Who me?

This is the hardest part—something similar is also a Coldplay song I think…..In all probability I am wrong.

A hurried vignette:

I could write about my love for music and books, but that won’t help you anyway. There is, of course, nothing extraordinary about that.

I used to be a really shy kid. Nothing has changed about that, except I am not a kid any more. I used to be a journalist. Now I am not. I realised I don’t feel the necessary thrills that other journos experience when chasing stories. I used to ‘not’ listen to Rock. Now I swear by it. I don’t sing or dance, though I wish I could. I live alone, unless an obnoxiously mischievous dog counts for a roomie. I wish I earned more money to be able to buy all shoes, clothes and books that I fall in love with. Heck! who said all good things in life are free? He definitely, did not live well.

Currently, I am trying hard (stop smirking all ye) to learn strumming the guitar. My mind is like RAM. Things always get erased after sometime. I would try taking memory capsules, but someone I know ODed on them and lost his mind. That kills the whole joy of it. People do interesting stuff in their free time. I read.

I am sometimes, paranoid. Mostly I worry. About everything … every goddamn thing. The carbon emmision, bad hair days, too much adipose tissue, not enough sleep, not enough time, why my dog growls at me when I pet him while he is sleeping, who likes me, who doesn’t, why I worry, why I don’t care sometimes…. the likes.

I have stretched the limits of the word writer to suit my purpose. Only catch is that I am not there yet. I write for a living and because it is the only thing I know to do well. Sunday Mornings, coffee, terraces, rains, colours, smiles, friends, bike rides, kohl—– pretty much define my choices. I think hard, a lot and all the time. And so I decided to blog. It’s my vengeance on the world.