how long she waited, has been waiting, today or any other day. Has she been waiting her entire lifetime? Could she wait for an entire lifetime

Even if she decided to move, could she actually get up and walk away. In the chaos and confusion that numbness brings, patience lends itself a pain in the form of a deadly realization of futility. Futility - a feared consequence of that speculative emotion called hope. Emotion? She didn't know what else to call a phenomenon that often has no rationale and drives either action or the lack of it, in directions that the rational or irrational mind can see no logical destination to

And so she hoped. She hoped and so she waited for him to come home. And in all the time that she waited, questions churned around in her head - without analysis or answers. Was she too numb to answer these questions? Or did the questions make her too numb to answer. Either or both together, she could only be sure that she had questions and she didn't have answers. Who is he? Why is she waiting for him? Why will he come home? Was he ever home? Was he meant to come home? Why would he come home, if he didn't know about home, about her, or about her waiting for him?

If she didn't know answers to any of these questions, why should she wait for him. She stared out into the ragged path and watched the crowd pass. A blank stare through eyes that almost showed no signs of life. In that sea of men that crossed her porch everyday, could he have already passed? She couldn't recognise him. If she didn't know who he was, and he didn't know he had to come home, what was she waiting for? The fierce grip of futility squeezed her eyes so hard, that it breathed life into her in the form of a tear. A tear that slowly made its way out of the small pool around her eyes, down her tender cheeks on to her porch

It was the end of yet another day. In the twilight, that solitary shining tear made her look around. Behind her was a home, a happy home made of light that beckoned her day and night. Yet, the man she waited for, the sorrow of his absence was far more alluring than the peace and happiness that she shunned. She wondered if she was happy or if she was sad, for it seemed that it made her happier to be sad in futile expectation. Sorrow, it seemed, was an addiction

Curiosity made her look down that path. Many porches, many houses, so many homes. Outside the brilliance and the light, basking in the sorrow of twilight sat many other girls fiddling with their hair, and many other boys in solitary gloom. She wondered what they were waiting for. Patience seemed to be in abundance, but was it patience after all. Did they know what they were waiting for. She stood up to look for tears on their doorstep, a tiny sparkle of twilight on their porch

She couldn't see. Contemplating going back inside into the light, took but an instant. She sat down again. Twilight past, the sun set and she couldn't see. But she waited nevertheless. She sat staring at the place where that tear fell on her doorstep wondering if she would see the next morning, wondering if tomorrow was a brand new day or today all over again

It was so hard to be sure about anything anymore

Long, dark corridors and forever winding roads

2007-02-18T21:20:00.000-08:00

He couldn’t move a muscle. He just sat there incapable of motion or emotion. He felt like he was from another dimension, like he was the only member of the audience sitting on centrestage in the middle of a play, not capable of anything more than the most basic involvement. And like any ordinary day, this man just sat there and watched. Above the crowd, above the people, above the life that is ordinarily ours. He could hear something distinct now, a familiar ringing in his head. It was the canopy under which his opinions grew, the immortal spring from which his decisions stemmed, the mould which cast the man he was. It was the image of himself that was inescapable, an image he found, was etched into the walls along every corridor in his soul. The chalk that marked the path for every stray line of thought, idea and emotion. A surreal fragment of his ego dictated to the man who dictated to a million others. It was conscious and subconscious; he could not resist that which he derives his strength from. To a man who cannot have friends, it remained his only solace. And once again he closed his eyes and tapped into that source again. And his lips began to move, whispering the words that made the man he is, and his father before him and all his forefathers as long back as he could remember

Above.. Beyond.. Beyond the wall of infinity, shattering that ultimate band. Above pride and humility, caressing life and land. Above the patron of divinity, endowed with the giving hand, Above the messenger in black, out of life, making sand. Above all good and all evil, all that is powerful and all that is real, all of time and all that is material.. In solitude, I stand

As a wave of strength filled his pores, he bit back a shudder and breathed as deeply as he could. When he opened his eyes, what struck him first was the futility of it all. Barely ten thousand men it took to defeat a country that stood for ten thousand years. Ten thousand men who would fill this room in less than half an hour. A room where jesters and dancers, poets and players were desperately trying to entertain. He looked around, trying to read their minds at this moment. Somehow, they all looked like mannequins that day. The jester was a laugh riot. Genuinely bumbling, knees buckling, speech stammering, profusely perspiring, an unbridled messy mass of fear. For once, the clown was truly funny. All the more so because that day, the clown was not he who was dressed like one. The dancers whose knees did not buckle, whose minds did not care. The poet whose words and praises were normally empty were now filled with sarcasm, half a smile decorating his lips and disdain resonating through his voice. The priest with his curses in disguise. How much longer, how much more, how many more would he have to take. The anticipation in the room infected him without a conscience

The air became so heavy he couldn’t breathe. The room was filled with a stench like he had never imagined. The smell of fear, and of loathing, affection and admiration, of defeat and victory, above all he could not take the smell that came from himself. A smell of defiance with a flavor of shame. A smell that could smother the heavens and scar the gods.

Finally, it came. The thud on the great big door ran a shiver through the room’s spine. The room sank into a silence that could be heard outside. The great big door opened and in they came, without passion or emotion, in unison they came, ten thousand men in uniform, and they filled the room, driving away the stench of anticipation. He could breathe now. He smiled and as they marched towards him, he shifted his weight onto one side and raised his right leg slowly and placed it gently upon his left. They walked up the flight of stairs, a sense of accomplishment written on their face. He noticed something weird about them. They all had the same expression, they all had the same face. As they walked towards him with swords in arms outstretched, he smiled. He smiled and he made up his mind not to close his eyes. He did not look, he did not stare, he did not see, but he did not close his eyes. And he began to say it all over again, once again. Above.. Beyond.. Beyond the wall of infinity..

Blessed is he, whosoever is free

2006-11-26T04:21:00.000-08:00

Biting the spreading vibes and the jarring road
Alone in the cold comfort that darkness gave
Under sheets of rain that lashed through the haze
He embraced the pace and hit the throttle straight

He sped towards the nothingness that lay ahead,
filled with peace in pleasure and pain. He grimaced,
as man and machine merged, he bent his head
and bowed to the skies, from where presiding deities gazed.

Blessed is he, whosoever can be free

Moonlight

2006-10-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

I have always failed to comprehend the popular conception of the ideal setting. Let me try to describe it by simply stating the facts, devoid of unnecessary decorative adjectives that normally tend to unfairly prejudice the average reader's mind; effectively presenting a nice, good looking, readymade opinion to him. A night sky, sprinkled with tiny stars and a full moon. A solitary bench under a solitary tree, a few feet away from the cliff. The only sound for miles around coming from the sea below.

So, I asked her, "What do you think it is?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"I mean, look at it. Around you, that is, why do they have to bring this up everywhere. The supposedly idyllic environment. Its been all over the movies and the stories, prose and poetries."
"Tch". She interjected, "Stop rhyming, you know I hate that."
"See. That's exactly what I'm saying. In this situation, you're supposed to be all romantic and fall for every silly and foolish thing I say. Here, even a suicidal threat, like jumping off this cliff is supposed to be romantic. At least, that's what we've been told. Instead, look at the truth. The absurdity of it all. You're irritated. I'm in one my against-everything moods and romance is the last thing we can think of; the stars, the sky and the sea are the last things I can appreciate. I mean, look at the moon. A plain white, circular disc. Couldn't it come in a more interesting shape or colour?"

I could see she wanted to scream. But, it was just too quiet to make a scene. So she grit her teeth and said, "Don't try to pin this on me as usual. I don't get irritated. You get me irritated. And stop all the lecturing, I can't stand it. And the only mood you have, is the against-everything mood."
"I'm trying to have a conversation here. Is that all you can say? What do you think?"

She blew up like a bottle of cheap perfume in a campfire. "I think you're just nuts. I think you're a little dysfunctional upstairs. And as for your opinion, I think the entire thought is pointless. Tell me something. Do you really think you're making a difference? Do you think you're a renegade? Do you think that's cool? What are you rebelling against? Everything and everyone? I'll tell you what I think. You rebel against nothing and no one. You don't even know what you're rebelling against. In fact, all you think and all you say is just a lot of hot air that looks decent but holds absolutely no value to what we, we as in me and every other living person might deem as life. Fine, so the only thoughts and opinions we have are what is driven into us by society, history and historians. We started the fire of lies and deceit and hypocrisy and now we're feeding it, fuelling it. Let us assume that all the great so called truths that you have been propogating all your life is indeed the absolute truth. But I want to know, what goddamned difference does it make?"

"But,..." I thought I should cut in here. If only for argument's sake.

And she went on, "Aren't you going to go to work tomorrow? Aren't you going to collaborate with other hypocritical mortals that live and breathe through a blindfold and a smokescreen? Aren't you going to smile at their dumbness, revel in their joys, work for their glories, go to their birthday parties and wish them for anniversaries of publicly perfect but privately failed marriages? Tell me, doesn't that make you a hypocrite? So, when your entire philosophy never comes to fruition and doesn't effect a change upon your own behaviour, what bleeding difference do you think it makes to me? Me, or to anyone else who nods to your umpteen monologues, or to anyone else who is blissfully ignorant of the absolute truths that you come up with time and again? And you know what, I've had enough of it all. I want to be happy, I want to be with someone who is happy. At the very least, I want to be with someone who can be happy."

And she took her car keys and marched off to her car. I thought of asking her if this means our dinner plans were cancelled, but I decided that it wasn't the smartest thing to do at the moment.
Well, I was pretty stunned. The girl spoke more in those five minutes than in the years during which I knew her. And I like it this way. I like it when people are subjected to extreme emotions; joy, desperation or anger. Those are the only times, they really speak their mind. Unless a person is below 4 years of age that is, and not yet naturally trained in the art of conditioned responses.

Anyway.... I was at 'But..'. But, I was going to say, the point I'm trying to make here is propaganda. Yes, the same propaganda used by various countries, Nazi Germany and the US: during world war II with the purpose of recruitment, increasing productivity, confidence and patriotism and preventing leakage of information. The US again: against the Taliban in Afghanistan, against Saddam Hussein in Iraq and now against the Al-Qaeda. By the Soviet Union, for Stalin and Lenin apart from other communist causes. By countries and businessmen, companies and godmen. Through pamphlets, posters and newspapers. Through the radio and the television. And most effectively, through your neighbour next door.

It hits me everytime I see my favourite-est president; not theirs or ours, but the world's own president, Bush Jr. give one of his most charismatic and eloquent appearances at a press conference. You know the speech, we've heard it all. We think about it, talk about it, we even dream about it. The content is etched forever in our minds and stirs the deepest, darkest fears in our hearts. That America is in danger. The war on terror. Terrorists bang out of hell are all over the United States trying to break their will, their courage, our courage, the world's courage. But we shall not yield, we shall be strong and show them that America's will, our will and the world's will cannot be broken. And so on and so forth. Of course, and a convenient God Bless America at the end of it all. Amen to that.

Herman Goering once mentioned (during the Nuremberg trials): "Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country." What hits me is fact and fiction. Hitler's Ministry of Propaganda and Orwell and his 1984's Ministry of Truth. What hits me is the perfect justification for a surprising victory in an election for a surprising candidate for president by a seemingly knowledgeable group of people.

But that's not a really ground breaking thought or philosophy you know. We all know it, it's been written about, it's been spoken about. Hell, it's even been studied. Movies have been made out of it. But that's all we see. The extreme example for the what-if question. What escapes us are all the ingenious, subtle touches that we ignore. Advertisements. Bikini clad women to sell automobiles and motorbikes when they can't ride and can barely drive. Anorexic models to sell designer wear. Let me not even get started on anorexia but would anyone even dream of putting the common, average, overweight, disfigured or even just not-figured man or woman on the ramp? The concept of beauty is the result of the biggest and longest propaganda of man. Why did snow white have to be snow white? Couldn't she have been coal black? If you stood in front of the mirror and asked the million dollar question, who's the fairest of them all, why does it have to show snow white? What does that mean, that she was like a snow-woman made out of sterilized cotton? Or an albino? Thankfully now, and especially thankfully for me, dusky is in, dark is in, even if it is thanks to some really cheesy Mills & Boons novels.

Not getting into pointless details, but all of society's opinion formed supposedly out of free will, be it on success, religion, god, caste, or even my above mentioned prejudice on women not being able to drive is part of an unnatural, vicious cycle of sub-conscious, in-built propaganda. One person's prejudice influencing ten of his friends and two of his children is enough for the spontaneous combustion of the phenomenon that ravages down generations; with each generation feeding the fire until it consumes society. Propaganda that fuels growing prejudice that in turn again fuels propaganda. Hand in hand, ensuring that people form forced opinions apparently, out of free will. Some opinions just went on ringing in our ears over the centuries, became embedded in our genetic make-up, subsequently becoming more than just opinion; a way of life, a fact, the truth.

You know, but she's right. She's always right. Tomorrow morning, I will go to work. To be successful. To someday, drive a sedan into a huge, horrific looking, distasteful bungalow. I will indulge in their hypocrisies, thereby accepting it myself. Revelations don't fill your stomach, they don't bring joy, they don't mean that you won't ride in the best of cars or superbikes. They don't mean that you won't ogle at slim, skimpily clad women on FTV or watch romantic movies with half an hour long dialogues between the protagonists sitting on a solitary bench under a solitary tree on a cliff, under a sky adorned by a full moon and twinkling stars. Revelations don't bring change, they bring peace. Everytime I indulge in any of the aforementioned, I know why I'm doing it. It maybe to satisfy social obligations, or to satisfy my very own cravings. But, I know why. In doing so, I may be hypocritical or I may be genuine. But I know. The knowledge that a country, an individual or the society may force an action upon me, but they cannot force an opinion. True freedom after all, lies within ourselves, in our minds. And that knowledge gives me my peace, for now.

I wish I could explain that to her. I wish she'd understand.

And so the mirror cracked....

2006-04-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

That’s the one. That slimy, icky feeling. He got it every time he had to pick up a razor to shave. It’s sad, actually. When a man is 14, he can’t wait for a wee bit of facial hair to start popping their heads out. He can’t wait to lather the cream around the lower part of his face and use the razor like his father does. He can’t wait to be a man. At least feel like one as he tries to look majestic in front of the mirror. The majestic look of course, consists of merely a silly grin. He fails to see that a 14 year old boy who just shaved looks less like a man and more like a 14 year old girl. As the years go by, he begins to realize that shaving might just be a pain in the backside. His skin is rough and itchy. Worse, the stubble hurts his girlfriend and he soon finds out that a close shave and sex go hand in hand. If you don’t get one, you can’t get the other.

The man was in a fix. When a man has a hangover, he wakes up late. When he wakes up late, he just wants to get into a pair of trousers, run out of the damned house and reach office on time. The last thing he wants to do is pick up that razor and rip the bejesus off his face. Not a fix really, because he had already decided what he’s going to do. But, he was still in the process of deciding if he’s….decided.

So the man, in a moment of ingenuity, decided that it was time he became a little more assertive and a lot more decisive. He took out a coin and flipped it saying, HEADS!!. And tails it was. He looked around for a moment to make sure no one’s looking, and made up his mind, Best out of three. This was one of those rare times he wished he was married. These decision-making-thingies are just so much easier. Every question has a simple answer. And the answer always begins with a “Honey,…….?” For example, Which shirt should he wear? “Honey.........” Or for that matter, does he like tomato sauce? “Honey.........” Simple, very simple.

Outcome of the toss notwithstanding, the man thinks he shouldn’t weigh his decisions over a dumb coin and so he listens to his ‘wise inner self’, erases all thoughts of shaving and office and goes right back to sleep.

He woke up at six in the evening to that annoying ring tone on his mobile which meant he had kept a reminder. A little confused and surprised, he read the message. It said, “8.00pm: Dad leaves”. Cursing himself he sprang out of bed and started to get ready. He couldn’t believe that he had forgotten. His father had come over for the weekend to meet a relative. He didn’t want to make pointless conversation with his relatives, so he told his dad he’d come to drop him off at the station. Actually, he just wanted to party and make pointless conversation with strangers. A pang stung his heart when he thought about it but; Never mind, he thought, It’s only dad.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Suave, clean shaven, hair neatly combed and wearing his best suit. He wondered why there was this pressure to impress his own parents. Shouldn’t he? After all, he was an extremely successful investment banker. He should ‘look’ the part. But he hasn’t worn the suit to office and being an investment banker doesn’t impress anyone in office. Every one there is an extremely successful investment banker. It’s a hard job, he thought, I deserve to show off once in a while. But he realizes that he could have easily been happier in a ‘lesser’ job, there’s no way he can spend all he earns. But, there is that pressure to impress. To impress not just his parents or his friends. There is that pressure on his parents to impress their friends and relatives as well. Anyway, it feels nice when people look up at you, when they are impressed by you, he reasons. It’s a pity that it comes rarely, simply because every one at office and at those parties, every one inside of your personal and professional circuit is of the same league. And then it hits him. Like a hammer from heaven. He frowned as it dawned upon him that he studied hard in school, slogged his way through graduation in far away places, landed a great job and worked like a dog for sixteen hours a day, every day. In silence and loneliness, with sweat and for gold, he did all this, so that a few times a year, a few people that he might not know or care for, can be impressed.

I have a good life. I am in the upper class of society. Unfortunately, every class of society has a higher class of society, doesn’t it? Aarrgghh! The conscience is a prick. Oh yes, I most definitely am.

So, he got into the car and started driving down to the station.

The man didn’t like too many people and probably looked up to none. In the very convenient haze that a super-ego provides, he could see none superior, none greater, no flaw in himself and nothing lacking. In fact, there was very little he could see. He couldn’t see anyone above, below or around. All he saw was himself. In spite of being supremely self-centered, the one person he would have died for was his father.

You know, it’s weird really. Some of the people you love the most are the people that you hardly ever talk to, that you barely ever get to spend time with. Sometimes, that’s why you probably love them. Anyway, that is not the case here. He truly loved his dad. He never understood the concept of sacrifice and therefore, he doesn’t remember when he last helped anyone out and therefore, he doesn’t remember any of his friends ever helping him out. But, he remembers his dad. He remembers a father who in spite of a mediocre job, managed to give his son more than just the bare necessities, strived to give him luxuries. A father who never let him feel that sting. The one that the lack of green fabric in your wallet can give. A father who never frowned. For the one man who ever did anything for him without regret or worry and without receiving or expecting anything in return, he was ready to give his life.

Touchy, aren’t they? Humans that is. Sentimental fools, I think at times. Here is this guy who wouldn’t bother to look twice if he saw a man strapped onto the railway track or bother to wrinkle his trousers doing something about it. Unless of course, it was his father. Not any father who has sacrificed or any one else’s father who also has sacrificed, but only his father. The problem with them, I thought, was never sentiment or attachment. It was the callousness to someone else’s attachments or sentiments.

And this was the person he has spent the least time with in the last six years. He almost always avoided thinking about it. It hurt him, but he didn’t do anything about it. Strange again, you see. The man would die for his dad, but he will not pick up the phone and speak to him. God, he’s a walking, talking contradiction. The idiot does not realize that a phone call will probably make his dad happier than if he really died for him. Anyway, he did feel bad. He really did feel bad for his dad.

He parked his car and went to the platform. He looked up to see a big clock that read: 1930 hours. Half an hour of quality time, he thought. Through the swarm of people, he saw his old man on a bench, reading a newspaper, patient as ever. As he got closer, a strange calm filled him. With each step he took, a primitive peace rose within. He could not say if he was happy or if he was sad. He was not numb, but he could not say what he felt. At least this time, he would tell him. He would tell his dad how much he means to him. How bad he felt for him. Walking up to his father, he gave him a hug and sat down.

"How've you been, Dad?"
"Retired, but not yet tired.", he said, smiling as he realised it was a poor joke. "Seriously, I'm fine. My life hasn't changed much. This train keeps the same pace, stops only at the same old stations."
He shrugged as he felt even worse."But, how can you live like that Dad, doesn't it get monotonous?", he asked.
"Do you have an interesting life son? Do you keep doing new things everyday to keep you from getting bored?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, I know. I did that for sometime. Then I got bored of doing interesting things. Some ass said that change is the only constant. It's not only constant, it's bloody monotonous. You'll find out, don't worry.", his father said and ruffled his hair like he was a three year old. "Anyway, how's work at office?"
"It's getting hectic, but it's ok. They're paying me more as well.", he wasn't sure if he was informing or justifying. As he said this, he noticed that the train had begun to move. Realising there wasn't much time left he said, "Dad, I have to tell you something."
His father looked at his watch and turned to him, "No, I have to leave now. Listen to me. You don't know how bad I feel for you son."
The heavens opened, and hammers fell. I'm laughing but the man is being hit all over.

"You work night and day without direction or purpose.", he continued. "You earn, but you don't have anyone to spend it with. You aren't getting any younger, you know. You can't sleep around with strange women forever. Tell me, where do you think you're going with life? Look at me, son. I had a lovely wife and a beautiful child. I earned enough to keep them happy. I spent enough time at work and even more at home. I was never troubled, worried or harassed. I'm hitting seventy, looking forty and feeling twenty. Peace is all my life has been about." He got on to the train, stood at the door and said, "Do something about your life, darling. I feel really sad for you."

I'm rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off. The man didn't know what to say, he just stood there and watched as the train went past. Now, he felt numb. I don't know why he bothered to think like he did. It's weird, really. Man will only look from an angle from where he looks best. Perspective doesn't really mean you look at things in one way. It means you can't or you don't want to look at it in any other way. I don't know why he bothered to think at all. Men think. Hmmm...... I think that's where the problem lies.

Dive

2005-12-18T05:27:00.000-08:00

Do you remember that chap, Hercule Poirot? 56B Whitehaven Mansions, Sandhurst Square? No? Quite a charming fellow; his prudish dressing, the accent and the egg-shaped head. The icing, undoubtedly, was the meticulous moustache. But, that’s alright. You didn’t miss much. An absolutely intolerable chap, really. Eccentric and egocentric. He was just TOO prim and proper, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, my advice is simple. Go to Sherlock Holmes, any day. Now, there’s my kind of guy.

But still, I have to admit, Poirot was not wrong all the time. He kept saying that answers always lie in “the little grey cells”. I agree. I am a thinking man. I like to sit down and think about anything and everything; past, present and future. I always have to first anticipate a situation and then consider all the possibilities within that situation and then just sit back and……think. It doesn’t matter if I can’t come up with a solution. The fact that I have lived it in my head before it occurs outside of it, acts as something like a meta-experience, if I may coin such a word. An experience of an experience itself. Therefore, it so happens that I am always thinking. About useless and ( at least seemingly ) irrelevant things. But I am still a novice at it. After all, I have been doing it for hardly a couple of decades. So, most of the time, in fact, all the time, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I began and I don’t know where to go from there. Every possibility leads to many possibilities and so on and so on and so forth. I always manage to get lost. Unfortunately, in the labyrinth of the mind, I am no Theseus and there is no Ariadne, and I cannot use a thread to maneuver my way in and out. But, the Minotaur lurks, at every wrong turn, at every evil twist of imagination.

The mind is razor sharp. Mine, yours and theirs. The only problem is that some know it, and others don’t. Your mind, after all, is only as sharp as it thinks it is. The mind works fastest, at a blazing speed, when it is under pressure. Sadly, it must be taught the concept of direction. It must be trained to be a vector. But, the mind is not the kind of thing you can tempt with a carrot and a stick, or threaten with a whip. Before you train the mind to watch where it is going, you have to train yourself to watch it. If you are able to follow the mind, you will be able to persuade the mind to follow you.

That is why I come here: three miles out into sea. Just me and the sea. I am the frog in the well, watching the fog hold infinity in the palm of its hand. It is the middle of the night, but I see no moon. I am in the middle of the sea, but I see no sea. There is just a circular patch of water marking my visibility. Here and now, and only here and now, I do not mind losing my individuality. As the fog and the cold slowly seep into me, I feel that we have interchanged states of matter. They bite, and I just feel. I do not act, I do not react. I only feel, and they only bite. It is time; I remove my shirt and let them in. After a while, when they have stopped biting and we have reached our understanding, I prepare myself. I prepare myself to think. There is nowhere else I’d rather be, there’s nothing else I’d rather do. I need to think. I need to watch myself think. With the pressure, the thoughts change. They morph; seamless, effortless. And I need to catch them, I need to hold them, I need them to obey.

The air is rare and the water, cold. I breathe deeply and let myself go. I don’t pull a stupid face, I don’t hold my nose, I don’t puff up my cheeks. I just let myself go. The water sizzles on my skin for a brief moment, and then loses heat. Under the water, I am outside the dream. I can see the fog hold my dream, my well. And I can see me, waiting to be…..me. It has started.

I look down and proceed. The trick is to get as far down as your breath would allow; reserving nothing for the journey back. With every movement in descent, I go years behind. With every thrust, I explore countless forward and parallel dimensions. I can feel the air being sucked out of me, slowly. I don’t let out any air and yet, I feel like someone opened a tap in my lungs. I feel empty and my mind starts to fill it. Memories start flooding in. So many things, all at once, I cannot feel the joy and I cannot feel the sorrow; I cannot feel. I only watch. The mute spectator as the story unfolds.

The water sizzles again, I can feel the heat emanating from my lungs as it tries desperately to create air out of thin water. It will soon be time. My mind races, gathering speed with every passing moment. I struggle to keep up. The flood is going out now. Ideas shoot forth. In every direction, I do not know which one to grab on to. I explore as many as I can, simultaneously. The darkest corners of my mind are lit; they expose their most evil intentions. I should be scared, but I cannot. They are, after all, mine. I see the good, I see the weird. I see a streak of the freak that lives in us all. My lungs have burst. Oh, the pain. The soothing pain. It is time to return.

I turn and begin to return. I look around but sadly, there is no blood. The lungs have burst in vain. The pain is dead, only the heat remains. The horses in my mind run amok. There are too many and they are too wild. I still try. Every instant, there is extreme content and extreme horror. I do not believe the horrors of my mind do not identify me. After all, the imagination is the biggest bubble. You cannot perceive what is outside of your imagination. And what you can imagine is only what you are capable of. We can see what we cannot touch. We see what is beyond our immediate physical realm, thereby, extending it to our immediate physical surrounding. The environment exists and you understand it, only because you can see it and can therefore, touch it, feel it. The imagination is our eyes. What we imagine may not be a part of us, but it lies in our imagination only because, it has the capability to become a part of us. On the same lines, what is outside of our imagination, we may never be able to accept or identify with; but that does not mean that they do not exist.

I do not feel the need to breathe anymore. There is no pain, no burning sensation. There is no sea, no cold, no heat. There is just me and my mind. Me, in my mind. As I slowly float to the surface, I can see the fog again, the well with my boat. I can see my dream, waiting for me to drown in it again. I do not resist. Arresting all the horses within my mind, I keep them away for some time. Until next time. As I hit the surface, the pain returns. All at once, all the pain. I burn until I am forced to breathe, to take in as much air as could be accommodated. I climb on to the boat and look down to say goodbye. I am back in this dream now. I know I will come back soon. Reality is far more alluring than this dream. I need to think, I need to watch myself think.

I start rowing back to the shore. Slowly, steadily. There is no hurry. There is time. Every time I get back from these glimpses of reality, every time I dive out of this dream, I appreciate the silence. The glimpse of freedom. I can have it any time I want. Not for long, Not always. But, I can have it any time I want.

I have my peace.

Reach

2005-11-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

They, do not fly, who haunt the clouds.
They, who soared, had no wing sprouts.
When the heavens call and you need to fly,
lie on the ground as you kiss the sky.

Letter to God

2005-10-28T10:59:00.000-07:00

4th November, 2005.

Dear God,

I am not an atheist. But, I am not sure if I believe. After much thinking, I decided that it is wise to believe. Atleast, it is wiser than living as if there is no God, only to die and find out there always was. I write this letter as I have come up against a particularly complicated problem that I cannot extricate myself from. I write to you not only because of the dreadful lack of company but also because you are the ideal consultant in such matters. You have been highly recommended by my mother. Just kidding. I am not really sure what kind of humor they appreciate up there, so kindly forgive me if I miss the mark. I am trying to make the choice on my own, endeavouring to distance myself from bias and prejudice. But, from what I understand, so does everyone else with little or no success. You see, I find it hard to be as optimistic as my mother, always searching for the silver lining. She truly is one of your wonders. My father, however, thought it was a wonder you made her. He pointed it out everytime they had a conversation, which thankfully, was not too often. I'll get to the point. The problem is that I do not know if I should stay or just excuse myself. This day has presented to me, quite compelling arguments for both. Allow me to elucidate.

Today morning, my mother took my brother and me along with her to the hospital for a routine check-up. On the way back, she stopped for breakfast and fed us even though we were not really hungry. A few streets away from home, a poor old man stumbled at her feet. As soon as she helped him get up, he promptly proceeded to cough out blood. This went on for some time, and came to an end when he fainted. Now, naturally, such a situation can be rather disturbing. But she supported him on herself and began grunting her way back to the hospital carrying the weight of four people. Having the perennial luxury of a third person's point of view, I usually see everything coming. But, I did not expect this. The weak old man, who until then was as conscious as a doormat, made one swift movement. In a flash of well-practiced and acquired skill, he broke free, cut the gold chain off my mother's neck, left a neat scar on her left cheek and vanished round the corner. And so, once she had exhausted her tears, she lugged us back to the hospital.

At this moment, I must tell you more about my parents. My mother, you can guess, is what they call God-fearing down here. My father ponders over what there is to fear. Both of them are very cliched. So much so that interest in the truth wanes. She is the ever-smiling, compassionate, trusting, optimistic soul. You know the type. I have not spent enough time with my father to describe him properly, but he is nothing like her. He has a strong dislike for the concept of heaven and hell that my mother so faithfully believed. I must admit that his arguments are hard to refute. He once took the trouble of trying to convince himself and her saying,

"Let us for one moment assume the existence of heaven, ruled by God and hell, ruled by the Devil. We also consider that all evil men will be punished in hell and saints rewarded in heaven establishing the elementary fact that God supports the good and punishes evil and the Devil, otherwise. Now, why would the Devil trouble those with the very attribute that he thrives on? And if he did punish them and subject them to the known unpleasantries, he would be abiding by God's will, working for God. And THAT is not possible. Anyway, what would I do in heaven. You cannot expect me to go to a tea party and chit chat with the Pope now, can you? Agreed, I like the climate, but you know what darling, the company in hell is just so much better. Therefore, even if we were sent to hell, it would be like heaven. Get what I am saying?"

I did. God, why doesn't the bible make so much sense.

Anyway, she got her stitches done and we barely made it back home in one patched up piece. She had just washed up and made lunch when my father came in. I expected her scar to be a topic of discussion but it was not even mentioned. Something more trivial grabbed the spotlight. I did not know that peculiar red marks below the neck can be a big issue but apparently they can. My father was sporting a few of them and for some reason my mother did not approve of it. Always a man of few words, he did little in reply. He emptied his plate's contents on the person who made it and walked out of the house. She went in search of some more tears and upon finding it, promptly shed them as well. Tired of having to carry us troublesome brothers around all the time, she lied down for a nap. She had barely drifted away when my neighbour rang the bell. I quite like the boy, he's very sweet and hard-working. My mother thinks so too. They are not too well off, so whenever he comes asking for money to buy books or something, she gives him a little out of her savings. Today, she was reluctant to give him any because my brother and I are due to come out soon. This pregnancy business can be a costly affair. But, she gave in because his sister had been down with high fever for three days and he had to get something to alleviate it. By now, it was dinner time and any satisfaction my mother had gained from her benevolence had been quashed by the anticipation of my father's arrival. Preparing herself was a wise move. My father came back with six of his friends and as the company was insufficient, they dragged my complaisant mother along to the pub down the road. They were nice enough not to ignore her. They had a lot of fun at her expense. During one of the times when she squirmed and tried to look away, her eyes fell upon someone else she knew in the place. Someone, who was supposed to be at his sister's side but could not because he was restrained by all the revelry. When he saw her, the boy tripped and stumbled his way across the room to her. I assumed he was going to express his gratitude. I was right. He leaned close to her, raised his glass and said, "Thanks for everyth..thing, da..darling."

The mood at the table quickly changed from humour to that of passion. A passion for action. Recognising the need of the hour, my father, ever the man of few words, gave my mother one slap on her left cheek, which tore her stitches and one kick which sent her unconscious to the floor. Then, he dragged her to the car, dumped her inside and with dogged determination went back to complete the mission for which he came to the esteemed establishment.

Now here we are, three of us in this excuse for a car. I do not know when she will wake up, but when she does, she will go in search of some more tears. For a blow intended for my mother, fell instead upon her son, my brother. The only company I had is wasting away in front of my eyes. Thus presents itself before me, this predicament. I do not know if I should stay or leave, when I still can. Although the world itself is reason enough to stay away from it, my mother compensates more than adequately. Therefore dear lord, kindly reply at the earliest so that I can make necessary arrangements.

Thanking you,

(This is where my name is supposed to be)

P.S - How do I post this damned thing?
P.P.S - Kindly excuse the profanity.

Gotta feel, baby

2005-10-13T09:49:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I put a finger on the keyboard. I just did not 'feel' like it. For that matter, I do not feel like it now either. I'm supposed to be hitting the books; instead, I'm heading for the hills. So, what do I feel like now? I feel like hightailing it; take to my heels and run to the hills. So, in this utterly restless moment when I am in the process of flying the coop and I am desperately trying to bring my attempt at escapism into fruition, emotions escape me. I do not feel for anything at the moment. All my ideologies and noble concepts are taking forty winks. I am currently advising everyone to kindly refrain from discussing philosophy with me now, until and unless of course, they want to be drubbed by a very unbalanced man with a keyboard.

Phew! That feels a lot better. So, now....where were we? Yes.....unbalanced man with a keyboard. No...that's not the point. What was the point again? Ah... to feel. I find this feeling or rather, the absence of a feeling very disturbing. This is me. Short man, shorter fuse, very intense and devoid of patience are some of my better virtues. The combination, I am told can be rather difficult, but, I also happen to be highly inspired and from what I hear from those who love me, it is by all the wrong things. Therefore, one might not be incorrect in summarizing me as 'rather a hot-blooded ass, who has a rather weird-ass opinion on most things'. Such an ass cannot exist without feeling for a great many things. I grew up in a farm with the kind of asses that lauded the idealism of Marx and the intention of socialism just as we denounced the stupidity of Stalin. The worst thing that can happen to a philosopher is the successful implementation of his philosophy's mis-interpretation. Eventually, Marx refused to call himself a marxist. We asses looked up to those who were ready to give their lives for a cause, for a faith, for a belief; as long as they were sincere to it, even if it was absolutely contradictory to ours. Denounce them, fight them, but respect them. For, in the end, we don't know which ass is right until our meeting with that ass, St.Peter. We respected asses everywhere, it did not matter which farm they belonged to. We asses refused to be just another animal on just another planet and we thought the only way to establish that would be to live like Gods. To first become idealistic individuals and thereby achieve an idealistic society. And that, I am strongly led to believe, is why we asses remained just that....asses. Atleast, I believe it led to growth. We became bigger asses. Never mind.

I am moved by a great many things. Music, truth, beauty, courage, compassion and genuineness. Witnessing any event involving one or more of these, leaves a lasting impression on me. Which is why I like children. Almost every virtue, good and bad, can be found in them. That level of purity is a sight that fills me up all the time, everytime. Man, not spoilt by experience is just that: a child, an illogical, irrational ass. We'll reserve that for another time, another illogical, irrational blog. The point is, most people I know carry atleast one of these traits. Sometime back, in our favourite kind of sessions, a bitching session, we were listing down the people we hate and why. You know the gossip, the explosive type. Absolute dynamite. At last came my turn.

"Hmmm......Nobody really. Until and unless someone is positively scheming and intends to harm without reason, I cannot hold their belief against them. After all there is always their side to the argument."

"God. I don't believe you are being diplomatic now. Why do you always answer with a 'depends'? Just apply Ockham's razor and give a straight answer.", said a very disappointed friend, denied of his gossip, "Do you always have to be ambivalent?"

"Well.....Hmmm....Yes and No.", I put him down like a bedspread.

"There you go again. I don't believe this."

"Fine! There is this chap who I find very difficult to tolerate. As in, he's always out to give me trouble. But, mind you, it's only contradicting interests. In himself he's very genuine."

"So are you. You genuinely dislike him."

I gave my buddha-smile ( if I was capable of such a thing ).
All a person can do is try. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to meet my levels of tolerance, but I can atleast try. Sometimes, I feel as fake as the unicorn’s horn they sell in the market for it’s magical powers. The power is fake. And anyone who buys it, is going be faking fake bliss. But then, isn’t that what most of us do all the time?? Utopia, Aliens, World State, World Peace, Brotherhood, Unicorns, what’s the difference? Everything’s fine, all the time. Isn’t it? Feel boy, feel. But please feel, real.

I once knew a person who would pick up his guitar, clear his throat and begin. It was magical. There wouldn’t be a trace of music in either instrument or player. Yet, he’d close his eyes and sing and be immersed in it. Blessed is he. He doesn’t even need music to feel it’s bliss. The lamb who wanders and grazes without a care for the tiger is the wise one. The one’s like us who remain in the flock, realize the incompetence of the shepard, and look around for a predator, living in fear and hesitation is the fool. Ignorance is bliss. In a similar argument with such a wise person, I was told that I needed help. When I asked why, I was told, "You know, when you know that you know far more than you need to know, you know you need help."

It took me sometime to get it, but when I did, I knew that I did not need to know that.

It did not take me too long to realize that wealth is not happiness, and in the end a person only wants to be happy. Anyway, that is old philosophy, least realized but oft spoken about. But now I realized that information is not knowledge and knowledge is not intelligence. Intelligence is not wisdom and wisdom is not happiness. Therefore, how much you know will not make you happy and we have already established that how much you have will not make you happy either.

Which is where we come back to where we started. Feel. Bliss you can achieve only by feeling. So what is this feel? It’s well.... just a feeling. Intangible but it’s presence or absence is all-pervading. For me, God is just that. It’s a feeling. The concept of feel can be applied to anything. Haven’t you ever had the feeling that a person or an object is perfect in all respects but there is that something missing, something, you cannot pin-point. You know something’s missing, you just can’t say what. That quality, never quantity, is feeling. Apply it to anything. Music, an instrument, the player, bikes, cars, people, philosophy, love, sex, anything; it’s gotta have that feel. Your kind of feel. Or else it’s out. The feel, like life itself, never follows logic, its never rational. But without the feeling, life just is not the same. Without a feel for everything and everyone in your daily life, you can never be happy. Without a feel for anyone or anything, you are classified under the group titled ‘inanimate objects’. Sometimes baby, you gotta feel, just to feel alive.

Hmmm.....Time to hit the books again. God, I just don't feel like it.

The Philosophy of Cows and Cowards

2005-08-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

Nobody passes out of school without doing a 'The Cow' essay before the 6th grade. I don't remember what was there in it ( though I can guess ), but I do remember what I thought of it.

I am a pure non-vegetarian. And I love beef. Not that I do not respect cows; I do. Like all dutiful Indians, I respect and worship the usefulness of the placid and pleasant animal. But my liking for the animal is objective and has nothing to do with religion. Therefore, I like and respect the cow most when it's on one of 3 things: the menu, the dining table or my plate. When I told my sister this, her first reaction was to refer to the animal as "poor thing". Precisement. It is because the cow is such a "poor thing", offering little or no resistance at any point of time to anything at all, that we butcher it for a host of reasons. Even worse, we keep it just about barely alive to do our menial work. As a child I believed that if it were a wild, fervent and unpredictable animal and if it could not be domesticated, then this sacred animal would not be made to live a life of infra dignitatem. So, I came to the conclusion that it was asking for it, almost inviting it and therefore deserved it.

The point being, if you're afraid to stand up for yourself, I'm afraid, you can't blame anyone for standing on top of you. After all, why live if you have to live in fear. That is, I think, how I came to hate cowards and cowardice. I think they should be butchered like cattle.

After the usual series of unfortunate and quite boring events at a party, I ended up next to a man who was intent on making conversation. Awaking the martyr in me, I proceeded, with Christ-like benevolence, to be subject to the cruelty of ( the ) man and save the other guests. I decided to listen. I'm not sure if I dreamt it, but, somewhere in his monologue, this wonder-of-god made a statement that left a look of sovereign contempt on my face. He said something to the effect of not knowing the meaning of fear. There was apparently nothing in the world that the mighty gentleman was scared of. A man cannot be fearless. Everyone has their insecurities. The mightier, the more insecure. A fearless man cannot be one without fear, it can only be one with the fear of fear. The man who cannot accept the presence of fear and insecurity in his psyche is the greatest coward of them all. Meet the fearless coward.

Sometime back, before it struck anyone else, I considered the possibility of being a coward myself. How I came about it is a long story. In short, it came with the realization that I was turning to philosophy too soon, too often. And philosophy can be a slime. There is a philosophy for every right and every wrong and everything else in between. So, no matter what the situation, there will be a philosophy to back you up; you can count on that. In the words of Camus, "Those who lack the courage, will always find a philosophy to justify it". Most of the time, people take shelter under philosophy because they are scared of being wrong. Having a philosophy to back you up increases the credibility of your opinion and your statement. Hardly anybody just states their opinion and leaves it at that; it always has to be backed up by something some "known" person said in some vague context, centuries ago. The older the saying, the more credibility it lends. Popular 'back-up' people include the father of the nation, Lincoln, Ayn Rand, so on and so forth. Therefore, for most, a quick scurry for philosophy is driven not by wisdom or deep-rooted opinions but it is driven by fear. And it is because I scurry for philosophy too soon, too often, that I fear, I might.....fear.

An incident surfaces in my memory now. It was a conversation, supposed to be a war of words, between two of my very hard working friends. The winter was at it's peak and the sun was just about to rise. The winter's peak wasn't high enough for my friend; he was far higher than that. He had just spent the entire night working his way up. The other guy had spent the entire night working his way up too, a pile of books, that is. So, when I see that a conversation is about to take place, I say my "Hi" and step aside to watch the fun. The encyclopoedia, in one of his rare moments of speech, says to my rather disinterested friend, "God. Have you been.....you know...??"
"YYYuupp....Verrry much....Verrry nice.", he manages to say and proceeds to give him a liberal dose of his breath in order to prove his proud status. Not that it needed any proving.
"Don't you have any sense of responsibility. You are so talented. Why can't you work hard and do something in life?"
I always tell people not to get sentimental when drunk or get a drunk guy sentimental. It's unmanageable. Anyways, so this statement on his productivity he takes as an attack on his manhood.
"What do you mean work hard? I work hard too. You put a night out and I put a night out. You stretch yourself to the limit and I stretch myself to the limit. In the end, they'll end up paying you for your hard work and killing me for mine. So, I will go to the same place where you will go, only a few decades earlier. So, in the lives that we lead at the moment, I am ahead of you. Therefore, who is better off comes down to a difference in opinion and a question of philosophy. So please, keep moving."
The guy decides to take his advice and I proceed to take him to his room and put him to sleep.
On the way back, I say to him, "Fundu guy. Where'd you pick that line of thought?"
"Common sense, machan. I have too much of it."
"Common sense, my friend, is the most equally distributed thing in the world. Nobody thinks they need any more of it than they already have."
"Hmmm...Karl Marx."
"Damn."
"Nice try."
After putting him to sleep, I went into further thought. What he said back then was bullshit, I know it, he knows it. But can you argue with that line of thought?? No, because, as he rightly said, it is a question of philosophy. And there is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is death. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. Man is but just another animal on just another planet. Take man away from the equation and there is no difference. In fact, everything else on the planet is better off without us. When the importance of the existence of man itself is doubtful and arguable; what about the importance of one life?
"I know why you are here. Shoot, Coward. You are only going to kill a man." Forever Guevara.

Philosophy is for the self and therefore as unique as the individual. Being taught philosophy in a classroom will not help, neither will teaching, preaching, reading or discussing it. The problem these days is that there are too many teachers of philosophy and therefore, hardly any philosophers. Your philosophy is for you to nurture and savour. A person's philosophy is for him and him alone. Never try to associate with another person's philosophy, for your understanding of it will be miles from his. Philosophy provides neither shelter nor direction. Philosophy does not give you an understanding of the world . Your understanding of the world constitutes your philosophy.

Bears and scares

2005-08-02T01:39:00.000-07:00

A beard is a nice fluid asset to have. It can make one look shabby or dignified; primitive or super-cool. It gives shelter to those pearly pimples or scary scars and acts as a canopy for pallid skin. So, I’ve decided to grow my beard. And I’m quite happy about it. Not that it makes me look any better; in fact, the ladies have been quite fierce in convincing me otherwise. But they don’t understand. It’s not about looking better or worse, it’s just about looking different. Now I know I’m growing old; I tire easily. I’m tired of looking into the same face every morning. It really scares me. You see, if I can’t put up with my own face for a prolonged period of time, how am I going to get married? [Relationships are ok; you can take your breaks after all] And I can’t ask my wife to grow a beard, can I?....No.....Good lord. Definitely no!! That doesn’t worry me too much; there’s time and I’m confident I can work something out.

Of course, facial hair does have its disadvantages. If shaped well with creativity and care, it is possible that the person might look a lot better; there’s hope. There may be a few minor exceptions to the rule. On women for example, somehow, I don’t think there’s much hope, unless of course the design is simply ingenious and her face exudes tremendous creativity. It might help if such a woman is seen at the circus. One, I’m sure, will be able to appreciate the art a lot better then.

I’m a jittery sort of person, never calm or composed, and very uncomfortable in the presence of women. Small things and passing thoughts frighten me effortlessly. I’m scared now; I just happened to grab on to one of those stray lines of thought and now I’m off track and stuck in parlous waters. How do you know if your girl isn’t one of those hirsute characters and lusus naturae, before it’s too late to get out of the bed, out of the house and out of the goddamned country? We men are at least more open about things. We don’t pull them out at their roots so that it doesn’t leave a trace. And if we shave, we don’t mind talking about it. It’s never bad manners to ask a man if he removed his facial hair. And hey, we don’t get embarrassed. You know how it is. On the wedding day, clear, resplendent skin; one week later, you’re in the Amazon.

Never mind. So, the other day, my friend and I saw this girl.
And he says, “Hey! Check that out. Good looking eh?”
I maintain this dark, contemplative silence.
“Why doctor? Do you not concur?”
“She looks good.”
“So you agree. She’s good looking.”
What do I say. “Yeah…whatever.” Some people just don’t understand subtle concepts. Yup. She can kill with a smile and wound with her eyes and all that, but it does not mean she’s good looking. The charm that second glances held for me earlier has become hoary. I sprain my neck almost every other day taking second glances. A woman who looks good merits a second glance and I see such women many times a day, every day. So, in those exiguous times when I actually realize that the woman not only looks good but she’s also good looking, I am inclined to be stuck in that second glance for an extended period of time. This remains so, until a benevolent passer-by wakes me up, helps me pick up my jaw from the ground and puts it back in place.

It’s a pity there aren’t too many of those women around. One cannot escape observing oneself. If someone is looking at you, then you obviously have to observe yourself; and if no one is observing you, then you have to observe yourself even more. Kafka said something along the same lines but in a rather different context. Sometime back, I asked a looking-good person I knew, why does everyone want to look good? “To feel good about themselves, of course”, she says. Then I wonder, why is it that they want to feel good about themselves only in public? At home, anything and everything that fits or doesn’t fit goes. So then I’m told that it is a confidence building measure. One, somehow, feels a lot more confident about oneself if they’re dressed well and neat. Oops! I’m corrected again. It’s not just about dressing well or dressing neatly; it’s also about looking attractive or looking sexy. Ah! Comprendo. So, now I understand that one dresses not just to feel good about themselves but also to make other people feel other things by looking at them. Being attractive means being able to draw others towards oneself. Therefore, when the goal is to be attractive, it is to………So, when I meet a person who’s taken a lot of effort in looking good, I make it point to tell them “Hey. You’re looking good today.” It’s considered one of the best compliments a person can receive.

That’s when I go into one of those vague thinking moods. So, they’re looking good today. But, what about tomorrow? I just gave a compliment and God knows I meant it. But does God know who I just complimented? Definitely not the person. The appearance? Probably. The choice of palliament? Possibly. The apparel and it’s accessories? Definitely. And therefore, I could never understand how the compliment could be taken personally.

I’m definitely going to grow a beard. It doesn’t matter if I don’t look good with it. Hell, it doesn’t matter if women can’t stand it. I’m not going to let my confidence hang on for dear life to my appearance. I’m not going to change my looks to suit every one else’s likes. I don’t want and I undoubtedly don’t have the need to attract.

[ Weekend’s coming up. Hmmm……must look pleasing. ]