If there is one thing that really depresses me, it's mediocrity. Mediocrity of the mind. Of thoughts. Of life. I teach a kid. I asked him one day:

- Tell me, R, what do you want to do when you grow up? What do you dream of?
- I will be a marine engineer.

Pat comes the reply. And before I could ask him anything, he says:

- How much does a marine engineer earn? Papa says a marine engineer can earn lacs of rupees in a month? Really? Is it the highest paid job? How much does he earn really? Five lacs? Ten lacs?...

- But what will you do when you become a marine engineer?

- I will earn a lot of money. I will eat in posh places and relax on the deck all day. I will go places...

I was sad. But I consoled my self saying, he is only a kid. And it's rather mean to judge him based on his words. I am amazed at how many of the people all around me want to be a lot of other things because they want something else that this job or profession will get them. People want to be software engineers not because they passionately love software making, but because they have an idea of the things that this profession brings along. People who want to be actors not because they like acting, but because they want to be rich and famous.

I must make one thing clear here. I have nothing against wanting to be rich or famous or anything at all. But the point is, you should know what you really want to be- an actor? Or famous? You might say, that a good actor will naturally be famous. I disagree. A true actor or a good actor is good because he is passionate about his acting. And not about being famous. One follows the other. But the order is not reversible. Prioritizing is important. And it reflects on your work and life.

Why can I not work solely because I love doing what I do...


There is a lot more I would have liked to say. But I realise that it's getting immensely corny. So I will stop writing here. But i still feel bad about it. I specially hate it when this mediocrity spills into love. I hate it. Anyway.

Super-busy Magic Kittens

Sometimes, I really wish I knew what is going on around here. At other times I can just keep myself engaged in pretty much everything that I can get my hands on. So you know I am a busy man. Oh it's so cool to not always have time for anything. You feel kinda important.

-Oye, will you be there at my birthday?
-Oops. I've got some work. But let me see if I can squeeze things in a bit so that I must just be able to poke my nose in once during the party. Can't promise though. You know these projec%$#@...bla bla bla.

After all the running around you still have to come home to yourself. You still have to go back to your room and switch off the lights. And you still have to lay sleepless on your bed staring right there in the darkness. Wishing this babel of thoughts would just go away. Like dark magic. Disappear. Into thick air. Yes. The air is thick and syrupy-dark. And sometimes you will think its hard to breath. There must be some law in fluid mechanics that says thick syrupy darkness is harder to inhale. I really wouldn't know.

"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry," and their names were Elsie, Lacie and Tillie, and they lived at the bottom of a well-"

"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.

"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.

"They couldn't have done that you know," Alice gently remarked. " They'd have been ill."

"So they were," said the Dormouse, "very ill."

Like I was saying. We need Black Magic. Or wait. Grey Magic is more like it. We all need a Dark Grey magic to get by. Please don't tell me there is no such thing as magic. Let me use my illusions to my end. Literally.

The worse part is, I have even lost my innocence. I know too much to believe that things are not in fact what they seem to be. Hope has lost its wings to fly beyond days or weeks. It flies around and comes back tired and aching. Panting for breath. Flying in a dark syrupy sky is hard, I tell you. It's sticky. It stinks. Like a cute little kitten. Dead and rotten and all. Whiskers in the wind. The pink flesh of the skull made invisible by flies sitting. And licking. I wonder if the kitten feels like waking up and scratching the place. Does it itch? Still? But not all dead kittens have the luxury to be able to scratch their pink, fly-infested, itching skulls.

But the fact remains, all kinds of kittens(dead), cute or otherwise, stink.

All this could boil down to a few simple words. Then again, simplicity is a luxury for me. I just wish I would not have to leave you.

There is too much that is going on inside me right now. I can't speak about it. I can't. I can't write too. I wish I could just write. Can't.

*sigh*

Whatever

I.

One drop
Of a Salty Ocean brews,
Rolls down.


II.

You aren't, any more.
Like camphor on hot sand.
Magic!


III.

A pebble leaps
On silent waters at night.
Like thoughts.

My Song

Can never stop loving this song. Like it more everytime I listen to it.

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It's quarter to three,
there's no one in the place
Except you and me

So set 'em' up Joe,
I got a little story
I think you should know

We're drinking my friend,
to the end of a brief episode
Make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

I got the routine, put another nickel
In the machine
Feeling so bad, won't you make the music
Easy and sad
I could tell you a lot, but it's not
In a gentleman's code
Just make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

You'd never know it,
but buddy I'm a kind of poet
And I've got a lot of things I'd like to say
And when I'm gloomy, won't ya listen to me
Till it's talked away

Well, that's how it goes,
and Joe I know your gettin'
Anxious to close
Thanks for the cheer
I hope you didn't mind
My bending your ear
But this torch that I found,
It's gotta be drowned
Or it's soon might explode
Make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
Long, it's so long, winding road ...