far too many

I found myself at Bangalore Central with my sister this evening. I had to meet a guy about a thing, and this was the spot he'd chosen. Hence, naturally, I'd dragged the child along as chaperon. Now, Sunday evening at a mall is possibly one of the worst ideas a person can have. We hadn't been there ten minutes before I'd saturated both eyes and ears, stubbed my toes, and developed a highly unpleasant edge to my voice. Four escalators later, I was following my sister in her search of Wai Wai noodles and snapping at every second word out of her mouth. We followed that with a discovery that she'd picked shrimp instead of vegetarian, and a colourful pain-filled trip back down to the lobby. I wonder if humans are supposed to be so easily mesmerised by bright shiny lights. It's probably the idea behind advertising. And festivals. And fireworks. And a host of others i am too tired to imagine, but which will probably slip into my mind when least expected and wanted. The way of the world.
So, after the short, yet painful mall-crawling, we finally got what we'd gone for; and I drove home to television therapy and a two hour long nap. Now all I have to look forward is an entire 24-hour day of work I am in no mood or state to begin.

I just need to get this bitter taste out of my mouth.

anonymous passing

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seem limitless when they were in your head to no more than 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 seccret 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.
from The Body, Different Seasons; Stephen King


So, after Pratchett, I went back to King today. I don't exactly know why.
Perhaps it was because my grandfather died three days ago and I realized that here was someone related to me directly by blood whom I'd never seen in my life, whom I would never see, and for whom I could not find it in myself to grieve. Perhaps it is the impending design review on Tuesday and the fear attendant. Perhaps it was the waiting for phone calls.

There is something choking about the fear of disappointing that never seems to lessen with time. The fear of doing less than you are capable of, purely because you do not have it in you to get your act together. The fear that you have wasted an entire day with Different Seasons and washing the keyboard and other pleasant time-filling activities; when you have a review on Tuesday for a design that hasn't yet been approved, with the added responsibility of wasting four hours of your day on Monday getting the studio ready because you were too pussy-whipped to say you wouldn't.
The fear that guilt is as easy as blame. The fear that everything is your fault.

I need some help getting through this. Song suggestions, anyone?


But, in happier news:

Dear Mensan,

We wish to acknowledge receipt of your application form towards life membership. We shall be adding your email address to the official e-group of mensa india (bangalore). We shall keep you informed regarding your membership card.

Thank you,
Best Regards,
Administrator
for mensa india (bangalore)

*sigh* Life is so sly. And I still need those songs.

painful days

The state of my work is alarming.
Mostly because there is so little of it.
*sigh*

This is what you call fun?