Posted by Hina

Ive been running away from writing since a long time. I open the blog, stare at the blank screen for about half a minute, and close the window feeling terribly exhausted. Its been happening for more than a month now. But screw you, whoever you are, today I'm going to write. I've decided to struggle less and write more. That's all there is to it. Just get down to it. And every two days, Im going to drag my butt here to write, if only a line. May be then I'd find myself. People around, they influence me. Influence isnt the right word. 'Affect' sounds better. Everywhere, they seem to know what they are doing. They seem passionate and bursting with feelings and energy while (or especially when) I find myself inert and (been using this word for how I feel lately) bland.

Love is bland when you are more out of yourself than in. Its almost as if I'm walking around inside me and keep bumping into empty walls, trying to get out, always trying to get out. How does one find oneself in such a vacuum? Because only then love makes sense. Once you know. Or can love help you find yourself too? I cling to the latter hope for dear life.

Saw this movie. Says people crash into each other just so they can feel something. Rings close somewhere.

"It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something."

I want to feel a shock. Like an electric shock. Feel it running inside my body, my veins. Feel that feeling when you get out of the bath in winters early morning, shaking and trembling, feeling the shivers run down your spine. I want to crash into some inspiration. Something/someone that sustains me for more than a day.

He says, "you tend to think complex, but you cant sustain it for long and end up frustrated." Same dip in the graph, again.

May be if I knew the right questions, I wouldn't be so frustrated with the answers. Because not all questions out there are for me. May be my life is not as complex as I want it to be.


midnight's children

Posted by Hina

He yells in his sleep these days. Makes those mumbling incomprehensible noises as if talking to someone in sleep, rebuking someone mostly; its that angry berating tone. I stir in my sleep in the next room. It's a gnawing depression. When he laughs, I hear not mirth but a desperate vulgar all-too-knowing attempt to escape, if only for a moment. His conversations are gabbles. Forced, too. The other day, he sat cross-legged, hair ruffled, still in his pyjamas from last night, having just woken up. It was afternoon. He had eyes that have dreamt more than they have slept. He lay on the sofa. Cans of beer stood on the table.

Something inside somersaults painfully, revoltingly. Not at him but for him. Yes, its his fault. He wasted his life away. That one golden chance at it. What must he feel looking back at it? And I know his life at 48 is already a backward glance, now a regret, now a blame. The deathly stillness of the air is broken by the variant drone of channel-surfing.

We watch a lot of television here.