Sissiest post ever.

I had refrained from commenting on the following topic for more reasons than one... But something off late made me revisit old demons, and i thought an ambiguous passage of text may help in keeping the closet shut for a longer period this time around.It's weird how experiences change our approach to life and the events that surround it. But then again, i must quote "the more that things change, the more it seems, that they're the same". How many times will it take you to learn that when you have sensitive teeth, eating lots of sour chocolates and candy makes it very uncomfortable to eat for two days after. How many frames of film will you lose before you finally give up on people and start shooting still life or nature or cityscape. How many times will you fall in love with something that was never meant to be, and come off it feeling like a pumpkin.Before the reading mind jumps the seven seas to assume what I'm talking about, I will re-quote myself from the previous text. How many times will you fall in love with something, that was never meant to be. Something. Not someone. The worst part of living a romanticist life is the obvious lack of conversion of romanticised thoughts into achievable reality. Expectations are to a person, what instant coffee is to a connoisseur (I possibly couldn't come up with a worse analogy). It holds promise at first breath, and just a sip down, and it leaves a bad aftertaste. You're then left wondering what you were doing hoping for anything better in the first place... But then again, expectations are what make us live. (Just how significant are our expectations to the universe? Well, 6 billion people on planet Earth, a 100 billion stars like our Sun in the milkyway, and a 100 billion galaxies like the milkyway. That's one part in 60000 billion billion billion parts of importance for each one of us. In simple English, the universe doesn't give a f*** about what you want- that's my rendition of the vishwaroopadarshana) So how many times will you let your expectations fall before you substitute for what you're expecting. (All that's here is in rhetoric, hence no question marks)But you move on, just cover up your tracks, and move on saying nothing ever happened. What you don't see isn't there, right. But it's one of those days that the carpet slips and all the dirt you swept under it comes pluming out. Something reaches into your chest, pushes up to your throat, grabs your squirming tongue and pulls it down towards your navel. You're left looking around trying to make sense of it, wondering if you live a farcical life, pretending that the dirt under the carpet was never really there. Amores perros baby. Of whatever kind, I'm not talking of people. Rather, I'm not talking only of people.

This post is an old one, older than this date suggests. First published in Veiled arches, November 4th 2007.

I'm guilty.

After needlessly posting sissy material on my worldly blog, I decided my act was two letters short of being a crime. So this one is for all the sissy requirements of my heart, soul, mind, knees and elbows.

Now if you're Indian and wondering what Mrichakatika is, shame on you. Google it.
If you aren't Indian but are curious to know, click here... (It's incomplete as yet, but it will be updated I'm assuming).

I feel terribly guilty, for having used the name of such a monumental piece of literature. This sin, I hope to justify by the end of my lives. The means of which I will elaborate when it will appear that I can.