Care if it's old.
I don't mind
Mind. I don't have a mind.
Away, away from your home.
Even if you have...
Even if you need...
I don't mean to stare.
We don't have to breed.
Yeah, that's Nirvana with 'Breed'. It's Nirvana, as Norah Jones couln't help. Neither could Gn'R. Or, was that a wrong choice.
You must think I'm crazy. Crazy to start almost all that I write, with a song...hello,hellohhelloh (track changed to Smells like teen spirit). Maybe, I am, or maybe I aint. What's important is that I do actually start most of these with a song. 'coz mostly that's what propels me to write (or, type). My emotions are getting too weak to ignite me. They just warm me. Music ignites. Actually, I'm writing a lot lesser nowadays, and that too on impulse. Today (or, tonight, consiering the time now-3:03 AM, IST), I had to.
After quite a long time, I'm not being able to sleep. At night, that is. In the morning, it's always easy. Probably, it's just that- sleeping the whole day, that's keeping me awake the whole night. I intended to sleep. Sleep well. I have plans for the morning. Complex variables. Had the plan for pretty long. Finally, I've gotta execute it. But, I just can't seem to put my thoughts into one place. For a long time, I've been unable to. So, the time's come to put them to rest in here, so that I can live my existence. I like it, I'm not gonna cry; I'll kill you, I'm not gonna cry. Yes, my thoughts, I'm gona dump you in here to die. Though, I conceived you, and love you, I can't just carry on, carrying you. I've got other stuff to do, to prepare for the rat race. I don't even know, if I can even do that. But, I will try. You gotta try. That's what the world tells me.
So, I've been wanting to do some things about my departmental society. I've got the plan in my head. I'll write it in the diary. Do this, then that, get him/her to do that, then, make him/her write this,...and then, things'll be done. Then, came the problem. Where's the time for this gonna come from? the money? ... and, I realised how all the plans keep forming in my brain and then, just rot away in there. Now, how do I make them work? I can give a certain amount of time, but what about the money? I realize that it is this money that seems to be the most important. Is that why I gotta join the rat-race? for the money? Guess, it's always about the money. Or, probably, about the ideas in the brain, 'coz if you don't have money, your idea rots,; you have it, your idea has a chance. Difficult. Is it about the money, or the idea? Why the idea, in the first place? for money? I don't know. A question that seems eternal to me.
The more I write, the more I realize that I'm moving back to my old ways. My writing, that is. The issues getting highly trivial again, and the writing getting twisted again. Or, is it fine? Or, was it always the same? Questions. That's all that I seem to have write now. Guess, Im just depressed again. Without apparent reason, as usual. 'Apparent', 'coz, probably, there's always one (probably, my highly sensitive 'inner self' has detected the presence of ugly ghosts of 'My Wasted Past', 'Imperfect Present' and 'Bleaky-blacky future'). Coming back to where I started form. Music. Me and music. It's become almost like a cliche. All my entries start with music, and end with the feeling of a lack of music and rhythm. No, I don't have a gun. Maybe, I'm not crazy at all. Maybe, it's my brain, which has evolved this clever marketing ploy- a signature style (after all, all 'BIG' people have signature styles. hah!) Or, it's some clever ET, sitting inside my head, which has adapted this style, as a ploy to attract attention and somehow transfer the bug into the readers brain, finally aiming at world domination. However, looking at the number of hits on my blog, the alien doesn't seem to be that clever at all. World-domination, at this rate, will come only after the re-emergence of the human-species, after it is wiped out in some human-induced catastrophe. But, then that would be highly unfair to Mr./Miss ET. Thats very less time.
You are now under the control of X, inhabitant of the c**p-head monster planet.
(If you didn't notice, we are a very politically-correct species...)