Letter (not meant) for you

Today I thought of you. Not like I usually used to, fleeting mental pop-ups when I saw or heard things connected to you or what used to be us. Pop-ups which, initially used to be attached with hope, and then turned to split-second shots of something like despair.

I said I thought of you but all I have is a hazy confused recollection of some memories, not rooted to any context. Like an instagram timeline of images and feelings, only the time that has elapsed eroded the details of the images.

Me seated across from you at that fast-food joint, I can't remember which, on our awkward first date. You, embarassedly showing pictures of your childhood. Both of us figuring out what kissing, and everything that followed was about. All the times I was mortified to take the hand that you held out. Being terrified that something I did made you so mad that you broke a vase and didn't eat all day. Those crushing moments of self-doubt and loathing because you never acknowledged the existence of 'us' to more than a few people. Lacking the courage to do so, even when you were ready. 

When we decided it was over, and strangely, agreed to help each other move on, I cried incessantly for a few days. I even took a selfie, looking depressed and drained of life. I then cried intermittently for a month or two. Then, I was fine. I thought I had moved on.  

Now that I think about it, the first time that we met after all this happened, I was at-ease, this time I could confidently tell anyone who saw us, "oh, we're just friends" and not be guilty about lying, I think you tried to ask me, in a vague roundabout way, if it could work out in the future. I said no. 

I moved on, but I always thought we could go back to whatever we had. That we would take time to figure out other things. That I could pick up the phone, call you, and it would be "us" again. 

You told me, flippantly, that you moved on. When multiple glasses of vodka, whiskey and pepsi, rum and coke and nictoine from five cigarettes were coursing through my blood and making me feel sick, and you told me that you thought you'd never feel "that" way again, but that she was chilled out and casual and "open to everything, you know how Delhi girls are," it made me sicker than I ever felt in my life. Head reeling. Didn't know how to make it stop. Needles pricking me from inside. Tears. Multiple calls and failed attempts at explanations. That was a night I shudder to remember, the lowest point in my life. 

I wish I could have picked a moment and let go when you moved on. I'm sorry I didn't deal with this better. But when you said "I don't have time for all that bullshit like I used to," it felt like a crushing indictment of everything I am, everything I did, everything I didn't do, and everything we did together. 
Now, I too am flippant when your name comes up. I have constructed a poor, all-your-evil-bits-in-one version to talk about and to negate everything we might have ever had. 

I've made peace with all this now. I can re-visit all the shows and the songs and memories without any feeling, except perhaps, for a vague sense of nostalgia. 

Today, I watched Black Books and laughed. 

Thank you for introducing to the genius that Moran is. 



Good Riddance Engineering

As I'm writing this, the time is 7:18 p.m. and I haven't yet started studying for my last ever engineering exam. LAST EVER ENGINEERING EXAM! I never thought the day would arrive! This blog over the last years has witnessed some of my rants about exams, engineering, and math. As my engineering life's end approaches, I thought I should blog about it here. It's been an interesting four years. An "experience". By which you must have guessed how, um, enriching it was. There's no use in regretting any of it, so I'm going to celebrate the end of my non-life. It's time to really start living and participating now. Hopefully, journalism school beckons soon and I can finally study and practice something I really love, but even if it doesn't, (it all hinges upon an interview I have coming up in Chennai), I know I've tried.

Exam beckons. Ohnoesssssss. Image processing and colours and signals and spectrums and whatnot.

.-.

Future Life

I was always one of those people who had a plan for the future. "First this, then this, then that", I had my answer prepared whenever anyone asked "What do you want to do later?" but 3 years later when it's actually time to be  clear about it, BAM! nomoreclarity.

I've tried multiple times and failed to write about this confusion of mine but failed utterly. But here's a word-cloud that'll do.


Wordle: Untitled

Well, that's that.



Songs Of My Life

Rumi. That's what I'll call him, because that's what he called himself, even though his name was Ramanath. He was like one of those songs that could make you ecstatic when you hear them once, or sob with grief another time that you heard them, and you didn't know why. He was like one of those songs that defined every waking second you spent. The song that you listened to so many times that there isn't one particular memory associated with it, but all the memories of every single time that you listened to it - the joys, the pains, the frustrations and the hopes - all tied to that particular melody.

Times change. People change. Songs don't. And in the flux that my life was, Rumi became one of those songs that meant the world to you once, but didn't anymore.

And now there's Neel. He's like one of those songs that you never thought you'd like, but somehow, you do. You don't think it's the best song- it defies every item on your checklist of "What Makes A Great Song", but it still manages to sound pleasant, and surprise you once in a while, even when you thought you knew all there was to it. I guess there's nothing more to ask for, really.

On YA and Love and Death.


I love YA novels. There. I'm not ashamed to admit it (anymore). We live some of the best, or at any rate, the most vividly remembered and transitory times during our youth. Because that is when anything is possible, you know? You're young, you know things, you're wary but not as much when you become slightly older and you know that life disappoints and people go away. And in YA lit, you go through your youth and come to the same realization but in a way that would make you think that there's hope, that you can pick yourself up and dust off the bad things and start-over. That's one of the reasons I love these books. That shining ray of light at the end of the tunnel. I also think that that's one phase that everything you go through seems much more magnified, more real. Maybe we learn to dumb down our reactions to things as time passes by, or maybe we become indifferent, but that keen awareness is lost. 

--spoilers ahead

So I spent the last 24 hours absorbed in a YA dystopian series, Divergent. I don't really know why I started reading this one. I had a vague idea idea it existed, no clue about the plot and I just got the books and began reading them yesterday. Maybe it had something to do with my impending exams, but nah. Anyway, so Divergent (which is the name of the series and also of the first book), starts off in a great way. It builds the characters, and the settings really well, and as is common for a dystopian novel - there is suspense, and it's well done. I haven't read the Hunger Games, but I've heard that this is a direct inspiration from that series. It's set in a distant future in Chicago, where society as a whole functions with all the members divided into factions based on their behaviour - Abnegation, Candor, Erudite and Dauntless. Each member is initiated into a faction based on an aptitude when they turn 16. The main protagonist of this series, Tris Prior, receives a mixed result (Divergent), and there starts her journey. The series deals with the journey of the Divergents and the back story of how the factions came to be. 

What drew to me the book however was the romance between Tris and one of her leaders at Dauntless, (the faction she chooses to go to) Four. (Yeah, I just admitted that I like love stories.) There is enough going in the books that it is not only about Tris and Four, but there is enough going on that it is importantly about them too. That's the right kind of balance for me, and importantly Tris and Four, they just work. Maybe I'm just at a phase where I need something to work, to escape to, to believe in, but I really liked them. (If you didn't get that from my long ramble already). So, evidently, when Tris DIES, at the end of the third book, I'm just taken aback, slightly in shock, and at a loss to know what to think. I don't know how I became so emotionally invested in this character but I evidently did and it'll take me some time to recover from this. Which leads me to think how much harder it is to recover from the death of a person you knew in real life, and... I'd just rather not stroll down that road now.

Veronica Roth, why did you kill her?! 


"What happened?" they asked.

"He's a dog person and I'm a cat person." she said, with a haf-smile and a nonchalant shrug.

That was the end. 

In which this blog turns 4

It is a coincidence that I chose today of all days to come back to my blog. Because tomorrow is the day that this blog turns four. Four long years I've been venting out in this space, and when I look back at my blogging sojourn, I'm pleasantly surprised. I've written decent things in that "OHgodWai" style of mine that I used to have. I've made some wonderful friends through this blog, and I've discovered some amazing blogs. Looking back at some of my old posts I realize I've actually managed to make people stop to read my posts an even comment, and this serves as a great boost in my steadily drooping self-confidence. Looking at this blog I can also see how I've changed, in some ways. I think I've also written about this before. The words don't seem to flow out as they used to before, and the emotions seem much more . . . flat. Perhaps this is who I've become, the person with the business-like writing, without any flair.

I guess what I really wanted to say, was thank you. Thanks to each and every one who visited this blog, left a comment and thereby made my day. =)


P.S. On second thoughts, maybe I haven't lost that melodramatic thing yet, because, see, I've barely written a hundred posts over 4 years, and have less than 50 followers, and yet so much o.a.!

 

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