Sunday, August 31, 2008

Why?

Life's mysteries often leave us grappling with unanswered questions. Why does adversity seem to paint our existence in the most detestable hues? Why do things not always unfold as we desire or deserve? The pursuit of control over our lives raises further enigmas—who dictates our fate? Is it within our grasp or subject to circumstances beyond our influence? Some say people are shaped by circumstances, yet experiences contradict this notion. The root of control remains elusive—does it align with our will or only manifest under favorable circumstances? What other forces govern our existence, and can we assert our desires in an unsupportive environment? And when things go awry, who bears responsibility? Is it us, others, or forces beyond our comprehension?

These questions spawn an endless maze of inquiry, seeking answers that often elude us. Perhaps some attempt to theorize, viewing life as a string of hypotheses awaiting testing and validation. But life transcends mere theory—it's a realm where emotions interplay with facts, where randomness disproves rigid theories. A prevalent mistake lies in the fear of making errors, leading lives astray, irreversible to a point.

Does deviating from the norm render one dense, delusional, or perhaps innovative, following a distinct rhythm unheard by others? Yet, turning over a new leaf often unearths buried complexities akin to discovering an aphid under a gardener's fresh foliage. Age bestows experiences, labeled as "experience," but fundamentally, they're mistakes engraved in our past, indelible imprints on the tablets of our history. Attempts to erase these marks often lead to burying the tablets, a metaphorical battle with our inner demons—a fight we wage alongside our adversaries.

As these thoughts swirl in a maelstrom, coherence evades this discourse. Perhaps this pondering will continue at another juncture, unraveling the labyrinth of life's enigmatic truths.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

There's a Voice Inside My Head...

There's a voice inside my head
But the fleeting feeling has all but fled
Murdered, bungled, marred, frayed
Sick and tired of being played

There's a voice inside my head
Its coming from the land of dead
Where mirth and sorrow had once wed
Comes a voice that fills my heart with dread

There's a voice inside my head
It cuts open the wound that once bled
Bludgeoning ecstacy, shrieking silence
For now the massacre will commence

There's a voice inside my head
All that's heard isn't all that's said
Probe the obvious, accept the abstract
Lets draw the curtains on the final act

There's a voice inside my head
Senseless, repulsive, bitter, jagged
Questioning my sanity, poking my worth
I lament, not for death but for birth...

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Life...

Three hours have slipped away while I sit at my study table, the perfect setup laid out before me—a coffee and canvas waiting for a masterpiece. Yet, amidst the rain's gentle percussion and the soft melody in the background, I find myself adrift in contemplation, questioning the purpose behind this moment.

What am I trying to write? Is it something of worth, deserving publication? Will it reshape perspectives, alter minds, or is it merely an exercise in self-reflection?

The blank sheet of paper on the table mirrors the emptiness within, a stark canvas begging to be filled. Holding a pencil, I chew on its end, a futile attempt to coax out thoughts that seem elusive, lost in the void of my mind. Creativity is said to come from within, yet I feel hollow, devoid of direction.

A storm of rhetorical questions rains down upon me. Why this uncertainty? What is the elusive idea I wish to transcribe? Doubt creeps in, threatening my artistic essence, a chill at the prospect of never being able to create.

The tranquility of my pondering is shattered by a jolt of reality—homework, accounts, economics, presentations, obligations vying for attention. Two sides of me clash—the dutiful, responsible self urging study for a secure future, while another questions the authenticity of this path.

Amidst this inner turmoil, the blank page becomes a metaphor for life—its emptiness, the choices that shape it. We are the authors of our destinies, the creators of our own narratives. To pick up the pencil and write is to craft our story, while surrendering control lets others dictate our course. And then, there's the option I choose—crumple the page, toss it aside, and seek solace in slumber.

Such is life, a canvas of choices, awaiting the stroke of our decisions..

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

When Do You Know Its Love? *NO SPOILER*

The buzz around the movie "Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na" was intense, and my friends couldn't stop raving about it. They insisted it was a cinematic masterpiece, a must-watch of the era. Despite my reservations, I decided to give it a chance, succumbing to peer pressure. As expected, my instincts were right on the mark.

The film kicks off in a familiar vein reminiscent of an older SRK movie, "Chalte Chalte." The setup introduced a group of friends at an airport, promptly delving into the lives of the main characters, Jai (the rat) and Aditi (the cat), with an array of quirky nicknames for the friends, a theme that seemed overdone for my taste.

The storyline progressed predictably, showcasing Jai and Aditi as contrasting personalities turned best friends. However, it spiraled into the clichéd territory of rich girl-poor boy dilemmas, overlooking societal differences for the sake of romance.

The narrative took a downhill turn when the leads sought companionship elsewhere to deflect society's judgments. What followed felt contrived, with one-sided romantic interests and petty jealousies. The introduction of quirky characters and bizarre plot points did little to salvage the sinking plot.

The film ventured into convoluted sequences involving a talking photo frame and a string of bizarre incidents, leaving me incredulous and detached from the narrative. The culmination, where the hero dashes to the airport, borders on the cliché, a predictable end that doesn't deviate from the expected outcome.

Perhaps my disappointment lies in the movie's predictability. The absence of a non-stereotypical ending, the failure to challenge conventions, and a reliance on formulaic plotlines left me underwhelmed. It's disheartening that Indian cinema often hesitates to explore unconventional conclusions, shying away from potential complexities and opting for the tried-and-tested.

My friends suggested that maybe I lacked the humor or perspective needed to appreciate such a film meant for a younger audience. However, it's not about age or taste; it's about craving a departure from the mundane, a desire for narratives that challenge norms and offer unexpected resolutions.

In the end, this movie felt like a missed opportunity to break free from stereotypes and offer a refreshing take on romance and storytelling. The question remains: when will Indian cinema embrace endings that defy the norm?

Friday, August 1, 2008

48 Hours

On April 13, 2008, Kristal Parker lay in the hospital, connected to IV tubes, her life hanging by a thread. Doctors gave her a mere 48 hours to defy fate. Outside the ICU, a multitude of well-wishers gathered to bid their final farewells. Mrs. Parker, holding Kristal's photo and rosary, sat with a world of worry etched on her face. Her once vibrant daughter now appeared a mere shadow of her former self. She seemed to have aged considerably almost overnight. Kristal had been a chirpy young girl; active and full of life. She always wore a smile on her face and had the courage to laugh in the face of any adversity...or so it seemed.

Kristal, the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Parker, had uprooted her life five years prior when her family moved to London. The transition was brutal for her. She struggled to adjust to a new school, a new culture, and an overwhelming sense of isolation. In this new environment, she encountered Randy Marsh, a popular but flashy classmate who took her under his wing. 

Kristal had read somewhere that "When in Rome, do as Romans do". At first hesitant, Kristal found herself drawn into a world of parties and recklessness, seeking acceptance and friendship. She became an active member of the West Brook High party circuit and began experimenting with things she had never thought of doing earlier. Along with the drugs, alcohol and partying came incessant lying to her parents of her whereabouts, lying to her friends, lying to herself. Kristal had changed; she went from being the quiet, shy, girl-next-door to the party starter. All credit went to Randy Marsh! Her parents' concern grew as her behavior changed, her grades plummeted, and she distanced herself from her family. All while Randy, the center of her world, masked his true intentions.

Days went by and Kristal got more and more involved with her friends and tried to detach herself from her family. She enjoyed the freedom that came with defiance almost as much as she enjoyed the rush that came from snorting coke. Kristal Parker had changed for the worse and there was no turning back. In an effort to gain recognition and popularity amongst her friends Kristal pushed the limits. People began to know her as a fearless, I-don't-give-a-damn-what-you-think kind of girl. Little did they know that keeping up with appearances was actually taking a toll on her. She was fighting her demons to stay afloat, she was a loner at heart despite being amidst so many people. Kristal hid her emotions well behind her million dollar plastic smile and fake attitude; no one knew she was hurting, no one knew her involvement with Randy would lead her to the mouth of death...

Things took a devastating turn when Kristal discovered Randy's betrayal at a party. 

That night at the party Kristal found Randy in the arms of her best friend Samara. They were looking like quite a cozy couple. Kristal wished she hadn't decided to cancel her family dinner plans at the last minute to surprise Randy at the party. She wished everything would turn out to be a bad dream and that she would wake up and her life would get back to normal again. None of that happened, instead, the hurt and anguish multiplied to the extent that Kristal decided that her life just wasn't worth it. She suddenly realized that everything in her life was lost. Her parents didn't like her (infact they had lost all hope and trust on her), the people she considered friends were double crossing her, her own boyfriend had lost interest in her, her grades were slipping, her personal life was a mess...that was reason enough to pull the switch. Crushed and feeling utterly lost, she grappled with a sense of abandonment and despair. The culmination of her pain drove her to a dark place, leading her to contemplate an end to her struggles. 

Kristal sat in her bathroom and stared at the blade, her fingers trembled as she slashed her wrist and watched her blood ooze out. She winced in pain and tears rolled down her face. It was not enough, she reached out to the medicine cabinet and popped as many pills as she could find. Things couldn't go wrong this time. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Drowsily Kristal watched as a pool of blood formed around her and her clothes soaked up her impure blood. Slowly she closed her eyes and started to think about unicorns dancing around on pink poufy clouds. She could feel pain engulfing her whole body and she heard a distant voice call out her name. She wanted to call back and ask her mom to come and save her. It was her mom, she was here to save her! Kristal tried to open her eyes, she tried to open the bolted door. She didn't want to die! She wanted to live. She wanted to be helped. She wanted to be saved and pulled out of the hell she had sent herself to. Somewhere in her heart she knew it was too late but she tried to fight as hard as she could.

The heart rate monitor began to beep faster and the nurse paged the doctor to rush to the ICU where Kristal was about to breathe her last breath. 48 hours were up and Kristal lifeless body seemed to have stopped fighting. Her pulse began to sink and Kristal could see the light. She felt as if her life was being drained out of her slowly. She felt a sharp pain near her heart and then plunged into a reverie of nothingness. Kristal Parker was dead. Her loved ones wept, her friends were jolted yet maintained their indifference. Her life had ended but her pain had not. She died knowing fully well that she was hurting the two people who loved her the most - her parents.

Ab Imo Pectore

Hiya folks...The title of this blog, "Blessed Be This Nightmare," might lead to various interpretations. Some might perceive it as a plea for divine intervention in my blogging journey, while others might view it as a reference to something much darker or mysterious. However, allow me to shed some light on the intention behind it.

Returning to the world of blogging after a significant hiatus stems from a desire to rekindle my creativity, which seemed to be waning. While I am uncertain if anyone would willingly stumble upon my musings, I'm here to revive that once fervent desire to communicate thoughts through writing.

Regarding the title's significance, it's a reflection of life's complexities. The term "nightmare" doesn't necessarily pertain to the act of blogging itself but symbolizes the tumultuous journey we call life. It's a contemplation on the myriad of experiences that often challenge and perplex us.

Let's delve into the notion of God. Personally, I find it difficult to subscribe to the idea of a divine entity without substantial evidence supporting its existence. This isn't a rebellious stance or a product of scientific entrenchment; it's merely a reflection of my perception.

Life, in its essence, can feel like a relentless series of challenges and uncertainties. Yet, it's this very chaos that shapes our existence. It's a paradox—no God to offer blessings, no ultimate purpose, just the constant flux of existence.

I acknowledge the irony in contemplating the futility of contemplation itself. Sometimes, excessive introspection can cloud our clarity. Action often trumps prolonged deliberation; it's about living rather than merely observing ourselves living.

"Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live" - Nicholas Chamfort

I appreciate your time spent reading my thoughts, even if they may seem a tad convoluted. Your feedback, whether earnest or whimsical, is always welcomed. Join me in this journey of introspection and exploration.

Thank you for your patience and consideration. Until next time...


P.S. No comment shall be taken too seriously so please comment your heart (and any other organ of choice) out...

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