Sorry for all the sand.

I have decided to issue a public apology for all the sandstorminess in our dust bowl. It so happens that every time I plan to go out to meet my clients who work out on the horrizontal speck of a plane in the distance- a sandstorm rears it fluffy head. So, so sorry.

Half Life Crisis

It's not a quarter life crisis anymore. When you are 25, half of your life is actually how much of it has whooshed by you already. It may be the modern era of many a medical discovery, but it also is one fast paced world that is progressing towards moving in fast-forward-momentum and if a brick is going to squash your head while you walk under a construction site, be assured it will fall down at you faster and harder than before. There is no reason for this, like the crop circles have no satisfying explanation.

I am doing everything I can to come to the terms that I need to roll over my current personality and induce a heart attack of a change within me. I have cropped my hair, deactivated my facebook account and considering becoming a buddhist; but that shiver of feeling change is not running creepily down my spine. I am still questioning my choice of career, my addiction to mint tipped toothpicks and the lackadaisical attitude that spurts out of me whenever a serious issue commands me to react. The yawns are deeper and the sentiments are only the shimmering glazed surface that can be seen. The influences keep hurtling at breakneck speed towards you, and there is so little time to analyze before reaction and there are so many contradictory ideas that settle in the bowl of comprehension, one big melee of modern madness. Never thoguht I'd hear myself say this, but I'd like to be some years older now.

long winding sentences

they stretched all that they had curtailed to allow my world of daring pleasures according to the convenience of conventions, to me it was my world of explorations that the weak and narrow minded avoid as they are not strong enough to reign over their subconscious. They had to adhere to it, as they never ventured to touch the barriers to see they were imaginary. i listen to the wind disturb the trees and the rain coming in and it calms my intoxicated soul. then the plastic sound of a grocery bag crashes the calm to earth again. I switch on the yellow night light and pick up a notepad. The cat runs out the door chased by the plastic bag that has caught up with her hind leg. The scratchy sound of the pencil against paper soothes me more that the rat-tat-tat of the keyboard, the mount of venus against paper not plastic...... times have changed, and we have along with it. I had read earlier on M's scrap book a line I had entered some 5 years ago. People change and forget to tell each other.

Guilt sits easy on my left collar, playing with my mind as if it were a PS3. I immediately feel awful. I know the answer is lurking in the silence. i wait for it to materialize. i wait for the sudden rustle of the wind to whisper it to me, i wait. i fall asleep, waiting.

Even the mosquitoes move in slow motion. The humidity teases the skin, and the sweat just stays a millisecond below the pores. The power cuts make the air heavier, and it seems like everytime the lights go out something stretches out from the darkness and engulfs all the oxygen. Then while it waits for the darkness to swallow up the village again, it retreats to the inundated gutter on the farther side of the narrow two way road.
I met God today amidst retched gold decor and gory depictions of some obscure unbelievable phase of the bible on the chapel walls. The hymns sung were in another language booming out of two jarring speakers. God is deaf. Or he will be soon, I thought.
I looked at him sitting beside me, flipping pages of the little leather bound book; lips moving faster than I knew his unspectacled eyes could see. I tried not to stare as I studied the creases around his eyes and the slight patch on his skin of something denoting senility and immediately felt guilty about nothing apparent.
I led my thoughts away; to the old pictures I'd found. To the flowers I wanted to put on my long passed away dog, to the pictures I wanted to click. I closed my eyes to imagine it, just in time to not see the lights go out again. I took a deep breath.

The Long Way to the Objective Plane

Keeping into account the thoughts your rage spews- these are the cons of what you are thinking about.

The excuses your slothful lethargy and compacency disgorges- these are the pros.

Think about it when you are drunk. or PMSing. That's how you feel about it.

Then weigh these all down when you are completely neutral and unbiased by any of the above moods, and that is your answer.

Being Pissed off and Working

Management will always be absolute F%$#ers with a bold capital F. They f%$# us around and we f$#@ those people who we manage. A vicious cycle of Karma perhaps, but those are the rules.

Since I was blackmailed and bribed by the company to stay back, I've been trying to mount the work horse again and giddyup. It's difficult to love both the work and the clients, but hate the management and the system. It's tough when you are pumped up to work and your boss does a typically dumb-boss thing, and you get too pissed off to work. You try to rationalize with your rage that it's your target at stake and your clients you may loose, but it's not easy to care for something that will allow those assholes to enjoy the fruit of your labour.

Right now, I just want to set up my own freakin office and open up a business with innovative and creative solutions for office ambience, layout, styles. Anyone with loads of experience wanna partner up with a fresh, raw and hopeful mind?


If not, oh just F%$# the corporate world, Biiiiiatch. So, if any of you managers have treaded paths with this blog, really- don't be the jackass that you truly are deep inside. Put on a loving facade, slap on a caring smile and blab off two sugar coated lies about why we can't have it. It'll work better then taking away hope.

What it's like to work Saturdays....

I've plugged in some u2 in my ears to block out the silence. It's so quiet to work on a saturday that you could hear a pin drop on a Persian carpet. My colleagues heady perfume is probably the loudest thing that could happen today.

But honestly, I don't mind working Saturdays.

Trudging out of bed at 9. Empty roads on the way to work. Pajamas. Donut. The fact that I can stay how long I want to makes me want to work faster, longer. Everythng is to the point - Spewing out this post. That facebook message. The bid. The calls to the client. Sharp. Cut to fit. I'm not obliged to stay here, so I'm actually doing it willfully and efficiently. It's unique to be one of the few to have a purpose today and feel productive at the end of the day. So Tally ho, hoes; I be whistling away at work! :-)

Thursday Night

Already buzzed like a buggaboo

picking up another bottle

in case blogs get checked, i... uh... may be in another country hoo ha.