Why dont blog write on their own... why do I have to take the trouble of filling pages with diatribe that is far too non consequential for the world to pay any heed to. And mind you all that I am writing bears no significance to any individual or occurrence, and if it so happens that it does, in that case it is merely the writers attempt at obviating the realism in life itself.
Not so long ago I was alive, not so long ago I used to dream, not so long ago I used to write, not so long ago I wasn't employed. And now that I am, my creativity is best expressed in the not so often contrite abuses I pile upon my boss/co-workers/partners, the choicest of words and expressions usually best put in hindi or my mother tongue punjabi fills up my creative void. And that seems to be the order of the day for most of those around, and it so seemed till I came across you, you you you, you fill me with the will to express be more than what I am. The mere smile you so seldom chose to smile upon us mortals gives me strength to go on, to drag my ass to office, to make each day worth living. And yet you are so so far away from me, the mere mention of your name makes me long for u, makes me wish you were around. And then not so far away I have this ridiculous piece of shit barfing in my face, taking my thoughts to a new parallel, but yet I long to see you again.
What is passion, I have this friend who has discovered what we call a "Calling" in life, (well why beat around the bush), Saahil happens to now know what he always was searching for. TFI it seems is the answer to all he was searching for, ubiquity, balance, goal, a reason... there is something besides tix that brings a smile to his face. Call it fate by design or chance, but one thing leading to another has seen him land up with TFI. Rest is fait accompli, every sentence he speaks, every conversation we have is laced with teachings, with innuendos, even the anecdotes revolve around his experiences... he does not now look at the world the way we see it... or maybe I am just exaggerating, but things have changed in his neck of the woods.
But still what is passion, and where does my calling lie? Does it lie in a simple piece of pie? The pie I so sinfully washed down my throat with a coffee? Or does it lie in the coffee the innumerable cups of which I have gulped down everyday? The answer is far too confusing than the question was... for the answer aint just blowing in the wind anymore, it aint in the fast fast fast river (this is an innuendo that seems far too out of place but what the heck who is reading this anyway), the answer is an arcane quest, it would someday become a series of blog entries that might just result in a ridiculous book I might just publish and rake in some dough. Some chick once told me that I was too good with questions but I aint no good at answering them myself, well part of it is true and which one I now know.
U know what, someday I would do the moonwalk, play next to (or in a more sophisticated undertone "jam with") eric clapton and mark knopfler, learn to get over stuff, die on my 50th birthday, write a book, give up on coffee... see you smile... till that day... never say forever again...
