Soporific journeys

The first time he noticed her was when he passed on the log book and no one received it. He looked across the seat to see what was taking the other person so long to take the log book from him. And then he saw her. Her face was slightly inclined towards the left, like she was looking at something really cute and she was reacting to it with an exaggerated curiosity. Her head drooped forward regularly keeping rhythm with the jerks of the bus. Her mouth was slightly open. It took him some time to realize that people were looking at him because he was frozen mid air, in a weird half standing, half sitting posture, the log book in his hand, staring at the sleeping girl. He stretched his hand and passed the book to the guy sitting in the seat before hers.

He saw her again after a week. This time the window beside her was open. The light outside fell across her face every chance that it had. He wanted to see if she was awake today. So he pretended that he'd dropped his keys next to her seat and went close to where she was sitting. He looked closer at her and realized that she was asleep, again. She was still asleep when he got out of the bus.

The next day, he decided he'd go early and try to look at her when she was awake. He dint know why he had to do that. She wasn't even all that pretty. Plus, he'd never spoken to her. She might be a Twilight fan (oh, the horror!) Or worse, she might be a non vegetarian. He laughed to himself as he realized how much he was thinking about the girl he'd seen asleep, twice (he wanted to refer to her as the 'sleeping beauty' but it sounded quite cheesy). He waited with anticipation. For some reason, he remembered his first date when he had shared a Pepsi with his girlfriend.  (They were together for less than two weeks; he'd broken up with her when he found out that she hated the Harry Potter series without ever reading it). He was so lost in his nostalgia that he dint realize that the bus had started and that girl was nowhere to be found. It was disappointing. He'd even taken time to comb his hair properly.

He dint see her again for a few nights. As he walked towards the bus bay, he wondered if she was out on a vacation. Maybe she'd quit. Maybe something bad had happened to her. The thought filled him with some sort of panic. It was foolish to worry about someone he dint know. He went to his bus, Route 47, and got in just as the driver started the bus. And there she was, in the second seat, sleeping again.

He sat next to her. His heart was pounding and his lips felt dry. He sat very carefully so that she wouldn't be disturbed. The bus was an old one and creaked every now and then. But she dint stir. She breathed evenly, a few loose strands of her hair that carelessly fell on her face, bouncing ever so slightly as the great, old bus made its way through the night. He could smell her perfume, something lemony, citrus-y. She had a black backpack that she was hugging to her chest like a pillow. Now that he looked at her, she was very plain looking. He'd probably seen her a hundred times but never registered her face in his memory. She had no make up on, she dint seem too bothered about her appearance. She just looked... peaceful. All he could think of was waking her up and asking her what she dreamed about, asking her what kept her awake at nights. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to hear her sing. It was weird... he wasn't really a romantic. He watched her sleep till the bus stopped and he had to get off the bus. He had an impulsive thought of staying on in the bus till she woke up and finding his way back home later. Then he realized how crazy it seemed, smiled to himself and got off the bus.

The next time he was on the bus, he was so busy reading Murakami's 'Norwegian Wood' that he dint realize who sat next to him. He couldn't recognize her awake. But it was her. She smiled at him as she kept her backpack between them. She glanced at the cover of the book and did not seem to recognize the author or the book. As the bus started, she started talking on her phone. He heard her voice, something he'd been waiting for. He heard about how scared she was living in her apartment all alone, how much she missed her mother. He heard her making plans to catch a movie on the weekend. He heard her make baby voices as she spoke to her pet dog. She paused abruptly and he had to stop himself from pretending to read. He casually glanced away from his book and found her looking right at him. She was holding her palm on her phone and asking him for his name. "Your name?" she said. He was momentarily taken aback. He just stared back at her like an idiot, not knowing how to react. Then she pointed at the log book on her lap. "I thought you shouldn't be disturbed while reading. I could fill in your entry too. So what's your name?" she asked. He mumbled his name and got back to his book. That was the last time he thought of her or spoke to her. He wasn't really the talkative kind...

P.S - I know it is too long but I'm hoping I built up the anticipation enough to justify the anti climax.
P.P.S - When I started out the story, a year ago almost, it was supposed to end on a romantic note. I guess I have changed quite a bit.

I know. It has been a long time. I dint even know Blogger had changed so much. I want to make excuses; that I don't have a laptop to write out new posts, that it is difficult to type on my touch screen phone, that I don't find the time, that the horrible city that I have to work in has left me drained and uninspired but sooner or later, I face the facts. I cannot write anymore. I cannot think about what I would want to write. I cannot think beyond the lame, limited walls of my claustrophobic life to write about anything that might connect with someone other than me. I am not sure when this happened. It is scarily close to the time I started working. But I wouldn't want to blame that. Because no matter how much I try to deny the fact, I am happy with my job right now.

It is quite a shocker to me that I have reached a point where nothing motivates me to write. Is it because I see the same people everyday and face the same situations? Is it because I am too busy reading my Twitter feed to observe something outside the window of the bus and imagine a flashback to a moment that catches my attention? Is my job responsible for rhetoric and sentences starting with conjunctions? I don't know. Other than the enviable achievement of learning what the 'Home' button is for and what miracles it can perform whilst coupled with the 'Shift' button, the last few months have been terrifyingly devoid of meaning. It makes me think that happiness/complacency has very little to do with, can I sound corny, satisfaction in the philosophical, rational sense. I started out writing this post to highlight the good things that have happened to me in the past few months and ended up writing another depressing piece of mediocrity. So yes, not a lot has changed :)

To wrap up things, I want to write. That is probably the only thing I want to look forward to. Going through some of my more recent drafts, I have a feeling there is a chance of me being decently readable. Sometimes I think that writing may be a bit of fashion photography. You write so many things that something will stand out and be good enough.

P.S - I will try to complete some of my drafts. Quite excited :)
P.P.S - Activity engaging is a nice phrase. Almost as nice as the word 'proactive'

Pry-vacy

I think the first door latch was invented to keep away prying eyes during a private moment of sadness.

Papyrus

I feel empty inside. Maybe it's because I watched 'Dexter' too much. Maybe it's because I've always been like that. Lately, I struggle to let my mind land on a memory. Not because I have early signs of dementia or something. I can remember certain things to the point of what clothes others around me were wearing. And when I say others, I don't mean the people close to me. I can probably remember what my friend's friend was wearing some day. I can remember details of several memories. But it's hard to remember what I felt like when that happened to me. I can't remember if I felt sad or happy or angry or excited. I feel blank, like a page that had writing on it but the writing has been erased and all that is left behind is this crumple that looks empty but doesn't feel that way, a page with the impressions left behind by the pressure the writer applied on his/her pen/pencil and forever tarnished it. You erase the ink, the fading graphite but you know that it will never be new again. Just an ugly looking page, a wannabe page hoping it'd be someone's second choice for a scribbled phone number or a grocery list. They will try to smoothen it out, lovingly spread it on the table and run their palms over it to coax it to un-wrinkle itself. When they discover that it won't work, they roll it up, pull at the edges and hope to find it in better looking shape. And finally, when all else fails, they settle for the slightly crumpled piece of processed bamboo and pour their heart out on it.

P.S - I want me to be less lame.

Of half sentences and other...

Sometimes I am obvious to the point of being painful. And sometimes I can use all the words I know and yet fall short of expressing something I feel. Sometimes I feel like I'm too lazy to feel certain emotions and I'd rather circumvent them than actually live with/through them. Sometimes, I blurt out unnecessary things. Sometimes I hide necessary things. Sometimes I'm convinced that some of my dreams were childhood memories. Sometimes I cry watching movies like 'We are family'. Sometimes I don't want to talk to anyone else other than my cat and a bag of chips. Sometimes I wish I could explain what makes me this way and not sound lame/hopeful for a weird Freudian explanation. Sometimes I'm just me. And sometimes, I hope I'm funny.

P.S - Totally proud about the rhyme in the last sentence. Hi-five-ing a million angels :D

Leaving, left and gone.

What could break your heart more intensely? When you know that a storm is approaching, that it is going to be a bad one and you better prepare for it or when you are looking up at the clouds and they conspire to suddenly separate, to expose the harsh sunlight to your unsuspecting eyes? Does the anticipation of pain make it more bearable? It is like when the surgeon comes out of the operating room and tells you that you shouldn't be hopeful. You prepare yourself, there might be a splinter that would start to break your heart, vein by vein, artery by artery, until all that is left is a mess of blood and oxygen. Would it be less painful if you never knew that there would be a splinter someday?

I wouldn't have time

To prepare for goodbyes

The thought is too painful

To get over with laments and sighs,

Come tomorrow,

When I wait for a smile,

Knock on my door,

And tell me it is futile,

Tell me you intended to let me know

As I cry over the abrupt adieu,

Tell me it was a last moment call,

Ask me to think about it from your point of view,

Maybe I'll hate you for it,

I'll always believe that you lied,

Maybe I wouldn't know what to say,

Maybe I'd be happy to be deprived,

Of awkward pauses and clumsy farewells,

Declaration of promises neither will keep,

Happy to be woken up sharply,

From a nightmare ridden sleep...

P.S - I can't begin to comprehend how bad that is but somehow had to write something. This made me feel good. I really wanted to rhyme.

Lovers, they try...

...try to whip the stars into compliance. I am thinking about Clive Owen's character's line in 'Closer' (which I liked for some reason. Also made me fall in love with Natalie Portman). He says something about how depressives don't want to be happy. Because then they'd have to start living their lives. Which can be quite depressing.

I wonder if what we perceive as happiness is unique. Happy people almost seem smug to me. They go around thinking that no one could possibly feel as happy as they do. They believe they have a right to comfort others who aren't happy, with empty words. Everything will be fine, trust me. They have the credentials to say so because they are uniquely happy. They think they're the only ones who look at little kids smiling and smile to themselves. They think they're the only ones to understand how beautiful life really is. More importantly, they laugh at their former selves who thought there was a subtlety to melancholy and a charm to sadness.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not considering being content here. Nor am I considering being satisfied. Because you can be happy even if you are thinking about how you'd never be satisfied with anything other than critical appreciation for your hypothetical debut novel. You can be happy even when you aren't satisfied with the way things are going, there's always room for improvement isn't there? You can be happy to a point of being discontent with trivial details. You can be happy with mediocre words, nowhere close to accurately describing your present state. This feeling of happiness is unique. Only because it is so simple.

P.S- Watched 'A bout de souffle' ('Breathless' in English) directed by Jean-Luc Godard. I couldn't really understand what the big deal was. Some very beautiful lines in the movie though. An instance: " It's sad to fall asleep. It separates people. Even when you're sleeping together, you're all alone. " by Patricia Franchini (portrayed by Jean Seberg. She is exquisitely charming.)

P.P.S- I am very happy right now :)