Maybe everything has its own life and its period of utility. The earlier blog (which I killed in a swift stroke) had lived enough. It was wheezing. It was crying itself sick.

I did not feel much like writing these days. I do now. There is a reason. The old reason but a valid one. A seasoned one now. The one that has gone through its bad days.

Life has morphed itself into a malleable lump. It is taking the shapes of the cautious hands that are busy in shaping it to something worth looking at.

No way

Most of the things I believed in now appear meaningless. My faith in myself over my choices in life feels shaken. I no longer know what is good for me. All I know is that some things feel better than others. Thats my guide while I am lost.

After one and a half hours of cardio, done at 85% of my maximal heart rate, I feel cleansed from inside.

After lying down in my bed, I think of the no. of days since I quit smoking. Everyday gives me a vain satisfaction of having gained something by not smoking that day.

People look conceited. As a third person, I can see myself being able to look through all their evil and trickery. Their shallow pride and pomposity nauseate me. Even friendship.

To outsiders I seem aloof; as if I have neither the understanding nor the inclination to understand their concerns. They are correct actually. I don't give two hoots about anyone anymore.

Currently, the only person who I feel is pure and devoid of any evil is Doodoo. You can tell that by looking into his eyes. His knowing smile and askew glance tells me that I am having doubts in my head. Doubts that need to cleared. Soon.

A friend tells me to just get over it. I wonder if he knows what that means. Getting over. Well I don't know it either. Still I'll get over it. Sadly. After much heartburn.

I am becoming a skeptic who will doubt his own will before plunging into important things. As if he has a foreboding of impending doom. Or maybe a lack of sincerity which baffles his earnest intentions.

I want to be that poor young fellow who needs nothing more than a good fuck and a hearty meal to feel happy. I want to be that kid who runs naked on the street unmindful of people watching him. That man for whom getting a hike means celebration. That woman who thinks a successful day is when she cooks a meal her husband likes.

I need a cigarette. I miss smoking.

Doodoo's first post

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What ?

Down with all phony shit in life. Clean it up.

Say 'No' to people's face when you want to.

Listen more to the voices in your head.

Take hold of yourself. Get your shit together. Don't fucking drift. Don't.

Run. Pump more iron. Be a bull.

Randomly irrelavant

24th Dec came and went unnoticed. It was Md. Rafi's 85th Anniversary. I celebrated in a small way by listening to all of my favorites. What is it about Majrooh Sultanpuri's writing, sung by Md. Rafi ? Everything they created together will always stay alive.

My mood has improved a little from being outright shitty to being sulky-whiny. Thanks to time spent with Doodoo. He is such a darling. He is 6 months old but can talk to you with his eyes and blubbering. My brother sounds like a complete idiot when he baby-talks to him. Doodoo takes up 90% of bhabhi's waking time and 40% of sleeping time. She is exhausted but happy. Our entire household is in disarray. Chores lie undone. Me and bhai try to help as much as possible in a losing battle. Friends ask me why I don't invite them. They don't seem to wish to understand the issue here.

I don't understand what makes a classic a classic. Is it just being old enough to be recognized widely? Or does it mean being related to universal, all-time concepts? Or is it just nostalgia for good old stuff ? The picture my dad paints of his early days in CRPF is full of such elements as are deemed classic by him. And the fondness with which he remembers his starting-out days can never be matched by me. I sulk. He revels.

Staying happy is an art, he says. It doesn't matter if you don't have something that the other fellow has. What matters is how much you let it affect you. Wise words, but I still don't know how to stop it from affecting me. I can' t think like a monk.

One way out of depression could be to be so involved in some task (however unworthy of my efforts as it may be), that you don't get much time. You must get time to reflect. But not enough time to invent negative thoughts and nurture them with inactivity & self-loathing. Am going to try this. What ? Gymming and reading.

Crime movies

This feeling is now abating. It comes and goes, only to come again the next time. Like viral fever.

There are some good days when I get up, dress nicely and show up at work, smile and talk to assholes there nicely. I even go to the gym when I see a light of resurgence from the dungeons I usually lie in. I make a much-broken-already promise to myself not to smoke so much.

There are some days when I don't want to wake up from the mindful unconsciousness that my sleep is. On such days everything feels a waste. My going to work seems like a dying man fussing about mundane shit in life. Speaking of which, I think of death on such days. What will happen to my body? Will the pain in my wrist trouble me till my last day? Will I die a sad man? Will I repent for not having lived a fulfilling life? Whatever that might be: Will I even find my calling in life?

Slowly but surely, time dulls everything. The good things in your life and the bad things alike. The good things fade away and the bad things look less unsettling with each passing day.

Was reading Fyodor Doestovsky's "Notes from the Underground" recently. The narration in that book seemed so freakishly similar, I got scared of it. Couldn't read beyond 10 pages. This is eating me up. I don't know why a 25-yr old man would wake up in nights in cold sweat. The outsiders don't see this. It is queer to them. This cold-old-internalising-weak-fearful-purposeless-joyless-animal existence.

I pity myself. It is a disease.

Title ??

Why am I still awake at 2:49 AM ? I know I've to go to office tomorrow. I have a meeting at 10:00. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I feel a hollowness in my chest. Some restlessness which goads me to answer some questions. I can't answer it.

Only yesterday, I had a heated drama with my development team's PL. I went to the extent of shouting till the whole floor was hearing. He was asking me to tell me one part of the activity that I did independently. I shouted back that the shit you are doing doesn't need a Business Analyst at all. Don't know how people can be so supercilious, even after knowing that they are in the wrong. Maybe I need to practice this drama thing often, just to get my point across. Yes, shouting helps. For such fools atleast. Sometimes showing them their place is all you need to silence them into submission.

I know this incident is just a part of my being so thoroughly dissatisfied with life. It has begun to spill over to everything. I don't tell my folks if I'll be late. I don't speak to her for several days, fearing that in my frustration, I might be more bitter than she can handle at this time. I am as social as I was in college. I don't make an effort to smile.

My folks ask me if I have a plan. A plan for marriage, for more education, for your job? And I stare at them long and hard, as if I don't get a word they are saying.

Perhaps this is temporary. I hope it is.