Inexplicable discomfort...

Inexplicable discomfort. That is what I can say when I think of leaving MICA. This place has suddenly turned out to be so ingrained in my very being; the thought of not having it anymore is frightening. MICA in my head is a time warp bubble, in concentrated bourbon. Removed from civilization, this place reworks time to suit each individual.

I was thrown in with another 70 odd people and was asked to reconstruct reality. Everything I knew was questioned. Everybody was new, warped, parading their ugly underbellies. Under the guise of receiving education, this place slowly and painstakingly touched each emotion, thought, value, feeling that we had very carefully tucked away hoping we would never have to face again – a mardi gras of posturing clowns. People were happiest, proudest, saddest, loneliest, all together yet all alone. I felt I hadn’t experienced such intensity before, but so did everyone else. MICA soaked it all in and coloured us with it – like dark, viscous ink on hand made paper.

And now I have to carry this coloured parchment of memories, moods, emotions and conversations away with me. All the people I loved to hate, and the some I learned to love will become ideas that once were. Maybe I will catch glimpses of these familiar characters outside, but then again – maybe. But from now on, akin to a thought bubble in a comic strip, MICA will have to float about in memory – to serve as a constant reminder of a different notion of time and space, a cocoon I desperately wanted to leave and will desperately want to run back into.

Anyone calling it an experience or a second home or any such banal equivalent has unfortunately not soaked in the poignant beauty of this space. Or maybe it is just a fantastic distillation of deep rooted insecurities and intense introversion. Maybe I'm just a romantic fool.

taste, smell, thought

you know you have reached the state when there is no turning back. when pretty people, lovely conversation, witty repartee, cheese, chocolate, coffee, and a million other representatives of metro culture induced happiness don't work. not even the anonymity. you think have a good time when its happening. rather you don't have to think. and that is a relief.

but then you crawl back into your dingy room, look at the piles of dirty undies, damned dead insects, cigarette stench and then you wonder....if real isn't here and now...if life isn't meant to be anything different from the stinking rat hole you painfully get used to. what is real is the open drain outside your house, the smell of urine on trains, the crotch-scratching man at the station, the empty kitchen and belly.

people come and people go. but you have to live with yourself. the thick coating of nicotine thickened saliva in your inner mouth, the urine you smell even around loud perfume - THAT my friend, stays with you forever.

it might help to imagine other people naked. but with such an ugly taste in your mouth, the grotesqueness takes you to new levels. see? i watch tv and try to change my thoughts. its a positive effort.

there must be a way to take your brain out of head and leave it aside for a while. the ones who are born like that are happy. they don't need to learn to be daft. life is simple. i am hungry now. i want to sleep now. i can't read. i don't like it. A doesn't think much of me. B does. I like B. its a lovely ride!


the trick is to not expect anything from anyone. everyone is fun in small measures. once that wears out, you move on. you have a million cliches to give as reasons. pick one out. and fling it at the world. this way atleast you get plenty of sex. or not. but who cares. the foreground constantly changes.

women have a blanket logic they apply to other women. its convenient. they simply assume that they get you. its like you are automatically joined at the hip cos u menstruate. you are automatically sweet and soft. in fact you should be proud of it. don't you know you deserve to be loved thanks to it?

The virtues of being stupid

Stupidity and happiness go hand in hand. you never realise the value of things if you are stupid. you don't have an eye for beauty, you don't differentiate between degrees of pain, you don't value things. life is a happy boat ride. You are too stupid to hunger for anything, to have dreams. But then again, I guess you must be stupid if you dream. There is nothing you strive towards. All you need is food, clothing and shelter. You could practially prance around while life passes you by. You don't even need to hope for that to happen.

And the best part is a stupid person doesn't know he is stupid. He just accepts himself. Its you and I who are caught between two extremes. Mediocrity is hellish. Wait for the day you see it in yourself. Wishing you luck would be cruel.

kratshig boombalack dhumbug frasjit tringuf yurcheggrude pfft

A tribute to pseudo-intellectualism and lack of genius

Boredom is the inescapable bedfellow of a lack of intelligence. The unintelligent mind is cursed with having to live with itself in every moment. The trick is to delude oneself about it. Stray sparks of pseudo-intellectualism help keep the faith. Faith in the illusion of existence. To dream is to constantly live with hurt. To hope is to decieve oneself. To accept it is to appreciate depression. Cynicism adds comfort. Self directed humour keeps the patronisers away. Introversion shields the ugly underbelly of the self from peeping out.

Superficiality is the best weapon in a world of mass individuality. It is opaque to the intelligent observer and excuses the self its existence. And when the lines begin to blur, when the superficiality seeps through the epidermis, that is the luckiest thing to have happened to you. Pat yourself on the back. You will survive this life without drawing attention.