Meandering

Been trying to write for a while. As in, really write. Put thoughts paper - at least an MS Word document, give form to ideas, create characters, stories with a theme and a conclusion. But for some reason, the only thoughts coming to me are the really morbid ones. The only stories I can get myself to write down are ones with bizarre twists. Heck, even while reading a story or watching a movie, I find myself rejoicing at some level when something really bad happens to one of the nice guys.

The darkness seems sudden, unaccountable, uncalled for. Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe you can't be positive all the time. Or maybe somewhere deep inside, I have always been evil, something that a shroud of goodness had been concealing for most times, and maybe now, being left to myself for a while, the real inner evil is getting the chance to peep out... maybe.

I'm trying to let the darkness be. Watching it as if it is not me who's having all these thoughts. Watching dispassionately, impersonally as if my own mind is some sort of a lab mouse, and its experiences, its pain and anguish are nothing but events of some vague scientific relevance that I need to record. Even so, even at an impersonal, purely academic level of interest, my own mind keeps surprising me. At times I provide the cue and wait for the mind to respond. I watch movies that I always loved, and they bore me. Or one that really wore me out, suddenly makes me smile. Or cry. I cried watching 3 Idiots. Something is definitely not right.


The funny thing is, nobody seems to have noticed. They don't seem to see a change. I tried explaining to Dinesh... "It's been 2 weeks, dude, I just can't dose off before morning... and then the cook comes in and I'm startled out of sleep for good," I almost cried.

"Happens," is all he could say.

The landlady, the cook, the maid haven't commented on my working all night and keeping to my room all day so consistently since the last few weeks. Or maybe they have. Maybe they're just not surprised. Maybe, for them, I've always been the weird writer guy.


"But you're not selfish," Mom insisted, "why are you doing this to us?" After I dodged their calls for three days, she finally called up my landlady to check on me. She can just not fathom that I simply don't want to talk. Wish I could explain. But that would be talking too. And it will be a bunch of lies anyway.


Damn, I need to snap out of it. This is not me. I'm a pleasant guy, the quiet neighbor and generous friend. They love my parties. They like me, they do. I should give another party. I'll cook, Dinesh will arrange the drinks, we'll get some good movies... I'll just forget this crap and get back to my life. Its really easy, I'm simply making it difficult. People like inventing these little games for themselves, spinning a dramatic story around simple everyday events, playing the victims, marking down someone as the culprit. I'm not a goddamn victim, nothing's happened to me. Everything is just like it was. Every day is the same - its easy, just sleep, wake up, go about your routine cheerfully, positively. I can do that.

That's what I'll do. Tomorrow morning, I'll wake up early, clean up the house, do some shopping, call up everyone and we'll have a party. And every day after that will be normal, ordinary but peaceful. That's all the closure I need, nothing has changed, I just need to tell myself that. Everything is just like it was. It will get better. Why, I'll even plant some new flowers in the backyard.

Yes, that's what. Tomorrow I'll go buy a nice sapling and plant it in the backyard. Right over where I buried her.