Nothing matters

Its 7.38 in the morning, I should be getting ready for office, instead I'm reading Calvin n Hobbes, rolling a joint and writing a blog. Somehow the bloody ritual of going to office and coming back is killing me, mediocrsy of the endevour and of people otherwise is becoming more and more hideous by the day.

The other day we took a de tour caz there was a traffic jam, we decided to took a kachacha rasta instead only to turn back caz a couple of guys on teh cycle told us "road ahead is very bad", we couldn't see the road all we knew it takes us to the main road in less than 5 minutes. But we turned back. We turned back caz we didn't want to risk it, we were in a bus. I mumbled in mute vocals.
I other day we went for a movie, no one liked and no one wanted, I protested, no one else did, caz we don't want to risk it, a piece died that day. Is it worth?
Do you need to respect teh ones you love? Or are they there only to fill in a void...physically.
I guess it doesn't even matter, nothing really matters

My Best Friend

"Tell me what you want to know", "I filled in general information, rest can be asked by freinds like you". She uttered affectionately. I had asked her why she had filled in such minimal details about her on Orkut.
I wanted to tell her i want to know how you shaped up as a person but i didn't, somehow I knew she wouldn't understand. Somehow sometimes by filling in the vague details on some obsure webpage can speak volumes about what you've become....sometimes you can talk for hours and nothing happens.
I think i just wanted the hisaab of those years lost in drugs and alcohol...when you were sobre and I had passed out just wanting to earn them back...somehow.
She was my best friend in Std 10th. It was a long time ago. Really long.

It feels strange when you learn most profound leassons of your life from Calvin n Hobbes....me

Orkut

“Why not many people send a “add as friend” request to me?”
“Look at you, you were never very friendly person, anyways”, retorted the wife immediately, “Well, I’m not going to add them anyways, I just want them to “look” for me, so I can peacefully decline”…..the dude smiled with content.

Blog....my peaceful identity

“What's with blogging, people so coward they don’t want to face the life. Wanna talk and want to be heard but don’t wanna risk anyone knowing who they are?” she asked. May be she’s right, but then I never considered her much of a writer anyways.

Lost

it’s a question every generation has asked itself, “how lost are we?”
Every passing has said “these guys are so lost”.
Every generation wondering “what the purpose?”.
Every passing generation having lost the meaning of the word “purpose”.

Every living generation trying hard to give it a new meaning, trying to fit the purpose in the meaning.

Alchemist

I just finished reading Alchemist (Paulo Coelho). What an interesting read. Somehow I always relate most to the books which have no apparent meaning and are extremely surreal. One of the weekends I was talking about it to a friend with this general air of supremacy, that us, the self proclaimed philosophers of sorts, have. When the friend suddenly asked “So can you make gold now?”. A little taken aback by the question I looked at him in the eye and said “I do”, “this time I do”, and calmly went back to playing mini golf on my new Compaq Presario.
But his question made me restless. So did my answer to him. Why did I tell him that “I did” when I barely know the chemical composition of Gold. And I obviously don’t know the Language of the World. Speaking of which I barely speak 2 languages (hindi and English) where as most my friends speak at least 3 (Hindi, English and their mother tongue. Somehow their mothers always spoke some other language, whereas mine barely spoke 1, hindi of course. English not quiet her kind of bhasha). I barely knew the meaning of the word Alchemist before I started the book. And most certainly didn’t believe in “Omens”. But somehow I always believed in universe and the fact that when it wants you to do something it gives you hints, its just that we either don’t listen to her or choose not to.
I think a man is done when he stops dreaming and surrenders the next instalment of his being to another PAYCHECK.