Alchol, and Why I don’t like IT

I once had a wallpaper of Salma Hayek, standing with four hunks and a bottle of Campari, I couldn’t quite get the message that the advertisement wanted to convey, if its intent was to draw an analogy between the scotch and Salma Hayek then I think it failed in its attempt and abysmally so. Failed attempts notwithstanding, one thing and that I know for sure, two shots down and anything round and curvy start to appear like Salma Hayek and another two shots and every guy in the room becomes your brother and a close confidante. Though I wouldn’t suggest going any further than that because the line that separates delusions from reality is a thin one and also because for the designated driver or the teetotal who has to sit on the sidelines for the entire time with nothing but a glass of orange juice to hold onto, it becomes more of betting game, waiting and watching as to which of those drunken suckers would be going down first and how and if my personal statistics are to believed, puking still holds the roast a point ahead of drunken brawls and tripping over and breaking your nose. If you still haven’t quite got the idea then yes, I don’t drink, neither socially nor within the confines of my room, that doesn’t mean that I haven’t tried alcohol, I had on more than one occasion and after spending an hour waiting for the intoxication to spread it tentacles and take control of my mind and body, I decided scotch or country liquor notwithstanding, alcohol isn’t the best way to ruin my orange juice.

 Just the other night I kind of found myself in a sticky situation when my friend  asked as to what I thought about girls who drink, now asking someone whose interest in alcohol doesn’t go beyond two drink would be like asking a guy about a push up bra. We may be able to tell you how it works and why it’s a miraculous and instantaneous cure for small bosom and how we as guys hate it because more often not we like to get what we see but irrespective of how much we know, we won’t be the ones wearing it, so our knowledge is almost of no consequence here. So that brings me back to the girls who drink, well I seriously don’t have no qualms about anyone doing anything with their lives and seriously gender has nothing to do with my abhorrence, more so because I don’t actually think about things such as these, part of my philosophy of never sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Not that I don’t care, I do care but I do trust people and their judgment and I believe each one of us has to chose for our lives and to actually be critical about someone else’s life would be almost similar to sitting on the sidelines and talking about a Matador’s choice of profession. One thing for sure, my sticky nose notwithstanding, I will not deter from dispensing, along with morning coffee and aspirin, (if I found you all pukey and hung over)   my clean-up-your-act and while you are at it also clean-up-the-living room or the bathroom advise (just in case in your drunken stupor you forgot where the washbasin was) and also in case you end up in prison or are caught doing something illegal I will under all circumstances will disavow all your actions because my statute of responsibility doesn’t include the part where I have to play your dad.

Finally, I think it all comes around why I don’t myself consume alcohol, well I like do like go to a disco sometime but that doesn’t mean I like to dance and seriously I am still living off my dad’s money and given the effort he has to go through to earn it, I would rather spend it on girls or shopping, rather than washing it down my throat and that too with a vile taste.

Would you find me????

Through these deserts, through the sunshine

Would you be my blanket 

On those cold and merciless nights

When all your dreams come crashing down

When everything wrong seems like right

Would you be the one to believe in me

Even though my words seem to be so full of lies?

Through these spirals, through this vortex of time

Would you like a ocean keep all my secrets inside

On those gray and cold mornings

When the sun is so hard to find

And it starts to feels like December underneath these August skies

Would you still be my shoulder and hold me strong when I cry

Even though I have lost all my battles

Surrendered, bowed and died

Would you still give me your lips and bring me back to life?

Crying Reality

I am crying, neither the tears of sadness nor the tears of exultation but rather the tears which comes after realization, tears of acceptance or acquiescence. Tears which I can no longer fight because I cannot deny or not put into perspective whatever that has been happening to me and I cry because this reality is not something that I have taught myself to face. Reality one of the most relative and imperceptible of all phenomenon’s, what you believe in goes a long way in determining what you see and sometimes what you see is nothing but a delusional derivative of your entire psychological architecture. Sometimes I wonder if as a human being we ever get to live life on our own terms rather than the dictums of this society but these conventions are so hardwired that even in our defiance we end up following them albeit those dictums may pertain to some other society. Are we capable of surviving alone, maybe yes because sustenance is probably the only trait that human kind has picked up on this long road to evolution but what good this life be if devoid of love and human touch? Sometimes I think loneliness is nothing but just another sobriquet to hide our social ineptitude for loneliness is akin to cowardice and this seclusion or self imposed exodus is what we need to camouflage our vulnerabilities. This loneliness is not something reserved for special few but rather it is a product of fear that we all have felt, fear that lets us reveal ourselves least someone may come and hurt us, fear that never lets us trust and ironically we end up taking pride in our skepticism.

Life teaches us all along the way but we always end up learning the wrong lessons, with each failed relationship we learn how to distrust and look behind someone’s each and every action. We start to derive patterns, categorizing people on the basis of their proclivities forgetting that not everyone is there to harm us, forgetting that love and acceptance go hand in hand. I have heard almost every other person attribute their failed relationship to the differences in expectation, what I now fail to see is if this fulfillment of expectations is what we seek then probably we may never be able to love someone forever because these expectations evolve, what I may be getting today I may no longer have any use for that tomorrow. More importantly what we want may not be what we need and until and unless we learn to reconcile what we want with what we actually need we could never find that contentment in our lives.

We may have come long way but still we are long way away from believing in our own instincts, we all are like bundles of accumulated histories, we always end up drowning that tiny voice inside our heads with the sound of our own logic, logic that is derived from our own experiences. What we forget is history is though has a tendency to repeat itself but history is not created by repetition, history is created by those who are brave enough to look and act beyond the obvious.

Once you learn how to love it becomes increasingly difficult to not feel the pain which someone else may feel and that’s perhaps why I cry the tears of defeat because I can no longer see my loved ones living like clockwork; I cannot see them making some mistakes over and over again. I cry because once I have learnt to accept this reality I have no other way to go but to face it, I am not sad though for this realization is something that I would have eventually woken up to and even then reality would have been this soul stirring.

Life, Holidays and Cry Babies

Why is that sometimes time simply stops moving and this happens especially when you are sitting on a hot afternoon in a state transport bus with sun glaring on your face and all that you can do apart from cursing this god damn weather is to stare at your watch and hope for those needles to move a bit faster. That’s not the end of it, it’s been two days now since I got back home and apart from watching infinite hours of sitcoms and reading a zillion page sage about some insidious plot to abduct U.S president and socializing with some girl from Barbados all I have done is to stare at that clock and hope against the hope for it to work a bit faster. Past few days have been a blur and now basking in my state of perpetual abeyance I am finding it really hard to adept myself with the sedentary pace and with the time I have got all that I seem to do is think and it would have been alright had I been thinking about myself and the way my life is going to be but more often than not I find myself thinking about people whom I have so gladly left behind, people such as my friends or acquaintances and so on. Past sure has its way of catching up with you, no matter how deep you bury it, it always claws its way up. Anyways a lot has conspired in the last few days, I got a job for starters so I guess I could remove that other blog and I threw a party for my friends albeit it wasn’t that big actually as six of us contributed and had it been my way I would have chosen to spend the night watching some chick flick with a box of tissues and a tub of ice cream then to sit and endure almost endless hours of alcohol talks with a bottle of almost revolting orange juice to sip on but that wasn’t the end of it, once the bottles ran dry the so called you-have-got-placed party turned itself into who-could-cry-the-loudest contest and believe me to watch almost every other of your friends cry is something that calls for much more than an iron heart. Whomsoever said that men’s don’t cry hasn’t ever heard about the bonds of testosterone and men’s are worst than babies when it comes to crying especially when they are drunk because to placate them you have to clip shut your nose otherwise you run a very high risk of puking or passing out from that miasmic odor of alcohol mixed with the smell of chicken and the overflowing gutter nearby. If I could I would have kicked almost every other of those cry babies that night but I was afraid of them remembering it all the other day, so I just kept to myself and sipped my juice which almost tasted and smelt like nail polisher remover and I bet even that counterfeit liquor would have tasted better than it. I went back to sleep and the next day I left for my home and well that’s it, apart from the fact that train got late by four hours and last night I went along with my family and had dinner at one of my father’s colleague’s place and after the dinner my father ended up puking for the entire night, I don’t have anything to write about. I could for sure tell you tits and bits about my life and propensities but I already have said enough I think and I really don’t want to overwhelm you lesser mortals with my life stories.

boys don’t cry

“Take care son”, these were the parting words from my father when he came to drop me off for the college. Just these words and a gentle squeeze, I was hoping for a hug though but then if he would have hugged me, I for sure would have broken down and started crying, then and there, right in the middle of the street and a twenty year old boy crying, is not a pretty sight to behold. I cried though later next day; it was I think because of the story that I read, something about a boy describing his father’s funeral and I made me feel so sad that I felt like crying and I did cry, burying my face deep in my pillow, silently though as there were no tears and praying all the time for the well being and safety of my family. I wanted to get it all out of my system, as to how much I was able to rid myself of these separation pangs and anxiety I have no idea. My mother once told me that as a kid I was nothing short of a cry baby, crying for whatever things that would happen to catch my sight and I was pretty much protean as far as my likings were concerned, so I grow out of things or got fed up them much to the dislike of my parent and I was fiercely jealous as well, so much so that if the girl sitting next to me had a new eraser or a new pencil or a new bag, I would want that very same thing. The fact that there were probably ten’s of erasers, rulers and pencil boxes lying around astray was immaterial to me. And when I wouldn’t get what I wanted I would cry and I cried like hell and I have a real bad tendency to throw a tantrum, right in the middle of the street or my personal favorite, the toy shop. I used to have, probably the entire GI Joe collection and all those tiny little good for nothing hot wheels cars, I still have them, tucked somewhere amidst all those boxes of junk which my mother couldn’t bring herself to throw off and now when I think about those moments, my heart really goes out for my parents, they really had to endure a tough child, a child with a lash for tongue and a real bad temper and add to it the pressure of their jobs, I really wonder how they were able to pull all this through. But somewhere along the line, I don’t exactly remember when, I lost my capability to cry and I don’t know why, given my history and proclivity this aspect of my life still happens to intrigue me. Perhaps, it was because of my parents, who by now have come to terms with my tantrums and started buying me stuff, sometimes even before I could word my choices out or maybe it was because of the fact that I get grow up pretty quickly, given certain circumstances and I finally realized that harrowing once parents isn’t something one should do. With my tears gone, I think I lost a certain part of me as well, the part that made me capable of empathizing with people and in a way I become like an android, rendered incapable of emotion and compassion. Perhaps, those tears were like gossamer threads binding me with this all engulfing blanket of humanity and with these threads gone, I found myself becoming meaner and selfish, to the point of narcissism. It is hard actually to be with people and not to feel the way they are feeling and more often than not people think of me or treat me as an outcast, as someone whose behavior is in complete disjunction with their moral fabrication. I have been there, on the receiving end of a lot of broken relationships, and still I find myself completely at loss when it comes emoting myself because I don’t know how to express a void, an emptiness.

I haven’t cried since that day, apart from one time when I walked into a door and broke up my nose. That was actually pretty painful and with all those unsolicited tears mixed with blood and mucus, it felt disgusting but that day it wasn’t the pain that I cried for, I cried for all the things, all the baggage that I was carrying. I cried for my poodle who died five years back, I cried for the loss of my girlfriend who got married and for another one who dumped me and for her friend who as well dumped me. It actually felt pretty liberating, getting it all out of your system and for a change it made me feel responsible for the pain that I have inflicted on others. As for me crying again, I don’t see myself walking in another door anytime in the near future, perhaps when it’s the doomsday and when everyone else has died, I will sit alone and cry for all the wrongs I have done to people by denouncing their effusions and outbursts for being trivial.