Tales from the World's Worst Storyteller

In this world, it is tough to sustain an audience.

Probably, if I stop starting with proverbs, people would willingly listen to me more. Well, what can you do? I cannot ignore my inner prophet, out to save the world with mere words. "Alas, fool! Don't pee there lest thou wanteth us women to view thouest vilest procreation organ!" I keep spouting stuff like this all the time. And I realise why most of the prophets were killed in brutal ways.

So, that's how it is. I want to tell a story but looking for a listener in this crowd is a tough task. I do not want to advertise my "100% cuckoo" status in the very first impression. Take, it slow, Lady Fabulous, take it slow. Let them come to you. I give charming smiles, I flutter my eyelashes, I laugh at unfunny jokes, I listen to break-up stories, I promise secrecy for juicy gossip, I even share my chewing gum. Recruiting a listener is hard work that can take up to years.

The daily grind leaves one very little time to think, tell, or write stories. The juicer on top of my face has got lot of stuff rattling about, it's not like I'm out of stuff or facing a block. It is just that, by the time a story frees itself from the clutter and comes to me, the listener has moved on. Once this happens, physically forcing them to listen to me has not worked. That goes in the "Creepy Actions to Avoid" box, as my inner voice psychiatrist says. It is only because I listen to her that not many people call me creepy now. I'm much thankful to her.

How does one get someone's attention then? It is truly a test of your friendship when you listen to each other's stories, share insights, and give each other love and respect. There is also a lot of shit throwing, now and then, but it's nothing a bottle of liquor won't fix. But when you listen to a friend, you expect them to listen to you too. What is it that I'm missing? Am I not quick enough to sustain their attention? Or worse -- GASP -- are my stories that terrible?

No way that that's the case. My stories are kick ass! They are all about me being the greatest super heroine in the world and rescuing people with just my wit. It's the stuff of legend and comic book artists should be dedicating their books to me. Famous writers should bow down and kiss my rings. I inspire people. I am Lady Fabulous. No one doth protest my superiority.

Well, at least I can take myself not too seriously. I know that my stories are great. My juicer knows that too and appreciates that I know when to hold back and when to sprout the stuff locked in it. But it does bum me out when friends, family, and strangers turn away mid-story. I hope I don't do the same to them. I make it a point to even maintain eye contact until the storytellers themselves avert their gaze, no longer able to withstand the pure awesomeness they see in my eyes. Even my pupils scream "Genius".

Being the world's worst storyteller isn't that bad. At least I'm not an old grandparent desperately holding on to my grandchildren and forcing them to listen to how the neighbour across the road is stealing rubber from my backyard. Actually, I wouldn't mind being an old person if someone is there to take care of my shit. Old people can talk to thin air without people calling them creepy. Why can't young people be allowed to be senile? Why label and lock us up? Aren't we also just telling stories that no one has time to hear anymore?

Ask Me Anything But Not How I'm Doing

It's funny how people close to you are so concerned about your well-being. I find it endearing and sometimes it makes me go all "aww..." very loudly. That is emotion for you. I do not have a higher compliment for love or concern shown to me by others.

The reason I love being emotionally closed off to others' concern is because I find a lot of the "concern" to be fake and a formality. As it is the only form of conversation I have been taught, I also do the same. Not surprising, it makes me hate myself and I can never ask that question without gritting my teeth or hitting myself in the head. I do not like to inflict the question "How are you doing?" on friends, colleagues, acquaintances, or strangers.

How I am doing is a personal question. Do I want to tell people that I am learning how to get by in life one day at a time? Should I tell anyone that a former boss of mine was a prick in the ass? Does anyone need to know that I enjoy travelling in the metro every day while going to work?

I actually want to keep all of that to myself and show that in my writing. I've never been much of a talker as I've always let my creations speak about myself. Be it the clothes, Lego houses, drawings, illustrations, photography or writing. I am proud of each of my works because they are a part of my soul. It is very personal, but that is exactly what I choose to share with the public.

So, these days, whenever someone asks me that question, I roll my eyes or take a deep breath. I quickly run the updates of my life in my mind: what can I share with this person? Here are some of the options:

1. I made amazing pasta over the weekend and I gorged on it so much that I farted myself to sleep.
2. I visited a hill station and got piss drunk. I think I may be an alcoholic.
3. I was constipated for the whole of last week but then I ate some funny food the day before yesterday and now my system is all clean.
4. I've had a dry spell for such a long time that I had to fondle the girls for some self-love.
5. I am fine. My mother is fine. My father is fine. My brother is also fine. And my job is also going fine. There are no problems in my life. Thank you for asking.

Honestly, I am not trying to shock people or anything. But I have a limit of politeness and it usually does not last for very long. Sooner than later, my honest-but-potty mouth takes over and my brain keeps spewing stuff that people do not want to hear. I mean, I shouldn't be telling my former school teachers that I cannot get a guy because they fear my hyper-level libido or smart talk. I should not tell the priest in the church where my parents force me to go that bra shopping is difficult because they only seem to be making lacy or leopard-print stuff these days. I mean, there is a limit to honesty in a social setting. Something on the lines of "don't talk at all".

I do wish I could get away with my honesty. It doesn't bother me that I can only speak the truth to the public but lie very conveniently to my parents/teachers/bosses about the naughty stuff that I am up to. It seriously doesn't bother me. But people tell me otherwise. Friends who genuinely fear that I may get a fatwa or a slap on the face. The ghost in my room. The angelic version of me sitting on my right shoulder. They all wish the best for me and tell me to shut up or make stuff up when I am bombarded with this dreaded question.

So, how am I really doing? Seriously? Don't ask or I'll slap you on the nose bridge.

Some posts do not have a title

As I write this piece, sad music plays inside my head. The music signifies hopes quashed, wishes unfulfilled, dreams broken, people dead, and days spent dreaming. Terrible parallelism aside, I cannot help myself being sad. And it's primarily because of the sad feelings inside me.

In my short life on earth, I have found dreams to be comforting, imaginative, escapist, and innovative. They have carried me through happy days and dull days. Ideas that I dreamt of and sketched on paper, then implemented have been such a rush. It was great to see my dreams come true in the past.

Now though, dreams hardly ever make sense. The depressing thoughts and dreams that come to me reek of despair and hopelessness. Why such a twist in the tale? Where have the happy thoughts gone? Can I get myself out of this rut?

I don't know the answers. I feel sadder when I see people around me realising the very dreams that I had.... And I have to say "had" because I cannot "have" them anymore. Life has become too hopeless to dream of any joy. Even the funniest of jokes seem bland. There is no taste in life anymore. Short of being suicidal, I have lost all hope. Abandon ship.

I wanted to go to fashion school and design clothes. Sure, my dad convinced me that he couldn't pay for fashion school and that I should take up some other course instead. Ironically, he wanted my brother and me to become doctors or engineers. How was he going to support our education then? Or our MBA degrees after getting our B.Tech? 

If I could go back in time,  I would tell my younger self to never listen to her father. He doesn't know what's best. He didn't have a career to dish out career advise to others. He doesn't know that broken dreams have a huge impact on a person. It may even put them in depression.

I am half a woman now. I know how to handle people, money, ugly situations, political discussions, and perverts. But I have not achieved my full potential in life. I have failed but I have not failed at things that I felt passionately about. I didn't pursue journalism, fashion school, filmmaking, nor full-time travel. On a good day, I dream that I will fulfill one of those dreams. But I am convinced that I won't be able to do it under this roof. As long as I am with my family, my dad will squeeze out every penny that I earn. And I can only dream of getting an inheritance from him. With his messed up family relations and financial insecurity, David and I are better off living off the land. We know that we will never get anything from him. Respect, love, not admiration. The people that we have become is solely because we tried not to be like him. We knew that being like him meant being a failure in life. That is not a respectable thing to be.

I will make my own destiny one day. I will follow my dreams and either fail at it or succeed. It's either of those but I know that I will be happy regardless of the result. For only when I have tried will I know the full potential of me. Until then, I am half a picture--incomplete and not even a quarter of its worth. The education and life experience that I've had will be wasted if I don't pursue my dreams. As half a woman, I promise to never let that happen. Ever.

Vampire Romances to the Rescue

Sometimes my dreams end up surprising me. For a long time I was getting standard nightmares about harpies at work trying to choke or kill me in very innovative ways. Surprisingly, it wasn't an effect of watching too many crime shows. It was just a work thing. So after this very bad spell of nightmares, having a great dream is like discovering treasure. Not that I have an experience of ever finding any treasure but I figure that that's how characters in those fantasy novels feel like.

Now the dream. Being single for a long time has its effects on ones brain. The stimulants in my body which allow me to feel the effects of being in love were, sadly, dying. Not having anyone to fixate on was a sad thing. Since I didn't want to become a robot, I was concerned. How could I save my poor hormones and nerves? What could I think of that would ensure their survival?

Since these hormones and nerves do not come under stem cell research, top scientists of the world refused to help me. They also laughed, but that's beside the point. So, I had to come up with something. I had to make a plan which would help me be human and still have great boobs. Both these factors would ensure my survival. Attaboy, Darwin!

Leslie Nelson from "Dracula: Dead and Loving It"

To save myself, I thought, why don't I employ the use of those very skills which gave me the harpy nightmares? I mean, the skills I use every day at work: writing and imagination! Voila! Problemo solved! Thing is that I'm already writing a book on vampire-human romance that has vigorous sex between both species. Stephanie Meyer missed on that opportunity so I thought of cashing it in. I ensured that my vampires were the right degree of stupid to commingle with humans. Similarly, my humans had to be the right degree of rock-brains to flirt with semi-dead people.

I set my premise and started writing. The stimulants that were allegedly dead, came to life and with great vigour! My mind worked on Nitro mode and spewed out all kinds of vampire-human romances which were disturbing, at first. But if you are into that kind of kinky stuff, you'll love it. I'm a fan now. After writing a couple of chapters, my writing feels like crack. I'm addicted to it. That is the reason I am promoting it.

But my dreams... Oh, the turn my dreams took since the vampire romance tale is delectable. Being single is less of a worry now. I have my mind occupied on things that matter. And I'm not saying that it's work or family that is in the top of my mind, it's my writing and the scandalous stuff I write about. I am amazed at my ability of coming up with ways to make vampire-human sex easy, look natural, and attain orgasm each time. See, I am making the impossible come true. That's always something a writer should be really proud of.

Of course, the writing is done in secret and I can't reveal it till I complete the whole book. You see, I haven't introduced my characters yet. They've only had sex--lots of it--for now. So I need to do the mundane task of giving them a background, a story and a dysfunctional characteristic before telling the world any more detail. Each story needs that and I can't succeed without covering my basics.

The only thing I can hope for now is that I keep my concentration up and that there aren't any more videos of Hugh Jackman, Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy dancing to distract me. God, they're gorgeous!

Finding Mr. Right

I honestly believe all the magazines and articles when they tell me that finding Mr. Right is very important in my life. The benefits of having the perfect man by your side will ensure that my life is be the fantasy tale that I've dreamt of since I was a toddler. Finding me a Mr. Right is a task that my parents are also invested in. They are willing to go to extreme lengths to ensure a perfect match. Having dated a bunch of dummies, I have all the more reason to throw my hands up in the air and declare, "Cosmo, find me a Hugh Grant (specifically his Notting Hill character)!"

The only catch is, the world is full of Mr. Rights. Each and every dummy you see is a perfect fit. For someone. There are enough desperate men in this country to deserve the handful of girls available. They will be all the more grateful for it. Desperate men should not be left to their devices. They deserve a woman who can slap sense into them. Similarly, dumb girls deserve a man who is equally dumb, to hold a mirror to them. I am against wasting any amount of intelligence on people who are just destined to be dumb. By the way, people being dumb because it is their destiny is the only time I believe in destiny. Otherwise I'm not a "destiny" fan.

Having judged people all my life, I have learnt a lot of things from my observations. First and foremost, sometimes intelligence can be found in the most unlikeliest of places. You saw a nerd wearing a Batman T-shirt and smelling like wet laundry left wet too long? He just might know the exact measurement of Superman's dong after reading all the printed comics available. And all of us have met those girls who have long, painted nails that can be possible murder weapons if you got too close? Turns out, they might be the world's foremost experts on how whales mate. (Yes, whales, like other mammals have penises but where are their holes? Is it the blowhole on the top of their heads? Tricky question, huh? I know!)

Secondly, looks do not matter. Sure, there is a fairness craze in the world but I have always found dark people the hottest. It's also partly because they don't have to spend any money in sunscreen. And sunscreen don't come cheap, son! Trust me, because I pay for all of my brother's lotions, creams and cosmetics! But I digress, sorry. Looks also ties up to intelligence. If you tell a person that he/she is very pretty, chances are, they will stick to working on the pretty aspect only and forget to do the important things in life, like learning how to cook. Of course, there are exceptions to each case. You might find a Barbie's Ken blazing trails in the scientific world but trust me, he will be aware of his genetic good looks and will use it to his advantage. Ugly people, on the other hand, have to work hard to not merge into the background. That's why they garner many essential skills to survive. And they survive. No wonder National Geographic said that Americans in 2050 will look like Beyoncé. Trust me, it's not just for the fantastic booty.

Thirdly, accumulation of wealth does matter. Too rich is too bad. The right amount of poverty is good. After all, you want a partner who is less pompous than you. Someone who is ready to ignore your tantrums and remind you from time to time what an enormous drama queen you are. That sort of person will ensure that you don't spend 30 grand on shoes. That person will remind you, sternly, that Carrie Bradshaw and the Gossip bitches are actresses who don't buy the clothes they wear. It's their stylist who does that. Obviously, you can't afford a stylist so all you can do is slobber over the pages of Cosmopolitan and People magazine in the dentist's office.

These are just a few characteristics of the perfect partner. However, based on these few points, one should have a clear idea of the kind of person you want. Obviously, it's all hogwash because you can only fuck Hugh Grant in your dreams. You can't get him to marry you. So, you settle for the trolls and gargoyles that you meet in random places. Don't worry, they may be desperate enough to ignore the giant wart on your face that you call your brain. If you get a person who does just that, you have found treasure, my friend. Nurture them, love them, feed them popcorn if they say their hands are too busy playing Call of Duty. Occasionally, watch them eat a messy burrito and get enticed by the fat globs of  mayonnaise dripping on their T-shirt. Trust me, it doesn't get any better than that. Such a life, in my opinion, is the perfect life with your perfect partner. Thank the gods if you've already found your Mr. Right!

What Sort of a Person Are You?

I think I am a nice person. Most of the times. And yet when I think about the way I behave with people around me, I doubt myself. How nice am I? Is holding the door open for someone considered nice? Yes. Is letting an old person get on a bus before you nice? Yes. Is apologising to someone after you step on their toes nice? Yes. Where then am I going wrong?

Thing is, I might be more than a bit sarcastic. In my attempt to be funny, I may come across as rude sometimes. That's OK, comedians are sometimes nasty. That's where we get all our good material from. All the pain and suffering we endured as children, and then adults, has to be projected onto someone in our present--loved ones included.

There is a reason for the pain and suffering and the internalisation of it all. How do you express to people your true feelings when all they expect of you is to make a joke of it? They expect that you will know how to make light of a serious situation. Sometimes they are also angry when you do that. They know that they should not expect anything apart from jokes of you. That is your job, after all.

Internalising anger, pain, hurt, emotions, and true feelings is bad. Look at me, I tried to eat my way out of depression. Six months and many awful looks in the mirror later, I am still in the same spot. I am fatter than ever and I do not how to stop myself. Once upon a time, I starved myself for 2 months and I was only happy when that ordeal ended. It involved a guy and the moment I came to know that he was not interested in me, my stomach sang with joy! It meant that it would see food again. My colon wasn't too happy about the junk I piled onto it for the coming weeks, but it helped me ease the pain I felt emotionally.

I am still eating. I do not tell my friends what I truly feel. I listen to them talk about their problems and I can never bring up the courage to talk about what I am going through. Somehow, when I hear them talk, I feel like my problems are nothing compared to theirs. Depression really isn't such a big deal compared to job stress, or husband troubles, or weight loss issues, or getting over an ex. Right?

I know that I am my own top priority but when I am busy stuffing this body, who is watching me? Sure, friends, family and colleagues say that I should do something about my fat. But what do I do? I cannot starve myself even though I eat normal portions. I do not feel comfortable exercising because I cannot come to terms with why I am doing this to myself and why I want it to stop. 

Every time I go out, I cannot stop but feel pitiful of the fact that I have no one to tell how my day went. People who ask me that question are content with an OK. They would not like me to elaborate. Anyways, what would I say? "I feel like my soul is being crushed into a million pieces each day and I do not have a clue how to repair it?" Yes, I see how that conversation would go. Awkward silence all the time.

So I make attempts to write everything down but even that doesn't fully help with the depression. The sadness lingers like the smell of garbage. It rots and rots your soul until you feel so helpless that you give up and find the smell fascinating. By then, you end up smelling like sadness. Who wants to hang out with sadness? Clearly no one who is sane. Not even myself. Depression hurts and it adds to the pain which already put you in a depressing phase. How do you turn your life around? There seems to be no rock-bottom like in the movies. The spiral just keeps going down endlessly. How does one make it stop?

Well, I internalised my anger and I make fun of people. I tell people everything is just fine and I ask them to tell me their problems. I act and act and act and never stop. I'm bad. I'm terrible. This is the worst thing. Feeling bad about myself and still not being able to help my situation? What could be worse? Being in Sudan, most definitely. See, I never stop. Depression is lesser than hunger and civil war, evidently! What a moron I am for thinking otherwise!

Landing in Shit, Mud, Garbage & More Garbage

Adventures in Delhi never fail to surprise. Just getting out of home is an adventure. Staying at home is also an adventure. The maid says or does so many amusing things that you can't help tape her mouth but you keep on listening to her anyways. She's like crack to a non-addict. Weird, but surprisingly an experience worth having.

So, getting out of home and experiencing Delhi. Well, I find that my dad gives the best driving experience. He's an absolute bore, so you have to drive the conversation. But since I'm the family comedian, I know that it is my job to keep things cool and to make everyone laugh. It's OK, they laugh. Though some of my best lines sometimes go over their head. 

OK, so driving in the car with dad. He has a real knack of making sure he stops the car for you to get off at the most amusing places. When I switched jobs in June last year, I travelled in the metro. That meant that dad had the job of dropping me off at the station and picking me up if I got late. Firstly, he ensures that he is the best dressed man when he gets out of home. Not a hair is out of place because he knows that the women are watching him. Yes, he thinks he is young enough to be my brother. (Sigh!)

So, what was it like being dropped by my dad? Well...interesting. There was hardly a day when I didn't raise my eyebrow at him. Most of the days, I would say, "Dad, you have a real talent for 'landing'."

I do not know if it is talent or his internal, male GPS honing system, but it never works. Whenever he dropped me at the metro station, he would stop directly next to a puddle if it was raining. On dry days, he would stop right next to the pile of garbage that the street sweepers would pile up on sides of pavements where they know no one steps.

Well, everyone except me.

My dad has a real knack for these things. Come mud, garbage, sewerage spill, dog poop, or cow dung, my dad has stopped right next to them all. Recently he topped it all. I opened the car door and put out my left foot. I know that I should always look down, so I did this time too. Since this was in the morning, the sight that greeted my left foot was fantastic: a used condom.

When my dad does the usual "stopping the car in top of garbage", I look back at him with disgust and have him drive forward a few inches to "clearer ground". When that is not possible, I do some acrobatic stretching and long-jump out of the car. This time, I rolled my eyes. And I opted for long jump.

When I looked back to close the door, he was grinning. That's his way of saying "Have fun at work!" Yeah, right! Like that ever happens. I could not really say, "Dad, you topped the car stopping list today." I navigated carefully out of the way. For a condom, it was in quite a good shape. "Recently used", I thought. "Hope the wearer had fun." Well, when you have to start a day by not stepping on a used condom, I believe that positive thoughts like these help. After all, worse could have happened. I may have stepped on dirty semen and ruined a pair of lovely leather shoes. Now that would be a real shame.

That Thing Called... Love... Something....

Love makes me feel icky. 

No kidding. When I see couples walk by, it disgusts me. I can't believe that everything is as perfect as people claim. There are problems on the surface as much as the deeply buried, numerous ones. Why do people pretend to be in love? Why do they show off to the world that they are desperate to keep it together but clearly cannot do so.

I have seen people all around me change drastically for the people they are dating. Dating actually translates to "love" because casual dating is so cliche. The girl is going to ask you about marriage anyways. No escaping that. "The Future" is so important to the preservation of our sanity that we cling desperately to whoever gives is even a smidgen of attention. So shallow are our personalities.

Anyways, the rantings of an overweight, chubby woman rarely evoke any kind of reaction except dismissal. Did I mention that I also lead a loveless life? Gosh! How did I miss that?

Contrary to popular opinion, I did not push people away. The ones I do push away are obviously annoying. Why wouldn't anyone want them out of their lives? Sorry, people, but I'm not patient with "stupid". It's like slowly roasting to death. Being with people of your own intelligence is tough. They rarely know what their time and place is. They love being reckless.

So, the hurt I caused people is not on my conscience. The hurt that other people caused has been utilised for rising above bad situations. It has also been diverted towards overheating sometimes. But I'm working towards fixing that. Food, I've come to realise, doesn't have all the answers. And "42" is an elusive one. What did Douglas Adams mean when he wrote that?

Then what is one way which would allow me to accept that stupid thing called love? Sorry, but it's not easy to be convinced otherwise when all that I see and observe supports my stand. Love is a vomit-inducing idea. It's too farfetched and a human construct. 

Till I get convinced otherwise, Love = Vomit. Trust me on that!

I Climbed a Spanish Mountain

The story about how I conquered my emotional side and stainless steel-coated my ovaries (not actually, but metaphorically)

As a human being with friends, I have been a witness to many a pity party. I have to clarify that (a) I am a human being because I have been called emotionless too many times, and (b) a pity party is a way of experiencing grief, in which you spend your time feeling sorry for yourself and whining endlessly about how crappy your life is. I try and make friends with people who generally seem strong and willful because I know they will not start crying fountains of tears at random points of our friendship. Sadly, however, the reality is very different. Just like Dr. Clock (Heather Graham) from Scrubs said, "...some people have a hard outer shell, but inside, everybody has a creamy centre."

(Pause for effect and look like you are deep in thought. Like Mr. Gorilla here.)

Creamy centre, indeed. At first, there is no pleasure in seeing my friends and people on the Metro break down about their ex-lovers. Those people are genuinely hurt, or at least trying to act hurt. Girls are like: "How could he break up with me? Doesn't he like the way I look?" Meanwhile guys are like: "Yaar, I don't understand why she broke up with me. What did I do wrong?" 

Then there are others who are like: "Man, I was waiting for him/her to say something, anything, about our relationship but he/she didn't. And that's why we are no longer talking."If I had made a face like this in front of my friends while they were narrating their stories, I would have been murdered. Strangers get the best of my sarcastic eye roll with a "Grow Up!" sigh. I really cannot help it. These reactions just come to me naturally. If I was a person with more emotion than rationality, I.... Hmm, I cannot imagine what I would be like if I had more emotions.

Anyways, pity party, friends, and break ups. Making a sad face works. Be angry at the person who dumped them. Tell them they did not deserve a great person like she/he. Tell them that the world has millions of people who are single and ready to date you at a moment's notice. Tell them that to get over the break up, you all could go somewhere, or shop, or binge eat, or watch a million rom-coms. Whatever works. These have all mostly been used by me over my friends. It only works in the moments when they are looking at you talk. They never listen. When your friend starts talking though that is when you know that whatever great idea you suggested was plainly ignored. People will deal with break ups like idiots. They will not give heed to rational thought. Been there, went through all of that. (Sigh!)

While I want to believe that I am smarter than most people, I know that I have had my pity parties too. Surprisingly, they are great ways to get to know new people. That's how I met many of my friends. But then one day, I decided that I should do something better. Like climb a mountain, go on an adventure, DO stuff. Anything to get through the sudden emptiness in your life, to get over the loss of a close confidant. That's why I wanted to climb a mountain.


However, climbing even a fake wall is tough business. My body is of course, devoid of all kinds of physical exercise except for some walking and escaping the speeding vehicles on the roads. The last one is a sure-shot heart attack-giver, because nothing gets the heart pumping like imminent vehicular manslaughter. But I had climbed a steep rock when I'd visited Rishikesh, bungee-jumped, walked up and down mountains, and was the elder child. So I simply had to do it.


Anyways, the moral of the story is that I turned a bad situation into a dream. That was the one and only time I was able to do that. I have failed terribly all the other times. Which is why I have become the way I am now. Failures have made me a person that I like being. Sure, I pick on the extra fat I have on various parts of my body but overall, I appreciate the fact that I am an OK person. I suck at friendships, sure. But my friends know this about me and work to ensure that I do not come across as that bad a friend. I love them. If they hadn't listened to me bitch, I probably wouldn't have been able to move on from the countless heartbreaks. Johnny Depp, Daniel Radcliffe, Heath Ledger, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and most recently Benedict Cumberbatch....

That is how I came to learn Spanish. The language is as lovely as any other language but the most important thing was that it was spoken widely throughout South America. The continent has such an interesting culture which is different from anything you have seen so far. Or at least, Discovery Channel makes it look like so.

Depression Sucks at the Soul

I was not clinically diagnosed as depressed but you know that there are symptoms. As a formerly sane individual, the patterns of my behaviour took a complete dive. It was not because I had changed as a person. I was still the same, goofy person. It was what I was projecting and internalising. That was the most dangerous part.

When you are in that state of mind, your gender doesn't matter. Your mannerisms and behaviours are more or less the same. Drinking, eating, laziness, dissatisfaction, aloofness.... I could go on but it makes me sad. It is not as if everything has completely become alright suddenly. It's screwed and very badly screwed.

And everything in the world is seeming to be alright. That's ok, people should really try hard at that. Facades are so important. Trust me, I know. It saved me from telling people how screwed I was.

Internalising my anger, disappointment, sadness and hurt was something I was a natural at. I would pluck at my cuticles and rip off the sensitive skin. I still do that. Once the skin is all out, you can't eat with your hands. The spices in the food hurt. Even salt does. The pink, exposed flesh hurts physically. Yet, when I am having an idle moment, I press at it and relive the pain. Just checking that I'm still human.

Pain is really bad. It hurts physically as well. The mental agony of my experiences are not easy to put into words. Where would I even start? People have mostly been good to me. So how do I tell them that there is something wrong? My facade of being a happy person and a sane individual is going to be diminished. What will happen after that?

Sometimes I think that my future is going to like those bleak, apocalyptic zombie movies. No, I won't be the lone survivor fighting off zombies and trying to save stranded humans. The scenes that I remember are always the lonely walks through the deserted city. That is my mind. There is a lot of clutter but all of it is important. Those desolate buildings give my messed up mind its character. How can I bring those walls down? Each window pane is a memory that looks down on me with pity. What am I doing in this town? I should be somewhere where life exists, where existence is not always at risk. A place which values human life and where there are people to help protect you.

That's in my fantasies. A part of what keeps me going are those questions my memories ask me. Is that a good thing? Probably not. I dream too much. I read too much. I see too much. How does one stop doing all of these and still be sane?