11.26
Dialing...
"Hello?"
Hey!
"Hey!"
What're you doing?
"I'm outside with-"
Oh, OK! We'll talk later!
"Yeah, sure!"
Bye!
"Bye!"
12.24
Dialing...
"You don't have enough credit-"
12.31
Dialing...
"The person you are calling has not responded. Please try-"
14.10
Picking...
Hello?
"Hey buddy! What's up!"
Hey man... how's it going?
"Awesome! Listen, me and C planning a trek. You wanna come?"
When's it?
"Tonight. We're thinking of catching the 8 o'clock bus and-"
Not tonight, sorry. Have some work.
"Saturday night?"
Dad's coming online, some work to do with the bank, something.
"Oh, OK! Next time then!"
Yeah man, sorry. Call-
"Bye!"
14.33
Dialing...
"The person you are calling has-"
15.04
Signing in...
"L. is online."
Laptop?
L: "Nt yet happened."
Damn. :(
L: "Yeah. I'm fucked."
Sleepover at S.'s place and finish the assignment?
And then tell me about the pillowfight?
L: "Heh. She lives all the way across town!"
Fine. P.?
L: "Uh. No."
K.?
L: "Oh wow."
"Hahhahahahhaha its K.!"
:D
What doing?
L: "Painting."
"Ur sheldon from big bang theory."
I'm Sheldon?!
That guy's stiff, a creature of habit and annoying!
I'm not annoying!
L: "You're stiff. Creature of habit. A know it all. ALL."
Sheldon Cooper is annoying and unforgiving. I am neither!
And he's not interested in sex. He's NOT interested- THAT'S ANTI-ME!
L: "Okay :P"
":P"
"Okay. And that."
The place here's a huge bungalow with no curfew and careless watchman.
L: "Fancy :P"
"Ur outside? Not with family?"
No, any studying requires the hostel experience.
Can't study for nuts from home - even this.
It's going to be crazy!
L: ":)"
"Did you make friends?"
This chick
L: "Really??"
Yeah!
But she's off FB for a while.
L: "Ahaan"
You are no longer signed in to send or receive messages.
15.55
"Hello?"
Sir, I'm calling from the south-
"Yes, sir, we're sorry sir. It's an area-wide cut, sir, there's a fire in the grid."
When will-
"In about 4 hours, sir."
16.16
Opening...
Yes?
"Sir, delivery from Amazon?"
Oh, yes!
"Sign here... and here."
Thanks!
"Thank you, sir!"
18.01
Dialing...
"The person you are-"
19.29
Wireless network... connected.
19.31
Signing in...
"L. is offline"
Hey! You there? Sorry, there was a power cut. I'll catchya soon, have a nice evening!
19.44
Coming.
"Good evening, sir! Delivery from Dumpling Queen!"
Oh yeah, how much is it?
"A round... 60, sir."
Keep the change.
"Thank you, sir! Enjoy your dinner!"
Yeah.
20.34
Dialing...
"Hello?"
Hey!
"Hey!"
What're you doing?
"I'm on my way!"
Oh, when'll you be here?
"In a coupla minutes, max. How's it going there... you OK?"
Yeah... I'm fine. Just missing you.
"I miss you, too."
Couldn't you blow off the late night shift?
"Aww! Look at you!"
I'm serious!
"You know I can't do that! Plus, it's Saturday... you know how busy the streets get!"
Yeah, yeah, OK. Get here faster.
"Yeah, I'm almost there."
OK.
23.15
"It's getting late."
Hmm...
"I'll talk to you tomorrow!"
I hate you.
"Me too! G'night!"
Yeah, whatever.
07.14
Picking...
Hmm... who's this?
"Hey!"
Yeah?
"It's me! You just woke up?!"
Yeah...
"Please tell me you've the script ready!"
Yeah... almost-
"Almost?! What's almost?!"
Gimme an hour.
"Are you sure? Because if you haven't finished it, you should tell me now."
No, no, one hour. You'll have it.
"OK, I trust you. Don't lemme down, man."
Hmm.
07.19
Somewhere in the south of the great City, curled up within layers of poverty, rebellion, filth and convivial skulduggery, in a building dotting the ramshackle landscape of the miserable shores, a young man strode up and down upon an old carpet, one of the few things of value in his otherwise poor excuse of a residence. At this juncture, the reader may not be surprised to discover upon my utterance that he was a writer - he still is - and took away from the denial of luxury the luxury of denial, a self-imposed lesson on the art of inspiration, coveting lovers and dodging them, befriending strangers and salvaging himself from the hubris of his own madness. Right then, as the first droplets of rain struck the glass in the windows, he called a young woman he was attempting now to love, and she spoke: "I'm outside with-" Goodbye, he screamed! Despair! On the philanthropy of despair it seemed he would feed first...
08.03
Picking...
"You done?"
What if I'm not?
"Man! I trusted-"
Relax! I'm done.
"Hmm... what's it called?"
The Art... of Inspiration! You like it?
"I think I do... I do, I do."
Showing posts with label Romanticism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Romanticism. Show all posts
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Why I Could Walk, And Why I Might Not
I don’t like walking. It’s a witless excursion.
I’d much rather look outside from my steel window; after all, it has become easy to reassure myself that there is no such thing as fresh air. When I set forth, the texture of the road feeling uncharacteristically affable, the occasional patch of gravel picks at my skin, and I feel like a condemned showpiece, a necessary fixture of society chained firmly to showmanship and the like–I can feel the stares, an invisible sneer, a finger pointed anywhere but, somehow, also at me. I feel open, like a lone journeyman on a long journey with the yawning distance nagging at me to cover it.
If I must walk–which fate I hope doesn’t befall me soon–I will because I have to. It won’t be an ailment of the legs but, strictly speaking, a yearning of the heart that’s going to get me off my arse. Yet again, there’s a sizable dose of toil left to be dedicated, to oil the joints and other rusting levers and so forth, and set forth like a Wodehousian “bird in the sky”.
When I walk, I only want to walk. I don’t want to pause and wonder which way to turn when faced with a fork, I don’t want to negotiate puddles and jaywalking urchins determined to run into my legs. A walk must preferably be in the shadows of a cherry blossom, an offering of apples, or a silent and waiting pine, with no faculty dedicated to any trivialities–I’m neither a lion nor a warrior. I only want to walk with all the purpose of walking left in me.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Walk of Fame Europe"]
[/caption]
It only seems stupid to romanticize such matters, even though it’s so easy to draw parallels to the image of a man walking with his chin thrust into the heavens, a picture “which draws forth reserves from the soul to be what it is–an image of oneself that the world sees”. Unfortunately, the same convention is extended to many matters that I’d rather be left alone.
For example, I know how it can be hard on someone when he’s judged by the shoes he wears, the wine he relishes or his standing in society, but it’s a tough world out there and someone or the other is going to the bottom. Otherwise, you see, being at the top makes no sense.
There’s no time or obligation for anyone to wait to read and judge the preferences of others. A civilization’s as smart as its stupidest businessman. We just have no way of knowing who that is, and as it turns out, it makes all the difference. This obsession with romanticism is deleteriously postmodern on the face of it.
However, just as this practice works detrimentally in the one direction, it could be put to good use in the other, something like subjecting it to a taste of its own medicine. If something about being human is romanticized, then it does make good sense to be romantic. Speak swiftly, be just, and ensure that your actions are impregnated with purpose, walk with a gait not noticeable awkwardly in a crowd yet one of a kind in its demeanour.
Do everything without regret or hesitation, as if the place of your actions in society is just as important as inalienable as place of the stars in the night sky, and backed by impeccable reason and judgment. Allow no room for doubt; keep the road straight and the end in sight. The voice of reason is nothing but the truth of words, its timbre but the quality of the language, its universality but the statement itself!
I’d much rather look outside from my steel window; after all, it has become easy to reassure myself that there is no such thing as fresh air. When I set forth, the texture of the road feeling uncharacteristically affable, the occasional patch of gravel picks at my skin, and I feel like a condemned showpiece, a necessary fixture of society chained firmly to showmanship and the like–I can feel the stares, an invisible sneer, a finger pointed anywhere but, somehow, also at me. I feel open, like a lone journeyman on a long journey with the yawning distance nagging at me to cover it.
If I must walk–which fate I hope doesn’t befall me soon–I will because I have to. It won’t be an ailment of the legs but, strictly speaking, a yearning of the heart that’s going to get me off my arse. Yet again, there’s a sizable dose of toil left to be dedicated, to oil the joints and other rusting levers and so forth, and set forth like a Wodehousian “bird in the sky”.
When I walk, I only want to walk. I don’t want to pause and wonder which way to turn when faced with a fork, I don’t want to negotiate puddles and jaywalking urchins determined to run into my legs. A walk must preferably be in the shadows of a cherry blossom, an offering of apples, or a silent and waiting pine, with no faculty dedicated to any trivialities–I’m neither a lion nor a warrior. I only want to walk with all the purpose of walking left in me.
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Walk of Fame Europe"]
[/caption]It only seems stupid to romanticize such matters, even though it’s so easy to draw parallels to the image of a man walking with his chin thrust into the heavens, a picture “which draws forth reserves from the soul to be what it is–an image of oneself that the world sees”. Unfortunately, the same convention is extended to many matters that I’d rather be left alone.
For example, I know how it can be hard on someone when he’s judged by the shoes he wears, the wine he relishes or his standing in society, but it’s a tough world out there and someone or the other is going to the bottom. Otherwise, you see, being at the top makes no sense.
There’s no time or obligation for anyone to wait to read and judge the preferences of others. A civilization’s as smart as its stupidest businessman. We just have no way of knowing who that is, and as it turns out, it makes all the difference. This obsession with romanticism is deleteriously postmodern on the face of it.
However, just as this practice works detrimentally in the one direction, it could be put to good use in the other, something like subjecting it to a taste of its own medicine. If something about being human is romanticized, then it does make good sense to be romantic. Speak swiftly, be just, and ensure that your actions are impregnated with purpose, walk with a gait not noticeable awkwardly in a crowd yet one of a kind in its demeanour.
Do everything without regret or hesitation, as if the place of your actions in society is just as important as inalienable as place of the stars in the night sky, and backed by impeccable reason and judgment. Allow no room for doubt; keep the road straight and the end in sight. The voice of reason is nothing but the truth of words, its timbre but the quality of the language, its universality but the statement itself!
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- The Miracle Worker (enderanimate.wordpress.com)
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