If you've experienced true pain, it seems you can appreciate the beauty in everything. I'm not saying that, I read that line somewhere and it made no sense to me. For the only true pain is a kick to the nuts.
Here's another finding on pain. If a person, who's attention you long for the most, ignores you..... the brain reacts in the same way as it would if you physically hurt yourself. You'd actually feel hurt it seems, if the cute lady stays indifferent. It's on reading this particular finding that I realised why I feel so hurt all the time. Nah, bollocks!
As part of my job, I fortunately travel around a lot, and get to stay in a lot of good places all around the country. Instead of feeling things like pain and sorrow when I'm out, I notice things. Things like the bathrooms in my hotel room. Things like the fact that in every hotel bathroom, I mean in EVERY HOTEL BATHROOM, there's one shower jell, and there's one shampoo. And they are coloured according to whatever fruit extracts it is that the puny boxes claim to contain. Each time, one of them (the shower jell, say) is a concoction of peaches/oranges/grapes/bananas or whatever, and the shampoo too has some fruit in it, but it's always a fruit. Never a vegetable. No bitter gourd, no spinach, none of that healthy stuff. It'll be some apricot or litchi or some exotic fruit that mom never buys. Who buys green apples anyway?
I've seen this enough number of times that I know that this is the general state of affairs in the bathrooms of high-end hotel rooms. But I wonder why the hotel management wants to turn your body into fruit salad.
See the amount of thinking that's required to keep you from feeling hurt all the time?
Another observation here. If you're reading this, you've perhaps sat in an airplane more times than you've calculated 33x33 (1089, genius!) in your lifetime. Unless you specialise in calculating 33x33 of course, then in that case, you're not counted.
But when a plane lands, why is there so much of a 'click' 'click' clack' 'clack'; every bugger on board trying to free themselves from the clutches of the seat belt? Mind you, the flight's just touched down, it's still not halted completely, so the doors too aren't open (unless some air hostess got really creative). Basically, you're readying yourself to stand in a queue for the next 3 days before the door opens, for what? Deplaning 3 seconds before the chap who was sitting till the crowd cleared?
Talking of airplanes, my dad once told me a story long ago, about how inside airplanes, beautiful creatures called air hostesses exist. He told me this when I showed my apprehensions about getting into a sealed chamber that apparently flew like a bird. But after hearing about the beautiful creatures inside (I couldn't pronounce 'air-hostess' then), I changed my mind like a good boy. Now I know for a fact that the 'beautiful creature' story is a myth. I can only see creatures with four tonnes and three tones of make-up. In essence, we could carry a lot more luggage if the airy hostesses left their mascara at home. Just kidding. Poor souls, they need to deal with famished idiots like yours truly, when we demand for food and drink. How did things go so bad for them, I wonder. About the beautiful creatures, I still am hopeful to travel on Virgin Atlantic some day. Pappa, I know you don't lie.
And now, for the heart-wrecking part. Fruits, fruity shampoos, hotels, planes, air-hostesses, no air-hostesses, I couldn't bother with any of it. For all I care, give me a cot under a star-studded sky, and I bet that a chap who's done his day's worth of work will sleep like a baby. But that sleep is something I surrendered on the day that I shook hands with her. It was on her birthday, exactly 355 days ago. We'd known each other, albeit not that well, for just over a month or so, and I'd fallen flat on my arse the instant that I saw her. An arm's reach away she is, but I couldn't be further from her. Shit! I can talk like Yoda (Oh yeah!), but that's no use when you're supposed to be bloody Luke.
See, it's at despondent times like these, when you travel long distances every day, partly just to see someone, that even a non-believer hopes for a miracle. You'll have surrendered to an insurmountable strength, that surprisingly lies somewhere within you, but is just bloody hard to find.
Mind you, if you're fortunate though, there'll be some being that comes to the rescue. In my case, there are two. This soul will tell you stuff that's as mystical as 'The Force', (I know it's getting too Star Wars-ish), and you wouldn't have the first thing called a clue about what they're on about. But I suppose you're supposed to soldier on, listen blindly and do, but not just do, but do instead. Or something along those lines. Off you go then! The force just awoke a few months ago. Didn't you see it or something?
Here's another finding on pain. If a person, who's attention you long for the most, ignores you..... the brain reacts in the same way as it would if you physically hurt yourself. You'd actually feel hurt it seems, if the cute lady stays indifferent. It's on reading this particular finding that I realised why I feel so hurt all the time. Nah, bollocks!
As part of my job, I fortunately travel around a lot, and get to stay in a lot of good places all around the country. Instead of feeling things like pain and sorrow when I'm out, I notice things. Things like the bathrooms in my hotel room. Things like the fact that in every hotel bathroom, I mean in EVERY HOTEL BATHROOM, there's one shower jell, and there's one shampoo. And they are coloured according to whatever fruit extracts it is that the puny boxes claim to contain. Each time, one of them (the shower jell, say) is a concoction of peaches/oranges/grapes/bananas or whatever, and the shampoo too has some fruit in it, but it's always a fruit. Never a vegetable. No bitter gourd, no spinach, none of that healthy stuff. It'll be some apricot or litchi or some exotic fruit that mom never buys. Who buys green apples anyway?
I've seen this enough number of times that I know that this is the general state of affairs in the bathrooms of high-end hotel rooms. But I wonder why the hotel management wants to turn your body into fruit salad.
See the amount of thinking that's required to keep you from feeling hurt all the time?
Another observation here. If you're reading this, you've perhaps sat in an airplane more times than you've calculated 33x33 (1089, genius!) in your lifetime. Unless you specialise in calculating 33x33 of course, then in that case, you're not counted.
But when a plane lands, why is there so much of a 'click' 'click' clack' 'clack'; every bugger on board trying to free themselves from the clutches of the seat belt? Mind you, the flight's just touched down, it's still not halted completely, so the doors too aren't open (unless some air hostess got really creative). Basically, you're readying yourself to stand in a queue for the next 3 days before the door opens, for what? Deplaning 3 seconds before the chap who was sitting till the crowd cleared?
Talking of airplanes, my dad once told me a story long ago, about how inside airplanes, beautiful creatures called air hostesses exist. He told me this when I showed my apprehensions about getting into a sealed chamber that apparently flew like a bird. But after hearing about the beautiful creatures inside (I couldn't pronounce 'air-hostess' then), I changed my mind like a good boy. Now I know for a fact that the 'beautiful creature' story is a myth. I can only see creatures with four tonnes and three tones of make-up. In essence, we could carry a lot more luggage if the airy hostesses left their mascara at home. Just kidding. Poor souls, they need to deal with famished idiots like yours truly, when we demand for food and drink. How did things go so bad for them, I wonder. About the beautiful creatures, I still am hopeful to travel on Virgin Atlantic some day. Pappa, I know you don't lie.
And now, for the heart-wrecking part. Fruits, fruity shampoos, hotels, planes, air-hostesses, no air-hostesses, I couldn't bother with any of it. For all I care, give me a cot under a star-studded sky, and I bet that a chap who's done his day's worth of work will sleep like a baby. But that sleep is something I surrendered on the day that I shook hands with her. It was on her birthday, exactly 355 days ago. We'd known each other, albeit not that well, for just over a month or so, and I'd fallen flat on my arse the instant that I saw her. An arm's reach away she is, but I couldn't be further from her. Shit! I can talk like Yoda (Oh yeah!), but that's no use when you're supposed to be bloody Luke.
See, it's at despondent times like these, when you travel long distances every day, partly just to see someone, that even a non-believer hopes for a miracle. You'll have surrendered to an insurmountable strength, that surprisingly lies somewhere within you, but is just bloody hard to find.
Mind you, if you're fortunate though, there'll be some being that comes to the rescue. In my case, there are two. This soul will tell you stuff that's as mystical as 'The Force', (I know it's getting too Star Wars-ish), and you wouldn't have the first thing called a clue about what they're on about. But I suppose you're supposed to soldier on, listen blindly and do, but not just do, but do instead. Or something along those lines. Off you go then! The force just awoke a few months ago. Didn't you see it or something?
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