"The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them--words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more that living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.” 
- Stephen King

Random Surges.

I've been having strange dreams of late. Which is all the more strange because I usually don't dream unless I'm awake.

The first one, for example, involved me as a teacher in a post-war situation. Traces of fire, smoke billowing amidst the smell of iron and dilapidated buildings everywhere. A few random people I know were also present, but here we were acting like good friends, whereas in real life most of us don't even talk to each other. We were all teaching together in a small, unfinished enclosure made of four poorly constructed walls and a wooden roof; and at night, we all slept right there, huddled together in sleeping bags for warmth. I remember thinking how it was a blessing in disguise the way the war had brought us all together. Even amidst that torturous environment, I felt quite happy and comforted.

The second one was no less bizarre, although I suppose I could trace it back to surrendering my insomniac self to Grey's Anatomy reruns. (Yes. I was desperate.)
I was working somewhere, in a hospital or something. I'm not quite sure what my designation was, but I think I was in scrubs. There was another girl with me who I know from real life--she was a close acquaintance when we were children, and though we attended all the same institutions, we were never proper friends. Also, as far as I know, her ambitions stray far from medical school. But there she was in the dream, also in scrubs, giving me an impatient look as I hurriedly pulled on my converse.

I don't remember actually doing anything, just walking with her around the wherever-we-were. At the end of the dream--which was supposedly a day of accomplishments--said woman and I had a heart-to-heart, where she ended up giving me really good advice regarding something. Problem is, I have no idea what she said, or even what I asked.

This is why I prefer daydreaming to actual dreams. The way these minions make you feel still remains even once you've awakened. Now that I'm perceiving reality again, I can't help but think of this girl and wish I'd still been friends with her. I mean, we grew up together. We've been to each other's houses, carpooled, done assignments, even shared a few secrets and fights. I know the things she likes; music, TV shows, food, even, to an extent. I know the different faces she makes--the way she scrunches up her face when she's focused, the way she leans to one side when she's being sarcastic--do I sound creepy. Okay. Sorry.
But you get the point.

And yet, here we are, completely nonexistent in each other's worlds. (Besides Facebook newsfeeds, perhaps.)

Naturally, I searched her up on Facebook and looked at a picture or two of hers. Just to see how she was doing.
In one, her face was scrunched up the exact same way it used to be all those years ago when we'd play together. And it just hit me. How she's still, apparently, the same girl I knew. And that just made me feel so affectionate, for some reason.

But it also made me feel kinda sad. The fact that we could have accommodated ourselves in each others' worlds, but didn't, because we were too busy trying to find ourselves.

What's even sadder, though, is that I understand why things unfolded the way they did. We were destined to grow apart.

Has anyone else been through this?

Soul Feed.

Today was one of the best days I've had in a while. And I've had quite a many of late. But this one was great to the point of sheer ludicrity-it included nearly everything a wonderful day possibly could. Even bubblewrap!

And yet, I find myself skulking through the halls at 3 in the morning, trying to fathom this freaking void that suddenly erupted out of nowhere.

A friend of mine went through something similar a while ago. But her emptiness included mostly fear of happiness-pride comes before a fall, that sort of thing. Mine is... God, I don't even know what this is.

Today, everything that was randomly hovering in Brownian motion suddenly, accidentally fell into place. Color outshone my horizon. Laugh lines became butterflies.

But just as suddenly, it fell into disarray. And I found me back in my particulate self.

The sheer spontaneity of it, the superficiality, disgruntles me. How something so deep and substantial can be so easily eroded, how entire worlds are sometimes swept away like makeup from a geisha's face. It embarasses me.

And then the fear of happiness ensues.

Worming Through.

Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell


I'm extremely picky when it comes to books, and it was with resigned disappointment when I turned to the Classics section at the bookstore the other day and picked this up. Just the first paragraph, however, was enough to draw me in. I haven't started reading it properly yet--I'm still finishing up on The Ego Trick by Julian Baggini--but in all honesty, I can't wait to start reading! --Aug 18th '12

update: I'm going real slow with this one. Unexpectedly, it's giving me some sort of contentment, so much so that I'm almost afraid to finish it. Some parts were rather slow, but it amazes me how the writer manages to add humor even while narrating sad occasions. Wish I had that ability. It really adds to the sensitivity, bringing out the idea of life going on.
I really don't know why I'm taking out time to review this book. I mean, it's a classic. That should be enough for people to pick it up. --Nov 8th '12

View all my reviews

And Finally.

In the past few years, I've often mused verbosely over the concept of growth and maturity, and my need to acquire both. Now I address this topic again; probably, hopefully, for the last time.
Maturity, to me, has revealed itself as being the ability to responsibly compartmentalize and allocate one's emotions. And growth has proven to be the ability to empathize with others'.
And, well, here I am.

PS: Finally changed the blog design! Really like this one. It's funny though--I never particularly fancied orange before. Meh.

Working Class Hero.

Hustles and bustles everywhere. Chiffon, silk and velvet. Local names resplendent, discussing politics and arts, hastening for the limelight. The hall abounds with sophistication.

Amidst it all, there in a chair, Abbu peacefully snoring. All in a day's work.

 Dr Hugo Pine:What motivated this deception of his?"
 Erica Stone: A desire to humiliate and hurt me, that's wh--"
Dr Hugo Pine: Never! He has a deep affection for you, Erica Stone; but he's in rebellion against what you represent! Look. Here's a man in a responsible position, who feels insecure and inferior because he has no formal education. He meets a teacher, the symbol of academic achievement. By deceiving, dominating and outwitting the teacher, he experiences the exhilarating feeling of superiority. His battered and cringing ego emerges victorious. No... he's not to be held in contempt. He's to be pitied. "

Glitch.

Err... the past five posts were drafts from last year I finally decided to publish. Just thought I'd clear that out.

NB: HUGE AFFIRMATIVE to the technology-hating thing.