The Villain at the Movies.

I haven't posted in a really long time but every nerve in my body is screaming out and until I type this down it threatens to continue. 

I have been frolicking around this past week. Why? Because it's Spring Break!

Well, I guess I should stop getting too happy now because today is the last day of my only holiday this semester. Sigh!

Anyway, this break I decided to frolic around in the movie theater. Honestly, I go to the theater to hog on the awesome movie theater food (it should have a name, it's a cuisine on its own I think) besides watching a movie. 

Usually, I order nachos with salsa which I refuse to share with anyone (and I know will end up half eaten under my chair), a huge glass of Pepsi and place myself on a seat.

 Now, somehow, I always end up sitting on the side of a complete stranger. That is okay with me, I have no problems with silent, mum   (dead) strangers until  I realize that they are breathing.

The movie is about to start and I'm all excited sitting on my seat, stuffing nachos with salsa into my mouth without even looking down ( until a jalapeno accidentally pops into my mouth) and this boy sitting next to me decides to sing along as the opening credits music is going on. So, I laugh to myself because that stops me from breaking the boy's neck. The one man choir, sitting next to me decides to not only sing along but hum to every tune that is being played in the movie (yes, it was a Hindi movie).

This one time, when I was finally having a peaceful 1.5 hours at the movies, the guy next to me decides to open his mouth to breathe. And Oh, the sweet smell of a human mouth shut for the last 1.5 hours. That's why you are supposed to eat popcorn, or nachos or crepe or something. I wanted to sew my nostrils together!!

The worst time I had was when I found myself sitting next to a person who  thought he had bought tickets for two seats. One for each butt cheek I suppose. Or maybe I was leaning on the side opposite to him so much that felt he sad for amount of space I was wasting.

One major dilemma I face sitting next to a stranger is the handle of my seat, which one belongs to me? Once I placed my hand on the handle that I was sharing with my neighbor when he accidentally put his hand on mine. Who do you blame? The interior designer of the theater, the creator of watching a movie in the dark concept or the supposedly innocent creep sitting next to me?

Frustrating! Is this worth the money?

I guess this is why piracy is on the rise...

The Virtual Binoculars

Wheeee! 

I stared at that word for 5 minutes now WAITING for some sort of inspiration to strike me. 

Magically, it seems I've capitalized the word waiting. I guess there must be some deeper meaning as to why my hands without any prior notice seem to have jumped on the caps lock key and capitalized that word. Maybe it's because I'm waiting for something and am afraid to admit to myself what it is.

Or, or maybe it's all this studying for my Psychology midterm this week that has played with my tangled brain nerves (the last time I studied biology was in grade 10) and now I'm over focusing on myself. As a side note, my book says that over focusing ones attention on oneself leads one into depression. 

                                                     

Anyway, I think I've been obsessing over way too many things this week (including my usage of the word one). It's actually just one thing, one person but that's all I can say for now. The person is lovely and also does not know of my obsession with him which kind of makes me feel like a STALKAAHH!

Let me spell it right for people oblivious to what I like to call my secret talent (not so much of a secret now I suppose). People cannot be oblivious to it it's impossible (yes, Audrey Hepburn it is impossible) since innocently viewing someone's profile on facebook also qualifies as stalking. And people with no facebook profiles I guess nobody really cares about your existence on the planet.

Ever tried "googling: yourself ? You totally should, it's a form of over focusing on yourself (beware of the lurking depression) but it'll help you remove, delete, erase all the information out there that you wouldn't want your over curious mother, brother or boyfriend to come across. 

Internet as much as we argue has limited our privacy, also helps us figure out if that cute guy in class has a girlfriend or if that stuck up professor has some dirty skeletons in the closet. The amount of information I've gathered about people I've been interested in romantically or otherwise is massive. 

Internet stalking is like entering into a persons house, opening their wardrobe and shuffling through their bare necessities. Even though I openly admit I'd rather indulge in the latter. (:P)

                                         

Midnight Love...

I silently watched the family of four squish themselves onto the seat of a motorcycle meant for two. I watched as people turned their faces away at the sight of a poor woman knocking on the windows of their cars.  I watched as the old man carried the heavy bag down the road, the endless road.

Grim faces, slumped shoulders. It was 12.00 a.m. I should have been asleep and yet I found myself spiraling down, deep into an ocean of thoughts, growing extremely aware of my surroundings. 

It's been terribly long since I've read a book my eyes refuse to peel away from. My fingers frantically turn the pages of 'The Zahir' because I identify with the author down to every sentence, every word. Every page makes me stop and wonder, look around, look inside, within me what I hold, what I treasure.

12.05 a.m. I must sleep, my eyes feel heavy and my heart too. Too many words trapped within. But this wasn't the moment to let it out. 

'When will the moment be right?'

'Perhaps tomorrow, in a year's time, or never, and if that were the case, then we would have to respect that decision.'

The days seem to have frozen or rather I seem to have been frozen in a time different from now. I watch you walk upto me with love in your eyes but whose to say that's what it was. There is a thin line between love and hate and I seem to have overstepped. 

' But I will fight till the bitter end', she said. She lost. But was it really her loss if the man she loved was happy even if without her?

'All I know is that even though I can live without her, I would like to see her again, to say what I never said when we were together. I love you more than I love myself. If I could say that, then I could go on living, at peace with myself, because that love has redeemed me.'

Redemption and peace, Isn't that what we are all looking for? Paulo Coelho seems to agree.

The Invisible People

Oh the atrocity! This being my last semester in university I suddenly notice the attitude of various people changing towards me. Or maybe it's just me growing older and being able to see beyond the fake facade that people put up. Whatever it might be the past few years have opened up my eyes to the outrageous behavior of people that hides behind the great word, "tradition".

Just the other day I was talking to my mother about a girl I knew who was getting married to her long time boyfriend. To this my mother replied saying apparently she wanted to get married before her elder sister( her elder sister at that time was resisting the idea of marriage, no surprise). So I asked the obvious question, Why didn't she then? The simple answer, tradition. Younger siblings do not get married before their older ones, brothers do not get married before their sisters. When I asked why it was so and who said so, my mother gave me an answer that, well I kind of did expect.

She said the answer to both those questions were people.

People that are nowhere to be found when I need encouragement. People that are nowhere to be found when I need help. People that are nowhere to be found when I want to share my happiness. People who are nowhere to be found when I cry in sadness.

Who exactly are these invisible people?

I for one have always been known as the rebel against hard and fast traditional rules in my society. Why am I supposed to wear flowers that I hate on my head for my wedding? Why am I talking about my wedding anyway, when I'm only twenty one years of age?

These invisible people seem to be directing my life since the day I was born and sworn to be an engineer because anything other than a being a doctor or an engineer would make me less appealing as a person. Somehow, me being a doctor or an engineer determines the purity of my soul.

Most people are afraid to rebel against such atrocious rules designed to suffocate happiness. And I know if any  aunties looking for a prospective daughter in law happen to stumble across my blog, will deem me as being "unmarriageable" and "outspoken". So be it.

It's important to remember that the question was never, is it traditionally acceptable or not, the question is and always has been between right and wrong.

And it's somehow traditionally acceptable to be wrong.

  

Lessons learned, goodbyes delivered.

Days seem to race past while paranoid me tries desperately to hold onto them. Revel, enjoy the present moment while anticipating the subsequent.

Honestly, I'm not a dreamer. I don't spend much time enjoying the present which is why I find many moments in my life have passed by receiving no appreciation whatsoever. And suddenly as I sit in my balcony, the cool breeze grazing my skin and feeling my hair relishing the moment, I begin to dream.

I stare at the open sky, blaring music fills in the silence, silence that reminds me of friends made and lost. Loss, regret, pain, sadness, words I never want to think about. Too much time is wasted on the negative, on trying to escape from our own personal traps without realizing that the escape leads to another trap.

But it's these very words that make my fingers tap on the keyboard, that bring out a surge of emotion that I can't seem to control. 

I've realized in this one year that has passed by that people are better at a chameleon's job than chameleons themselves. And I get it, you change colors according to the surroundings that you are placed in. That is the only way to survive, I've learned the hard way.

Right now I feel like that house in the middle of the woods that is surrounded by tall pine trees, hidden but seemingly noticeable to a tired traveler. A house where people find solace for a brief moment, say their thank-you's and leave. 

That is the thing about these houses, nobody ever stays behind.

All the King's horses, And all the King's men Couldn't put Humpty together again!

Parents seem to be very confused when it comes to treating you like a child or an adult. When you want to go out on a road trip you seem to be reduced to a small baby and at times when things are demanded of you, you morph into an adult. These thoughts seems to wrap around my brain and are slowly tightening, forcing me to define the exact meaning of maturity. The heaviness of this word burdening the ones who have attained it while the "less fortunate" desperately await it.

The concept of maturity seems very distorted to me especially in recent times. In most cultures age is considered to be a proof of your maturity level an ideology I strongly disagree with. 

I was watching this documentary on a news channel about a small Syrian boy, nine years of age. He was playing out in the muddy sand while a chopper hovered about his head. The boy got suspicious and decided to run home when the chopper decided to bomb the area. He woke up with a crying adult brother on his side and one leg missing. He turned to his brother, wiped his tears and promised him that he would stand up again. He told his brother that even though his leg was missing his spirit and will to live was still intact. 

And at that moment while I was staring at the screen into this little boy's eyes I realized that from playing in the mud to running back home and waking up with a devastated older brother and an amputated leg, the boy had grown far more than age could measure.

It's the situations that we are placed in and what we make of it that defines us. It forces us to grow up most times than what people assume is a gradual step into adulthood. 

Increasing broken homes,hearts and spirits; betrayal, jealousy, war, disasters and the unsuccessful attempts at keeping up with the pace of this fast changing world, force us to grow up and face reality. 

And as I see pictures of 13 year old's splashed across my Facebook wall indulging in activities that have a legal limit imposed on them,  read articles on elementary school children being raped and watch sword and guns replace balloons and toys in the hopes for revenge to substitute for all the pain the world has put them through, I question our actions and judgment as adults. 

Don't judge a book by it's cover. It's the pages that have worn out and entire chapters of most innocent lives that have gone missing.

Gloom, Love and Lots of Words.

It feels like eternity since my hands tapped on the keyboard frantically, trying to jot down every thought that flows through my brain magically and every time I find myself short of time, paper or enthusiasm. 

The ray of hope and happiness seems to have disappeared, my aims merely thoughts that failed to materialize.  It's been long since I read or came across something that would move me. Something that goes beyond dead movie stars and flying men. Am I amazed? Yes. Does it leave a lasting impact on me? Absolutely not. And yet we spend so much time sobbing over irrelevant atrocities and rejoicing over outrageous theatricals.

The cramps are making their way up from my feet to my legs, I'm too tired to blink but my fingers are relentless. How I've missed unloading, I hope you don't feel used. 

It feels good to have found something that will welcome me when I'm tired and stressed out. Something that won't complain when I sometimes find myself unable to communicate. Something that makes me stay awake at night despite the creeping fatigue engulfing my body. I guess it's called passion. That makes me wonder if it's what I took you to be and I feel a shiver crawling down my neck.

I hate the unwanted, uninvited shivers that are often accompanied with uncomfortable and less remembered memories. I shouldn't have spoken of you today, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way yesterday. But what use is repentance without redemption and you left me no choice. Rather I left you with no option.

And the letter you wrote to me I still carry it around more out of habit than attachment. And when my trembling hands manage to yank out the crumpled paper from beneath the crisp notes, I often find myself wondering. Is it just the moment that makes us say things and do them, and when the moment has passed each seems to be forgotten?

If it's so and your love for that moment is justified forgotten and your subsequent hate forgiven. Then so shall my hate for you be forgotten and infinite love forgiven....