wwwide peepshow

In the shadows of my mind there are words lurking. Entire sentences even. Behind a cluster of neurons an ode is being written. In the shadowy depths, there is a cauldron of emotion bubbling into a ballad.

I wonder why I write all this. I wonder why I even post my pain here. After all, this is the wwwide peep show.

But then, no one ever asked why Sylvia Plath ever wrote to be published . . .

I’m not Sylvia.

I’m not Alanis.

I’m a broken heart that’s learning to sing again. And dance.

May I lady?

A Look At My Mind

Yeah, I know that that isn’t my mind. It is my work desk. But, if I go by my dad’s words, that is the state of my mind.

He always maintains that the state of your desk (actually what he said was room!) reflects on the state of your mind.

So, by and by, I will update click and post the state of my mind. So, stay posted!

But, HEY!

Here’s another look at some other desks in office. And, no offence Pa, but going by your theory, some of these guys should have just as messy minds (if not more) as the one in my coconut!

exhibit a

exhibit b

WOHA!
This one here deserves (the creation and the subsequent) inclusion into the “Messy Desk Hall Of Fame”





Here’s a NEAT desk….
(But then, it’s the girl’s first day. Give her a few weeks and she’ll catch up!)

Playing Like A Broken Record

I remember the time when I hear a broken record play. It was a 48 rpm vinyl of Led Zep IV. It got stuck on “Stairway to Heaven”. Kept playing the same word over and over again . . . “Buying, buying, buying, buying . . .”

It sounded so funny then.

Sometimes I hear myself play the broken record. Stuck at the same thing. Whining about the same old thing . . . “Why me, why me, why me . . .”

Does the sound of me being the broken record sound funny to anyone's ears?

Nope.

That's when the next realisation gets whispered into my ears . . . why not me?

Could it really be that god has allowed me to reach this wholly imperfect juncture of my life? And that this is the most perfect place for me to be due to its imperfection?

Only god can answer this one.

Though, if I ask my heart, ever since the realization, the heart has felt much lighter.


So, thank you Jesus. Because even if i don't know whether you nudged me onto this path or not, you are there beside me. Protecting me. Mostly from the harmful effects of me on my own self. Making this most imperfect juncture totally a perfect path in time for me.

Another Song Died Yesterday

Someone said, or maybe I read it somewhere, that “The Song Remembers” . . .

Yesterday, at a Karaoke bar I understood the full implications of what it meant. The song played, someone sang (badly, I might add) and it took me (despite the bad vocals) to the past. A past, that has been simmering, churning and bubbling in the simmering cauldron of the mind and its memories.

The song allowed the waves in the cauldron to lap at the words for a bit and then got pulled under. Never to re-surface as a warm fuzzy emotion in the heart. It drowned. It will never make me cry again.

So, starting with yesterday’s death, here are a few more that I’m burying today . . .

I Love You (Just The Way You Are) – Billy Joel
Everywhere – Fleetwood Mac
Sometimes When We Touch – Rod Stewart
More Than A Woman – The Bee Gees
Being With You – Smokey Robinson
Whole Hearted – Extreme
Linger – The Cranberries
Never Tear Us Apart – INXS
Stuck On You – Lionel Richie
Fast Car – Tracy Chapman

How To Make Fresh Sour Puss Cocktail

How To Make Fresh Sour Puss Cocktail
Take 1 part loneliness,
2 parts bitterness,
A dash of cynicism,
A twist of negativity
A generous helping of “I told you so’s”
Top up with alcohol of your choice (my preference is bourbon)

Shake well in cocktail shaker. Serve over chilled ice with fresh sarcasm (as per taste).

When Friends Make Boo Boos

Friends are well meaning. Friends stick together through thick and thin. And the closest friends sometimes get a whiff of your underarms.

So, that brings me to the question: how close should you allow friends?

In my case, the four of us are metaphorically joined at the hips (metaphorically because of the geographical distance between us). That’s as close as it gets. But due to a difference in our height, sometimes some of them get a strong whiff of my underarms.

I however have to bear the metaphorical dandruff.

But one thing is for sure, since all four of us are traveling the same chosen road to friendship, it, hopefully, doesn’t matter what “he said” or what “she said”.

And hey, probably the only time when body odor and dandruff is acceptable is when among friends. Isn’t it?

My Last Laugh

I heard myself laughing after a long time last night. I had forgotten what my laughter sounded like. So, as the first peals of laughter came out I hastily stopped myself and looked around to see who’s laughing. Then, I realized that it was me.

ME!

That made me laugh even harder. And it felt good.

It felt good to be wanted. To be asked if I would like to catch a movie. It felt good to have a trivial conversation. Sillier jokes. To tease. To be teased.

I felt the blood rushing into the cheeks, for once, not in anger.

Last night I felt my heart thawing.

It felt even better this morning.