Journeys

Simple Scribbles # 5

Puppet

Simple Scribbles #  4

Geometry

If thoughts had their geometry,

Would ours meet?

Like intersecting lines?

At some point

In a distant plane,

Mine abscissa, your ordinate,

And together, we

A bracket unto ourselves,

The definition of a full stop in eternity!

Or would they go parallel, still,

Even in those dimensions,

Like the asymptotes we are,

Never to meet

But to keep running together,

By each other’s side

Chasing infinity?

If thoughts had their geometry

Would ours be confined?

Between point A and point B,

Like

The two ends of one segment of a line?

Or would they grow exponentially

Reaching out with wide, open arms

To embrace a forever that actually lasts;

And extend, unhindered by trivialities

Of distance, space and time?

If thoughts had their geometry

Could we

Build a circle out of ours?

With no beginning, no end,

Just an endless, continuous middle

That keeps melting unto its own self!

If thoughts had their geometry

Would this world be large enough?

To act as a plane

Where we could plot ours:

Lay thoughts down

Into words, characters, feelings, prayers, hopes,

Like plotting precisions onto neat squares of graphs?

Or would we need a bigger area

To encompass them all?

An always up-surging curve,

As thoughts tend to infinity?

If thoughts had their geometry,

Would mathematics be richer, simpler?

Tell me, stranger,

Would it still not make sense to you?

Refuge

Simple Scribbles # 3

Growing Up- A Sorry Story!

I turned 19 this year. And looking back at my growing up, it would be an understatement to confess that I have been exceptionally lucky, blessed, loved and protected all through life. But, somehow, the whole business of having grown up, in the traditional sense, has left me wanting for more. Left me craving for the days when I was a still a kid, and life was infinitely simpler!

Here are the top 5 reasons staying a kid was way more awesome than this sorry story of growing up!

1 .      Birthdays

Then, only gifts mattered! Now, if someone dear forgets to wish us, nothing else matters! Ironical how we blew our birthday candles, wishing to grow up! So many years worth of wishes, wasted!

2 .      Judgments

Then, the world was neatly bifurcated into black and white, good and bad, happy and sad, friend or foe. It made everything so easy, fitting all of it into water tight compartments. But, now the world is bathed in shades of grey so weird, we forget where we belong!

Then, we knew there would be spring’s sunshine for winter’s fog, a happy surprise for every sad thought! But now, we realize there are no guarantees, and life, despite our best intentions, will always be a risk!

3 .      Relationships

Nobody stared at us when we held hands of people we loved and walked down the streets. We could kiss people on the cheek to tell them how special they were, without embarrassing them. We could hug, without weighing ourselves down with the expectation of being hugged back! Relationships were simple, clear, defined!

As we grew up, relationships grew up, too! Grew up so much that they outgrew labels, and messed it up for us!

4 .      Logic

Kiddie logic is amazing! So, as kids, we knew leaves were green because that is the colour they are supposed to be! But, now, they expect us to know that leaves are green because the science of optics says that they absorb every other colour in the visible spectrum, except green! Things made better sense, when they did not.

5 .      Newspapers

They made for the perfect aircrafts. And the perfect boats to sail in the deliciously water logged streets, post heavy showers.

Grown-ups do not have much use for newspapers, except beginning their day on a despairing note! Grown-ups know paper planes crash. And paper boats sink. Always!

That leaves me with just one question: Why grow up? :)

Happy Ending

Simple Scribbles # 2

Tears

Simple Scribbles # 1 

Combing through...

Combing through my wet hair,
I pause.
Broken strands fall
onto my hands,
my nape, my back,
and onto the bare, swept floor.

Once a part of me,
Now, loose, dead, scattered.

I know this is what happens
when the comb of years runs through
the thin strands of memories
housed
in the partitions of my mind and my soul.

No matter how much I resist
the comb of years will tug at them, hard.
Slicing through these memories,
like apples sliced into half,
and their core discarded.

Remembrances will break, snap, slip and fall.

Once a part of all that I was
No longer a part of all I could be.

And my heart, losing their cherished weight
will become heavier still!

Oh, the irony!

Unfinished Stories

I keep coming back to all the random, left at half, unfinished pieces of prose and poetry I have crafted.

They lie scattered in notebooks, diaries, journals, and memos of all hues and textures. Hastily scribbled once, with a twinkle and sparkle in my eyes, and a deep, unquenched thirst and a mad penchant for those words, they now lie abandoned in favor of other thoughts, other ideas, other dreams, other stories that somehow seemed more promising, more just, more relatable, more remarkable at that time.

I am a writer.
And, writers do that sometimes.

Letting stories stay incomplete, hoping, someday, to be able to weave a magic that is hidden, reluctant to reveal itself for the time being.

And, then I remember.
You are a writer, too.

Is that why you have allowed our story to pause? Letting it hover between us in the silence that keeps cropping up in the middle of our conversations? Letting it drift, until it fades, like the last, fleeting, faint remnants of the melody from your favorite song? Letting it be? And hoping it transforms into a prayer that He hears, and answers favorably?

I hope so.

But then, we should not forget this simple truth.
He pens down destinies, letting some stay unfinished.

Writers, they do that sometimes J

Stains

They could be the muddy brown reminders of the splash of rain water on your crisp white cotton shirt. They could be the sticky yellow remnants of the last night’s supper of sizzling chana dal. They could be the wet, greasy greens on the knees of your jeans, with a small sprinkling of the grass from your neighbourhood lawns where you were playing. They could be the creamy, sugary spots of icing from your birthday cake, a nasty spill of tomato ketchup on your brand new kurti, a colourful evidence of a raucous food fight with your buddies in the college canteen, or a glaring blue-black patch of ink on your school uniform from a faulty, cheap pen. They could be a gateway to memories.

Stains. No. I am not the only lunatic romanticizing the disturbing spots of imperfection on your presentable, meticulously laundered clothes. Surf Excel does that too. Remember the cheesy “Daag Acche Hain” campaign. None of us can deny the simplicity of the smiles which appeared on our faces post watching those ads.

That is what stains do. They interrupt. And in a life marked by the constant pace of ‘progress’ and ‘advancement’, stains remind us that not everything can be picture perfect. No matter how mechanized our lives become, or how far we move towards attaining invincibility in all spheres, a humble stain shows us our true place, our inherent nature to err, to make mistakes; it thrusts in our face, our very own imperfect human-ness.

It is an excellent metaphor that depicts that not everything is in our hands. And that it is okay to make mistakes, as long as we learn from them. If we leave a stain unattended for too long, it seeps inside the skin of the fabric and refuses to leave. Similarly, if we refuse to acknowledge our mistakes and assume responsibility for our actions, this negative trait encroaches upon a space in our being, corrupting us, making us arrogant and vain.

Stains serve to portray that life is not good at all times and the road to success is dotted with speed breakers and potholes and puddles of rotten luck. They teach us that if we navigate through these storms without losing our patience and perseverance, then life will reward us with cherished prizes and memorable experiences.

Stains can be removed, as non-stop TV commercials for miraculous detergents will never let you forget!

Next time you stain your clothes, watch your reaction. Observe quietly how your forehead furrows with lines of worry, how your lips mould themselves in an expression of disgust, how your eyes narrow down and how you frown, complaining that life is unfair and what a klutz you are or somebody else (who inflicted the devious stain on your precious attire) is!

Then, remember that stains can be washed. Recall that stains are good. Recall that mistakes can be corrected. Recall that forgiveness can be sought. Recall that you are nowhere near perfect. Recall that you are human. Recall and smile.

Window

I soak in the warm sunshine of your smile.

I am drenched in the rains of joy through your eyes.

You are the wind to my open wings,

Through you I glimpse the rainbows of my skies.

The seasons change, so do days and nights,

You are the only constant, alive.

You are my open window to the world,

My escape, my respite.

The bright ray of hope that lights up my life.

 J

Conversation

His were the eyes which spoke. 
She was gifted at reading them all.
What lacked in speech and sound, was more than made up for in sight.
The unsaid needed a conversation that words could not enkindle! 

The Friend I Am

I wish you were the friend I am.

I wish you did not need Face Book to remember my birthday. I wish you would call. Because that is exactly what I have done for you always, on your special day. I wish you cared.

I wish you would sometimes read what I write, because I have always listened to your stories, even if it meant staying up all night.

I wish you would stop by in the corridor to say hello and stay for a little longer during the lunch break. Because I have greeted you every morning and wished you sweet dreams every night.

I wish you would initiate conversations sometimes, instead of always replying to my questions as if you were doing me a favour by answering them.

I wish you would come up and smile and hug me tight when you saw me waving from across the ground. I wish you did not stop at waving back. I wish you did not turn away, and walked in the opposite direction.

I wish friendship was not a formality but a cherished blessing.

I wish you could stand up for me and vouch for my honesty. Because I have always defended you, except when you have been utterly wrong. I thought that is what friends do. Try and make their friends better people.

I wish I could tell you everything on my mind, without feeling those piercing gaps and chasms and divides. I wish you would listen for one day, instead of interrupting me with something.

I wish I could count on you, like you have counted on me.

I wish I could say to everyone that you are my friend in need, just like I have been yours.

I wish I knew the real you. I wish I were a little selfish, a little less sensitive, a lot stronger, and maybe a bit unfeeling. So this would have hurt less.

I wish I knew that you took me for granted. That I was being used. That reciprocation was never your strength. That my love for you was not matched by your love for me. That you were never what the world hopes to call a friend.

I wish I knew.

But more than that, I wish I had a friend like me! And I wish that this friend were you.

Seasons :)

Buds bloom into blossoming beauty.
Spring saunters in with a spring in his step.

The stars singe the soothing sky.
Summer saves me some of her sunshine.

Rains rain upon rows of rainy days.
Monsoon manifests its miraculous magic.

Winds weave a wave of wishes.
Wistful winters wage a war on wisdom.

Seasons stay. Seasons change.
Destiny smiles upon distant planes.

Seasons stay, seasons change.
My destiny remains steadfast, same.

Seasons stay. seasons change.
And I, I sit by the window sill, and wait.

"The Don't Knows in My Life"

Yes, there a hundred, thousand, million
and maybe more
don't knows in my life.
Yes, there are so many greys,
that even my rainbows
seem black and white.

No,  I never felt the need to define,
to depict, to word, to highlight
what goes on inside
the angelic and devilish realm
that is my mind.

Because, more often than not,
uncertainty is
the only hope
of the certainty
of a happy ending.
And not knowing, what the future holds,
makes it far easier
to hold on to presumptions
of happily ever afters!

I don't know
Why
I don't know
What
I don't know.

But, this, not knowing
is safe, comforting,
Free
from expectations,
and commitments,
and calculations,
and boundaries,
and limitations.

Because there can only be
a certain number of things we know.
But, not knowing
is infinity.
Is bliss.
Ignorance might be a deception.
But, not knowing things,
I don't know,
may be
A liberation?!

Made in Heaven

Jingling gold bangles on both wrists. Handcuffs.

Vermillion on forehead. His stamp of control.

Mangalsutra around the neck. Asphyxiating noose.

Wedding band on fourth finger. Binding chain.

Red wedding veil on face. Seclusion from the world.

We all have our prisons. 

Everybody thought hers was “made in heaven.”

Rainbows :)

I know a rainbow isn't magic.
There is a science of light governing

The colours that pop up
On a rainy, sunny,
Contradictory day.

Seven bright hues in a dull grey sky;
paragraphs of golden sunlight,
Punctuated with silver drops of rain.

An exercise in storytelling.
A phenomenon called dispersion.

I know dispersion.
But there is no magic in knowing,
and calculating the angles, ratios and time lapses
And in predicting rainbows.

There is magic
when
You are typing away furiously,
Stabbing at the keys of your laptop,
And the rain starts stabbing
at the glass windows.

And suddenly
Light through shut panes,
An inverted smile
painted upon the gloomy face of the sky
welcomes you.

A happy, carefree, magical VIBGYOR.
Rainbow.

And you are six again, or seven
And heaven
And rainy skies and chasing butterflies,
And being naked, drenched, replete in rain
The be all and end all
Of how happiness is spelled.

And love is still a possibility
and not a distant, hazy dream.
The sky has fathered rainbows
And all is well with the world, again :)

Gaps

They will seep in when you are least likely to notice them. In a leaking pipe, between two torn halves of paper, inside the shattered glass remains of a broken window, within long distance phone calls, among the closest of friends and confidants.

Gaps.

You cannot run away from them. They will catch up, sooner rather than later.

The phone calls will become infrequent. Birthdays will be forgotten. You will run out of common topics to discuss.

New friends will grace new photographs while the old pictures sulk, in your slam book. Threads will snap, memories will blur and distances will grow.

Small talk will try desperately to fill up those gaps, but they will remain.

Like the three dots that mark an unfinished sentence.

Like the story whose sequel is yet to come out.

Like 31^st December, the loneliest night of the year.

Like a park bench that is vacant on a cold winter morning, bereft of the warmth a human touch provides.

Like a railway station where the train never stops. 

Like blurred pictures clicked through windows stained with the dirty splashes of rain.

Like your favourite song cut short on the radio.

Like a book left unread, the bookmark sitting inside the anticipating pages.

Like a power cut that ends only when your favourite movie on TV

has ended, too.

Like a full lunch box that you have nobody to share with.

Like words that sit inside your heart, but are too timid to come out from the safety of your mouth.

Like mascara spoilt by tears.

Like when you have earrings in your favourite colours, but your ears are not pierced, so you can’t wear them.

Like everything that does not make sense, and like nothing that does.

Gaps.

There are gaps that people can fill for you. And then there are those you have to fill for yourself. The day you can tell them apart, perhaps they will start to disappear. Till that time, be prepared. Because they will stay.

Gaps.

Labels

What if I labelled us "friends"
and "forever" decided we did not qualify?

What if I labelled us "soulmates"
and the universe rejected it on a whim?

What if you labelled us "happiness"
and tears accompanied our smiles,
inseparable now that they are?

What if we labelled us "us",
forgetting that I am me and you are you, first?

Maa does not label the containers in the kitchen.
The spices are familiar, even if containers change.

Labels are futile.

Salt is salt because sugar is sugar,
not because it was meant to be,
But simply because we labelled it in bold,
to be spelled as SALT.
And now calling it something else is blasphemy.

So if we label what we have, nothing will change. But we might just.

The spices In the kitchen know who they are
and where they are needed.

I wish we knew too.

Labels would be redundant, don't you think?

Language

English. German. French. Spanish. Italian. Greek. Portuguese. Dutch.

Believing that only languages could complete her, she had mastered them all. Her world lay in words.

Until the day of his birth. As her baby wailed for the first time, her tears bloomed into a smile.

Words failed her. Language seemed like the poorest translation. 

                                                                                                                 

                                                                                    

The Perfect Gift

I do not want those ear rings of gold. Notice that my ears are not pierced. Notice that you will spend a couple of thousand bucks on something I have no use of.

I do not want the platinum necklace. Notice that I will hesitate to wear it to work, fearing I will misplace it. Notice that it will grace the almirah locker, and not my nape.

I do not want the hand crafted silk saree. Notice that I do not know how to drape it. Notice how I hastily adjust my t shirt before stepping out. Notice that a saree is too much trouble.

I do not want the latest iPhone. Notice how inept I am at technology. Notice that my HTC performs the same functions, at one fifth the price.

I do not want the magnificent painting of the Colosseum. Notice that I have never stepped out of the country. Notice that the painting is a false hope, a chimera, an illusion.

I do not want the perfume that costs a hundred rupees a drop. Notice that nature has so many scents to choose from. Notice that the petrichor of the earth and the citrus of the lemon and the sweetness of the rose have always been my favourites.

I do not want the dainty diamond studded watch either.

I want the time that it shows. 

Your time. With me. Our time. Together.

Because that, to me, is the perfect gift.

I want your time. Notice that I thrive on it. Notice that your time is all I have of you. Notice that I long to be a memory from your past, a truth from your present, a hope for your future. Take notice.

This birthday, gift me time?!

Of wounds and bandages!

 There are wounds that get healed. And others that do not. Bandages mask them all.

I wish I knew what kind of wound you were.

The bandage that covers you up in fine threads longs to know too.

At times you stain it deep red with all the passion and fury boiling in my blood. At times you cause so much pain that I want to tear the bandage off, and detach from the part of me that houses you. 

At times you are silent, a world unto yourself, and I long to touch you, to check if you are still there, engraved into my skin like the vein that sucks away bad blood from you, like the artery that fuels you with freshness and magic and repair and healing. At such times the bandage is a companionable presence, not a maniacal threat.

But most of the times, you are a dichotomy.

Sometimes, when I peel off the layers that cover the scars, when it is time to change bandages, when the pain has gone but the numbness remains, I wonder. I wonder and question and seek to know who you are.

And it is then that I realize that you might not be the wound at all.

It is then, that I realize that you are the bandage. I realize I will never need to change you, because you are the life force that cures it all. You are my bandage that keeps me together J

Freedom

August 1947. Clear blue sky. Swaying green fields. Ash black coal. Rusty brown train engine. Steel grey smoke. White, empty noise. Partition. Death. Loss. The freedom fighters bowed. Independence was welcome, even though freedom was coloured a blood red.

August 2014. Colourless winds. Azure blue sky. Dotted with greens, blues, whites and oranges. As the kites soared and fell, he smiled. He had freed so many kites from their chains that day. Like his forefathers.

His hands were bloodied by the sharp kite string. 

Freedom was still blood red.

Fidelity

Her soft white skin colored golden in his warm embrace. As she basked in the glory of his arms, she whispered, “Promise me you will be mine forever. Mine and only mine to keep.”

“I promise”, he lied.

The Idli never knew that her Sambhar was cheating on her. With the Dosa.

Perspectives

28. Single. Lawyer by profession. Only child of middle class parents.

She had told him everything he needed to know. Including her biggest secret.

She thought he would understand. He was, after all, her husband to be.

But he did not. He had shouted and screamed like a mad man. He had called her a characterless bitch.

He had left without caring for explanations.

In retrospect, she thought, he deserved none.

Yes, she was a mother to be. Yes, the child did not belong to him. It was the truth.

But it was also true that the child could have belonged to both of them, together.

The in charge’s voice broke her reverie. “Congratulations ma’am. You are good to go. Everything’s in order. You can take him home.”

 5 year old Yug smiled as she enveloped him in her arms. A new born mother walked out of the orphanage with her new found child, as the in charge thanked her for the adoption. He thought she was an angel.

She smiled at the irony. A bitch to one, and an angel to another.

Same motherhood, different perspectives.

Sharing your Angels :)

Each one of us is fortunate.

I say that not to lecture you about counting your blessings, but to remind you that life is good.

We are all blessed because we can name at least one person whom we love unconditionally, and who loves us back. All of us have that angel in our lives. Our guardian angel. It could be your mom, your dad, your grandparents, a dear relative, a sibling, a friend, a teacher, a lover and sometimes even a complete stranger.

You know they are your angel because they are as good to everybody else as they are to you. That is what an angel does. Let smiles bloom where there were tears, let spring winds blow when life is a frosty winter, let sunshine beam through the stormiest of days and let tranquility pacify the turbulent ebb and flow of your emotions!

But, possessiveness is the greatest sin you will commit against your angel.

You might not be ready to share their love and friendship with anybody else, believing that they are yours and yours alone to keep. But that is not true.

Learn to share your angels with the world, because the world needs all the goodness it can gather.

Share your angels, because sharing is the force that will propel them forward on their noble earthly mission.

Share them because like you, the homeless man on the footpath needs them. The widow, who has 2 kids to support and no income to boast of, needs them. The distraught orphan on the streets needs them. Those who aren't as lucky as you are, and those who know only suffering and pain and sorrow, need them.

Share your angels, because your angels need these broken souls too. To mend, repair, heal and patch up their pieces together into a beautiful, whole person again. Your angel needs them, because they form the purpose of his or her life. And because, the almighty has instructed them to love those who need it most!

Share them, because if you don’t, you will end up chopping their wings off and chaining them to misery, obstructing the fulfillment of their destiny.

Share your angel because that is the greatest favour you will ever do. To them, to the world, and perhaps, even to yourself. Set them free once you have realized you are good to go. Release them once they have filled your heart with all the joy, peace, love and warmth you need.
Unchain them, because they would never do it by themselves. They won’t leave till you are ready to let them go, because angels heal, not hurt.

Set your angels free, once you have assimilated and absorbed their goodness into yourselves. Don’t hold on to them forever. And once you have set them free, try and be an angel for someone else too :)


Inspired from "Angels" by Lang Leav. Read it here: http://langleav.com/post/41380845770/angels

First Love

Friday. First day, first show. But not their first date.
She had been seeing him for the last 10 years. She had been in love with him ever since she had learnt what love was.
It did not matter that she could see him only once, or maybe twice and rarely, if she was lucky, thrice a year.
It did not matter that he was 30 years her senior. Or that he was married. Or had kids who were almost her age. His magical smile, those honest, haunting dark eyes, his salt and pepper beard, his kind face and the way he made her feel....that was all that mattered.
No, she did not own him. Never would. And that was okay. Love never meant ownership. It meant being happy for him, even if she was not a part of that happiness. She had the gift of his time for those stolen 3 or 6 or 9 hours every 365 or so days, and that was enough.
As the lights in the hall dimmed, and the screen lit up with the title, "Jab Tak Hai Jaan", she looked at him, directly in the eyes and hoped he knew what he meant to her.
Nonetheless, as he smiled at her, she whispered so only he would hear, "I love you so much, Shahrukh!"
Like millions of girls her age, SRK was her first love :)

My Name

You write my name on the wet window pane that’s been washed with the first monsoon shower. You trace the letters softly, looping the g and the r with flair, but conveniently forgetting to dot the i. The glass smiles through the slant of your scribble, and I can glimpse the busy street through the transparent letters.

You write my name on the blank pages of your journal, absent mindedly, as you pause to recollect and reflect on the happenings of the day. I am grateful for the space my name occupies, page after page, thought after thought, doodle after doodle.

You carve my initials on the frosty Borosil glass, as the ice cold water condenses outside.

You do not spare the dusty car too. Your fingers float, moving and stopping alternately, until my name proudly appears on the front, back and the side glasses.

The beige, peachy, golden sand on the beach knows what I am called. Every weekend, you dutifully remind her of the six letters that make up my name, imprinting them, if only momentarily, just in the lap of the ocean.

Your FaceBook password is twenty four months old. My name is typed scores of times in a single day, whenever you log in to the social network.

I often wonder what goes through your mind when you do that. I wonder what my name means to you. I wonder what I mean to you!

A hundred times I ask myself why my name finds itself resting on every surface your fingers touch. A hundred times I question the injustice of it all.

The wet window pane will be wiped away, along with my name. 

The blank pages of your journal will be filled in royal blue ink when your ideas have found words. My name will be lost, in the loops and curves and knots of your handwriting.

The Borosil glass will have to be washed. My name and the memory of it will be history.

The dusty car will have to be dusted. Reluctantly, I will clean the front, the back and the side glasses, stripping the vehicle bare of my identity.

The sand on the beach will give in to the pressure of the high tide. The ocean will hungrily swallow the tracing of my name. The sand will forget, once more, that I exist.

The keyboard will be busier checking up on your friends, once you have logged in to Face Book. You will be thinking of plans and parties and meetings and get-togethers and celebrations and I would not be a part of those thoughts.

I wonder why. A hundred times a day, I wonder. A hundred times, the very same question. A hundred times, no answer.

Perhaps I have become a habitual presence in your life, woven inextricably into your days and nights. My presence is like that of the air you breathe, necessary, but rarely noticed. My name is routine. The love that once punctuated these six letters has faded.

But sometimes, when you come back home and smile and whisper my name with faint strains of affection and longing and happiness and a slight playful amusement in your voice, I realize my name is special. In those moments, the love sparkles again. In those moments, I know that there is a reason why my name means so much to you. In those moments, I know, I still mean so much to you! And I know, there is still a place where my name is inscribed permanently. I know that as long as you are alive, and even after I am not, my name will stay, forever, imprinted in your heart. And in those moments, knowing this is enough.

Poetry

(This one's based on my definition of poetry. What is yours?)

It started at the edges of his forehead, easing the strains of worry and soothing the furrowed lines of misery there.

It flowed through the bridge of his nose and spread out, radiant, into the creases of his warm, mellow, chocolate brown eyes. It made his eyes sparkle, as if they were molten gold, as if they had a life of their own.

Like music, it flowed.

It travelled to the dimples of his soft cheeks that were lined with a week’s stubble.

It poured through, like light, seeping into every inch, corner, nook and crevice of his handsome face.  

And finally, it came to rest, breathing life into his guarded lips.

His smile, yeah, his smile was poetry!

WELCOME

Okay. so like hundreds and thousands of aspiring young writers spread across the globe, I too, have finally come up with my very own blog! There is no reason, absolutely none, as to why you should visit this blog. After all, everything that one has to say, has probably been said before. There are only so many languages, so many words and so many ideas that the world can spawn, right?

Umm, wrong! Sometimes, two very similar people can react very differently to very similar situations and circumstances. Sometimes, the very same words can generate very different meanings, and sometimes, you need to read between the lines to know what truly is, what never was, and what always will be :)

So, welcome to this blog that goes by a very impulsive name (that took more than 48 hours to finalise :P).
Welcome to a very impulsive world, where every scribble will mean more than it gives away, where every ordinary occurrence will be distilled into a not-so-ordinary observation, where at times, tears will betray joy, and laughter will mask sorrow, where the present blends seamlessly with an upcoming tomorrow.

I welcome you to discover randomness. I welcome you to find a method in this madness. I welcome you to be a part of this crazy, whimsical experiment, because we learn from each other and we grow, only when others grow along with us. Welcome!