Moira - Offred - June

And I thought loneliness was overrated. I wonder if this is how years will pass and nostalgia will grow roots, and like a well-grown peepal tree harbour ghosts from the past and the future.

I want to read C.Ayyappan. I wonder if there's any good translation available.

P.S.
The title is just there to fill the blank. I just finished reading The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, and I am shaken - which is good because even that involves a break from the routine.

'We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?'

Twice a day

One is constantly waiting for this to end, so that something else can happen. If it was any clearer, one wouldn't have logged in.

I hope one can find the point or the silver lining soon enough. A ray of hope, perhaps? Over-used metaphors are, after all, the only constant thing about these incoherent, splattered blog-posts.

It just struck me that I have stopped singing. Even humming to myself.

It has never happened before.

I am scared.

A-lone

I don't like this place. It's cold and eerie.

(Tiny squeaky 'Yes')

Is it okay to want to possess every bit of you?

Can we do it in the name of subversion?

So, I make lists very often (in my head, that is). I am too scared to write them down, for the fear of acknowledging them and storing them (for posterity?) is a little too overpowering.

And 'this' is included. Non-chalance/confidence or tact, however I address this, it remains on the wish list -- old, torn parchment with almost-invisible ink. The same, the same.

I always knew that originality is a utopic dream. But this -- the predictability, the pattern -- is just horrifying.

I just want one feeling/emotion/experience (for the lack of a better word) -- real or not -- which is only 'me' and is not shared by thousand other people on the planet.

I would've written something dripping with soppy-vanilla syrup. Hence, I logged in.

But, got caught up with dresses and blog updates. Consumerist yearning beckons, as usual. and as usual provides to be an escapist haven.

So, I'll skip the emotional (diary-entry like) post for another day.

And since I have kissed the third-person address goodbye, I rejoice in zero-readership. (and relax for a bit as I experience 'pseudo-personal' in a consciously-public move. :)