What I shall say, is mostly pulled straight out of my arse. But that said, I write what I write this time as a reminder of good that's happened to me. To know that things have been right before, specially when things ain't going right. As a matter of fact, that holds true for everyone, I suppose. How while traveling through the vicissitudes of life, we forget all the good, and make 'complaining' a universal profession.
I happen to be one of the fortunate in being able to do exactly what I want to. If there's someone out there reading this, I'm sure this fortune is bestowed upon them too, of being able to do what he/she wants. I meet random people when I travel around the city. Strangers, adrift on their own tides, surfing their own waves, fighting their own battles. Some wear quirky Harry-Potter spectacles, some dress in a manner too synonymous with their profession, and some reflect back at you what you are. I write, and hopefully, shall ride and drive for a living. But what I see is how many of us take up their occupation because they could not stand up for their calling. Or maybe, I'm not at a stage in life where I can make that judgment, perhaps. Another thing that I saw through recently, through the people I met with, is that fathers are obsessed with "Safety factor" in any occupation. hat's kind of a given, from an evolutionary perspective, as there is an inherent protective instinct that kicks in in parents when something uncertain, even dangerous confronts their progeny. Because at the end of the day, parents want their kids to live as long as they can, so their children can reproduce as much as they can, as a way to propagate their parents' genes as far and wide as possible to ensure their continuity in the gene pool. Too long-shot a claim, but that's reductionism explaining our fight for survival and our collective, yet clandestine obsession with mating. It disturbs me how all my thoughts come boiling down to the act of copulation, a.k.a sex.
What i also discovered recently is a new-found difficulty in talking to women. Maybe, I shouldn't have said that. Anyway...
Yesterday was good. Today is good too. And tomorrow shall be too. You never know. And every once in a while, there comes a bugger, sometimes while traveling on a train, okay, mostly while traveling on a train, who sees the Book-reader in my hand and says "Uncle, is that a tab?". And I feel like pummeling this bum's face! If I did wear an oversized shirt, had a rounded back, black leather shoes, and looked lousy as hell, I wouldn't mind being called an "uncle". Here I am, all 5 feet three and a half inches of me, lean, mean, blinding you with all shine and sheen, and the lousy bugger calls me "Uncle"? Now, neither is the chap genuinely interested in reading. I asked him about the books he reads. The first thing he started off was a rant on how he likes to read, how he magically doesn't, and about how he wants to start reading. The fellow is 17. What will he be when he turns 27? And here I am, practicing our universal occupation.
Another thing about complaining... I've lived seeing my parents, myself, most people I know, except for my grandfather, complaining all their life, or whatever fragment of their life I witnessed. My Dad drives me down to work everyday. Well, almost. And everyday, he complains about the same bottlenecks in the road, at precisely the same location, every single day, and how if he were to design it, it would be a lot more convenient to drive on that stretch of road. Now, that's me complaining. And it becomes irritating to live with yourself with this sort of rant constantly trying to fill your head. Amidst this, here I was thinking about a woman. And then this song started playing on the radio, and did a lot of things to my thoughts, that I cannot mention. Not because my thoughts contain anything unmentionable in them. Just that my thoughts of that drive, from the moment on the song started, are purely inexplicable. And I'm not complaining.
I have a lot of things to thank in life. a lot of who may go unmentioned here today, I'm afraid. Firstly, the lady in my office, who happily gave me LOTS of chocolates, when I just asked for an extra piece. She did slam the door on my face at first. But I saw her smiling through the window next to the door. Parsi ladies, I tell you. Adorable creatures. More so if they're elderly. Something about them reeks of nurturing vibes. Something just motherly enough to keep yo from feeling like you're being mothered. Then, there's my mother, who bears the plight of handling my mood swings. Yes, before I forget, thank you, Coldplay for making Yellow. More importantly, I want to thank the person at my workplace who played this song "Yellow" when I wanted to listen to it. I don't know him/her. I did not tell him/her that I wanted to listen to the song. It just happened to be that our urges to hear this happened to coincide.
And It was all yellow....
Last, but not least, I want to thank the woman who kept me from not writing these words. Yeah, that's a double negative. Last words for today?
"The sun in the west was a drop of burning gold that slid nearer and nearer the sill of the world. All at once, they were aware of the evening as the end of the light and warmth." - William Golding, Lord of the Flies
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