You are what you read

A very funny thing happened today. I and my roommate were having a very casual conversation. She suddenly looks at my stack of books on the rack and says, "The other day X came to our room and couldn't believe you read all that. She didn't know you were smart enough to read James Joyce." I couldn't help but smile. Sometimes it makes me wonder how many people on this planet are judging me right now? I wear pink does that mean I am a bimbette? I love shopping, so that makes me a spoilt brat? I don't scream out of my lungs to  put forward a point in class, so does that make me dumb? I don't publicize myself so does that mean I am not good enough?

It is very surprising how we have categories for people and how we put them in these categories in spite of not knowing them enough. It amazes me how little we think of each other and so much about ourselves. What makes us gloat or be pompous to the extent of making exhibitions of ourselves. Why do we feel the need to prove a point all the time?

Co-incidentally I was having a conversation with another friend who happened to tell me how I don't feel the need to be out there. Well yes she is right.

Right now

I hate loathe being taken for granted. It is settling in quick and I do not like it one bit. Just because I am not obnoxiously upfront doesn’t mean I do not mind, it just means I am being patient. And one should under no condition test it beyond a point. Do not drive me to do things I don’t want to because if I do, I won’t regret them under this condition. I see no wrong in it right now.



I don’t scream or shout. I am not difficult. All I ask for is a little bit of this and that which comes for no money. All it takes is a red heart. A big one.


I am not threatening or warning. I am simply speaking to my blog.

Its not just a book..

This is one of my most favourite poems.. 

Love for This Book - 
Pablo Neruda
 

In these lonely regions I have been powerful
In the same way as a cheerful tool
Or like untrammeled grass which lets loose its seed
Or like a dog rolling around in the dew.
Matilde, time will pass wearing out and burning
Another skin, other fingernails, other eyes, and then
The algae that lashed our wild rocks,
The waves that unceasingly construct their own whiteness,
All will be firm without us,
All will be ready for the new days,
Which will not know our destiny.
 

What do we leave here but the lost cry
Of the seabird, in the sand of winter, in the gusts of wind
That cut our faces and kept us
erect in the light of purity,
as in the heart of an illustrious star?
What do we leave, living like a nest
of surly birds, alive, among the thickets
or static, perched on the frigid cliffs?
So then, if living was nothing more than anticipating
the earth, this soil and its harshness,
deliver me, my love, from not doing my duty, and help me
return to my place beneath the hungry earth.

We asked the ocean for its rose,
its open star, its bitter contact,
and to the overburdened, to the fellow human being, to the wounded
we gave the freedom gathered in the wind.
It's late now. Perhaps
it was only a long day the color of honey and blue,
perhaps only a night, like the eyelid
of a grave look that encompassed
the measure of the sea that surrounded us,
and in this territory we found only a kiss,
only ungraspable love that will remain h

I love metaphors

What could be the worst kind of self-realisation? Mine is more like a one act play. It sort of brings me down at times, I have no one to blame. It starts with me and ends with me. I drag along others to play their part, sometimes they fit the bill but most of the times their presence just fucks up my script. It turns out to be quite a play. Real emotions, tears and resonating evil laughter in the hall. There is always a bad guy and I play that role really well. In the end you know who wins? The bad guy is aware of my Achilles heel, the bad guy knows that I am vulnerable, impulsive and an ugly thinker. I do not wish to repeat the show anymore. It was a bad script, just like a bad nightmare.

Boxed In

Pack.Unpack.Pack.Unpack.Pack.Unpack I am tired of living out of boxes.

Lets tweet

What are we turning into? A community that communicates in 140 characters or less? I miss writing long letters, elaborately giving details of my recent vacation to my friends. Today it would be. “Meenakshi Iyer returned with sun burns and an amazing tan, she loves Goa.”

Twitter is turning us into people with shorter attention spans, with abysmal retention power. It’s like a disease I say if am allowed to be a little crude here. We no longer prefer reading texts that flows into more than three paragraphs.

It is certainly revolutionizing communication but in which direction is the question? We roll our eyes if we find people who are not on Twitter, celebrities are fast signing up as well. Now, I completely support the new media and its wonders, but at the same time, I also take a step backward and contemplate. Where is this leading me?

Social networking puts you in a spot where telling the world what you up to is more like an urge. People are living two lives- online and offline.

Online they have the control, they can mould their persona the way they would like to see them online, it’s like living a virtual dream. So you join groups, become fans of things you don’t even have a clue about? Why? Because the rest of the world is doing so. It is herd behaviour. You want to impress a girl, just manipulate your interests/hobbies sections of your profiles. But what are you in real life may be totally diametrically opposite of what you pretend to be. You go out with your gang of boys, have a great night at the friendly bar, you come home and the first thing on your mind is to put pictures on facebook. You want the world to know that you have an awesome life (considering the popular definition of awesome= social)

Social media definitely revs up your cool Q but at the same time it is turning you into someone you are not.

De-construction

The parts make up the whole. Whether this whole is the ultimate reality or a constructed reality, is the question. It loses meaning, is vulnerable to misinterpretation and sometimes ceases to go beyond the acquired meaning.

From my window