I guess I’ll just quit fawning about how remarkably my revision is going; I always end up jinxing it – which I don’t mind at all. But, with an exact month left, I think it’s almost time to catch up with that browbeating, nerve-wracking hulk of a syllabus. I realize I should have had this thought a month ago, which by the way I did…and that’s so not the point of this entry. Which reminds me, two days ago, I pledged allegiance to an absolutely inane plan in my head – that I were to write at least a hundred words daily so as to shore up my writing skills. In all mindfulness, it was absurd. But somehow, as I suspect, the notion got fixated in my subconscious. And ta-da; this entry is a rejoinder and almost an involuntary one. Okay, now I am just scaring myself away from me. Why the hell would I pretend to be making a conversation with words that I’m mechanically just typing away? Why am I getting the impression that the computer screen can actually hear me? I think it’s time for my catnap. Later!
Finally, I’ve been completely engulfed by the dragging pressure of the approaching exam season. Bales of coursework yet have to be unrolled. With the ongoing cricket world cup mania, my wild endeavors and a myriad of other distractions, it seems very likely that my grades will be plain sailing anytime soon.
Particularly, at this of the year, my mind is preoccupied by every instance of the world but studying! Even the most unpleasant of activities take a toll on my charming scale. Memory retention falters whensoever I try cracking a certain topic. Embarrassingly enough, I admit, that’s where the so called “memory pills” kick in – mine is a crossbreed of honey and some natural herbs and not like some capsule but a gooey liquid that gets glued everywhere. Indeed, studying is a messy affair.
Another notable factor that contributes to the sheer distress of these two agonizing months is “The Guilt Complex” (notice how I’ve capitalized to exaggerate my argument). Every other engagement leads to nothing but self-reproach. Strictly speaking on my behalf only, I experience this EVERYTIME, after I’ve undertaken an activity that is not remotely close to the aforementioned dilemma of studying. 😛 Add to this an unmanageable syllabus bulk that has to be covered in an inadequate time limit and voila…!
The list of whiny excuses can go on, but I just saw my physics book smolder an ugly look at me. It’s intimidating. Later!
Somehow I feel this void again, more like an unexplainable yet fathomable emptiness. Even a hint of an activity can brim this nothingness from the pure satisfaction of having done something – anything. I long to partake in an activity that leaves me exuberantly tired at the end of each day. Fatigue that comes with no submission to my thoughts; responsibility that proposes my well-being in solitude. But most of all with a driving force, some impelling cause for my life to be adequate in its meaning. It might all sound like a fancy talk, but I sincerely crave for such a miracle to happen. And hopefully, by His Grace, soon I shall find myself out from my current apathetic state.
So much of draft work yet has to be concluded; stories, mindful snippets from here and there, poems written ages ago. That’s when it struck me that I am one of those people who, if the will doesn’t back, would never bother completing a particular piece currently being worked on. It’s ironic considering my aforementioned desire.
My progress seems to slacken with idle days that laze around me. My conscience questions me with a thousand other circumstances that might have altered by present disposition by varying degrees. But I realize that my solace lies in gratitude. I could dread inestimable, nameless self-inflicted limitations that could curb and constrain me this very moment and consume me in entirety…but I am not. In any case, I’m not in control of what surrounds me from elsewhere and what saturates me from the inside. I have come to firmly believe that this is the first step towards strengthening my Faith. Moreover, I have learnt the phenomenal magic of Indifference.
On a lighter note, it took me exactly a week to finish The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom and The Godfather novel by Mario Puzo. Both were excellent literary pieces in their own league. The former satisfied my need for Reality by contriving masked scraps of Life. The latter mollified my taste for the Italian Mafia – of which, secretly, I have a very high regard for. The fondness stretches only from novels till the screen. I am once again bursting to see all three installments of The Godfather movie and the entire The Sopranos seasons – both consisting of a superb, superlative compendium of the various genres developed by Hollywood over the years.
And now that the icy chill is literally convoluting my fingers into a spooky disfigurement, I bid adieu.
“The coffee maker is on the top shelf, help yourself in the morning,” she said with a faint smile. Her eyes were shut. He looked around awhile till his eyes adapted to the eerie darkness of the room. The kitchen counter shone a hazy silver film over it. “The money is on the table,” she added sleepily. He had made love to her four times. She had paid him a total of $645 for his services – pretty steep price for an earnest desire.
“Order some breakfast from the Ryes if you may,” she continued woozily.
His general inquisitiveness of this particular client had still not been fulfilled. The questions weighed down with unceasing exertion. He should have asked her earlier to excuse him for the night, for he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping over with business deals.
After seven years, hundreds of women and thousands of stories; he was still fascinated by the womankind. It never got redundant for him, though at times he still mistrusted his own ability of going through recurrent particulars of women with the same composure. They ventured on trusting him with their sagas on such short personal acquaintances. And he never faltered. He advocated their needs, condoned their foolishness and quenched their desire. It wasn’t just part of his job.
His mind wandered to his present affair. How she had asked of him not to lose control; how she wanted him just to please her and himself acquire no satisfaction whatsoever from their wild endeavor. He wondered if she could be classified with those women whose frightful solitude had threatened them, and they had come out of their preserved shell into the novel arms of a stranger. He tried to recall what she had said when he had flatly asked her, “so what happened?”
“The former, the latter. Loved the former. Met the latter. Forgot the former. Latter left. Former Left”
He was rather amused by the brevity and had not bothered about it till now. He sighed. His nervous irritability surfaced as he started fidgeting in the bed. He needed to know her story.