Vignettes of an old puja are embedded in me. I feel it now, when it has arrived again and I’m listening to the songs that were released around that time.

That cheap blue hair gel, that girl.

People keep telling me to just throw it all away for ever from inside me, and I know too that it does not speak well of my mental strength, but if I did, it would be lying about my mental weakness.

It feels bad to think that I keep harping this same string, becoming annoying, when there’s a deaf ear at that other end. But the thing is, I don’t really want it to listen. This is not really a moaning to call anyone back. This is just a favourite pastime of one part of my head which loves to dwell in the dark melancholy recesses of my life.

Not really black, just conveniently grey-blue. Rain-like.

That’s exactly why I started another song from the same folder when
the last one ended.

The Chamber has got to D. I tried my best, but couldn’t really help. Nobody can, can they? That power will blot out all other efforts, because (I hope she isn’t reading this, but she knows by now anyway) it’s true.

Why should truth be depressing? I think it’s because we’ve had a crooked angle to look at reality all this time. There’s no one you can blame really. Not everyone knows stuff (although this belief of mine is slowly dwindling), and the establishment just somehow got to be this way.

However, there are some things which I think are not nurture, but nature. Like the inherent discomfort we feel with the unknown, unfelt-before, unlived. We presume it would be bad. And somehow there’s a logical ring to it, maybe because we like to be safe. Or maybe we are all paranoid (why? Because of nurture?).

I’ve strayed again. I guess that will be it for now.

If you’ve read till this, I’m surprised. This wasn’t supposed to be understood by everyone.