Note to self...

Remember to smile back when someone smiles at you. Even if it is a stranger.


Ignore the creep old-ish man giving you evil looks.


Especially, if it was the cute girl that smiled at you first.


Idiot.

On my FB feed.

Someone put up a status message that read something to the effect of that person liking home - home pages, coming back home....and home runs.

Thanks.

I feel so enlightened.

Bah!

Rose

The sunlight streamed in through the blue curtains while the fan whirred away on the ceiling. It looked like it was going to be pretty good Sunday. She fidgeted around sleepily yet again to find a comfortable spot. He lay warm beside, his arm beneath her head. The small sharp beep woke her up and she looked at her cellphone. Suddenly she was wide awake - it was 10:00 AM. She'd never stayed over so late with a man she'd just met. Last night the dinner and the drinks were good. The dance was better - she hadn't had so much fun dancing in a long time. And he could talk about anything under the sun with a humor that made her smile every time. Her perfect red lips crinkled into a little smile. She was turning a little soft.

She slowly wriggled out from under the bedcovers, careful not wake him up. Her clothes lay on the floor in a mess. She quickly dressed herself up and got her hair back into shape. She turned to look at him - satisfied and lost in sleep. She opened her purse and drew out a single red rose - a little for the worse, but it still smelt like a rose. Then, she lay it on his chest and softly kissed him on his lips. His heart beat a little faster - but, just for a moment.

She checked his wallet on the bedside and left him 10 bucks. The rest went into her purse - a fat thick wad of notes. Enough to last the month out in style. He gave a little snore. The pills were working just fine.

"This is going to be a perfect Sunday, after all..."

The door closed with silent click behind her, as she let herself out.

Blood

The sound was insignificant - a nondescript plop. Much like the sound that a warm bottle of soda makes when it is opened. And, well, honestly what followed was also not much different - a little hiss, vapor rising and then the soda overflowing on the hand - vaguely cold and occasionally sticky. The after-effects differed - if it was some cheap ripoff local concoction, then the pot was throne over the next couple of days, and if it was some decent stuff then it filled the belly with enough gas to manage a strong imitation of the wind section of an orchestra. Smelly, but with practice it could sound good.

He caressed the metal. Oddly enough, it did not feel cold like they said in the books. It felt warm - not the warmth of freshly baked bread, but more like the warmth of a fever. Fever wasn't meant to be comfortable - it was sickness and one, obviously felt, nauseated, but the warmth of the metal was strangely comforting. Maybe it wasn't the warmth, maybe it was the what lay ahead. The polished metal shone with a dully under the single naked tungsten light, reflecting the featureless and peeling green paint on the walls. He looked up at the window as the sun set in a blaze casting the dying orange glow into the room.

"Good..."

He pulled the trigger and splattered the walls with his brains. The single red rose on the floor started turning a strange shade of crimson with his blood.

Eyes wide shut

The colored lights, when I close my eyes, never stop dancing. There are blobs - shapeless now, and in a fraction of a second become something from a past memory. They change color - comforting and warm and then harsh and painful - fed by thoughts that run through. I hurtle at breakneck speed on an endless track, tethered to a dangerously rattling roller coaster car - alone with the belt cutting across my body. There are faces on the sides of the tunnel - grinning, mocking, angry, sad and longing. Not all of them are what they are. The worst are the ones that are longing - fragments of a memory or desire long gone.

I open my eyes to collect my thoughts and I realize that it was never - ever. I am just another one of those leather bound books with golden engravings on the rib and yellowed pages that talk of things that were never interesting. Those books that stay up high on the bookshelf - a constant reiteration of the image of intellectuality that an illiterate millionaire wishes to project. Removed for no reason other that the occasional dusting by the maid. A nameless book by a faceless author about things that do not matter.

Goodbye, cruel world!

Shyte!!!

Check this out!

I've been reading my old posts here chronologically backwards from the first one. And the comments as well. Besides having a shady reference to being single (yes, it still is prevalent in all my posts), I used to write a damn sight more that I do now.

But that is not the point...the point is this - this.

Now very carefully read the comment. And then do what it says - exactly. And then look at the first link.

Whoohoo...cheap thrills!


And 'spb', whoever you are - you have a lot of time on your hands and you are 'DA GOOGLER"!

Currently...

Reading
*Multiple City - Writings on Bangalore - Edited by Anita De. (Danke Goobe!)
*In Xandau - William Dalrymple
*Chai Chai - Bishwanath Ghosh
*Remains of the Day - Kauzo Ishiguro
*The 'C' Language - Dennis Ritchie and Brian Kernighan
*Introduction to Algorithms - Thomas H Cormen, Charles E Leiserson, Ronald Rivest, Clifford Stein

Listening
*Narrow Stairs - Deathcab for Cutie
*Zitilites - Kashmir
*No Balance Palace - Kashmir

////Update///
* 3 Rounds and a Sound - Blind Pilot
*I'm Wide Awake It's Morning - Bright Eyes
*Every Man for Himself - Hoobastank
*Antics - Interpol
*Turn on the bright lights - Interpol