Christmas Memories

It’s that time of the year again. Christmas is without doubt one of my favorite times in the year. Now I’m not really a very religious person myself, so it’s not so much the religious part that makes it so good. It’s just such a joyous time. And it’s downright infectious. If you watch closely, you just might be able to see smiles and laughter rolling on from one person to another. One of the differences between my birthday and Christmas: I hate belated wishes for my birthday. On that day.. 12:00 a.m. to 11:59 p.m. is all the time you get to wish me... no advance wishes or belated wishes. If you forgot then let it be forgotten for another year. Same goes for if you couldn’t wish (and just so you know, I don’t buy those excuses... not one bit) Christmas on the other hand is one whole season. It’s never too soon to start decking up and wishing people.

I love walking along roads, watching the shops all decorated. The mannequins in shop windows making space for nativity sets, the people selling Santa caps on the roads, watching parents trying to “discreetly” buy gifts for the kids, so that Santa can gift it to them – it matters not if they don’t even know what Christmas is all about. For once, I don’t even mind the crowd. I am pleasantly drawn into memories of Christmas throughout my life. Looking back, the routine each year is so similar, it’s mundane. But I can still remember and feel the excitement within me as the season draws near each year... excitement to do the same mundane things over again.

Preparations at home normally start around ten days before Christmas – the new clothes are already bought a few weeks in advance. It starts with a thorough cleaning of the house... every corner scrubbed clean. (I must admit, not my favorite part). Then starts the preparation of all the sweets and goody stuff. As a kid, the only involvement in this part was trying to keep my eyes open at night while I stayed up to watch my mother cook, bake and fry. I never managed to stay up too long, and would end up having to wait till the morning to get to taste it. As I grew older though, I got to help- help meaning fetching stuff and handing them to my mother, me and my sister not trying to kill each other and ‘staying away from the hot pans and burners’. I now got to get the first taste of the stuff before I fell asleep. A couple of days before Christmas eve meant helping my father decorate the house, set up the Christmas tree, and setting up the crib. Helping again involved fetching stuff, me and my sister trying not to kill each other, and holding up the glue while my father used step stools to stick those decorations on the ceiling. Finally, it would be Christmas Eve and we’d go to church eagerly waiting to get back to the gifts. I remember calling up my father each day at his office to remind him of my Christmas wish list, so that he could mail that ‘all important’ letter to Santa.

Over the years, my sister and I have finally gotten around to being more productive during Christmas and -if I may be silly enough- taking charge at home in getting all the preparations done. I still reserve a wish list for my parents (now that I pretend to believe my parents story that Santa doesn’t exist- I still do believe). My sister and I have somewhere in the process of growing up, lost the enthusiasm to try and kill each other and we now concede with just arguing and verbal fights. But Christmas is and will always remain a favorite time, a time for family, a time for joy, a time to sing those Christmas carols on the top of our voices as we gather around the Christmas tree. One memory that will never fade away is the memory of singing ‘Silent night’ in candle night at church, that’s when it really, finally hits home- IT’S CHRISTMAS!!

The Fountainhead

The fountainhead is one of those classic books that everyone recommends you to read, even if they themselves haven’t. it almost always ends up in the ‘best books to read’ lists that some have. I recently read it (ill admit, a lot of coercion was involved) and I have ended up with very mixed reactions to it.

There are two kinds of books... one in which the story by and far overpowers the characters. Pick up any of those books, replace a few characters and you still would have the same brilliant story folding out before you. The other kind is the one where the characters loom large over the story. The fountainhead is a book of the latter kind. In a nutshell the story is about an architect who only believes in working in his way, or not working at all (and he does end up not doing anything - a lot). What makes it worth a read are the characters,. Now personally, I only liked the characterization of the main character – Howard Roark. Scenes that do not involve Roark seem dull and boring and skim-over-it-ish .

There are five main characters. Roark- who is a self admitting egoist to the core, does only what he wants, will not compromise on any level, but also does not care enough to defend himself or his work (or does he?). Another character is another man who quite frankly seems spineless, a parasite even. He feeds and grows on other people opinions of him, their generosity and their work. He even makes himself believe he’s the best at what he does. The third is a character who sets out to rule over the world in his own way – in the most dangerous way - by means of his thoughts, by directing, projecting and propagating his thoughts onto other people, people who somehow seem sickeningly in eternal gratitude towards him. People whom he has “made” and can choose to break anytime with the firm knowledge that they will still love and respect (?) him. The fourth character is one who wants and achieves success- and for that he is willing to do anything, go against his own wishes, kill his “soul”- anything that can get him success. He tells people what they want to hear, even when he feels strongly against it. The final character (and you may call me crazy) is one of finest written female characters I have ever read. And with no words to put it in all I can say is she’s everything you never expect her to be- whereby lies the genius of the author’s characterization.

The story like is aid is average, mundane when compared to the characters. The writing starts out impressive but then gets pretty predictable. One thing ive never liked is 1 person speaking on and on for pages- and that happens a lot in this book. Also, after a really great build-up, the climax is disappointing. All said and done, it is worth a read, but leave the expectations behind before you start. The book's title is a reference to Rand's statement that "man's ego is the fountainhead of human progress".
One thing I agree with – there’s two ways to go about things – be utterly selfless or be an egoist to the core. A mid way in this context can only be met with failure and regret.

What about now?

You hear a song a thousand times over, but you just need to hear it that "one" time for it to strike really hard within you...
This song has been going on and on in my head for days now...
All the questions I don’t want to answer…


Shadows fill an empty heart
As love is fading,
From all the things that we are
But are not saying.
Can we see beyond the scars
And make it to the dawn?

What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it's too late, What about now?

-What about now (Daughtry)

Can you hear me?

Can you hear me now?

I’ve been calling out to you for ages... you haven’t even looked back.

You hear the words come out of my mouth, it’s turned up in grin, the words are something funny and you laugh like you’ve heard nothing funnier. Can’t you for once realize it’s a mask? Cant you for once try to listen to more than just the words... to where I’m calling out… screaming out… for you?

You come to me with a story of your own, you know that I will listen if you want me to, opine if you need me to. You ask me questions you know I don’t know the answers to. You want me to listen, you want me to answer. Can’t you for once stop and think that maybe I need someone to listen to me at some times? Can’t it ever cross your mind that I may need some questions answered too?

Can you hear me yet?

What will it take for you to hear me? Do I shout? Would you care enough to pretend then? Do I sit quietly in the corner… aloof... then will you look and realize? Do I write you a letter confessing it all? Will you claim you read it?

Do you really need to see me break down to believe I may not be the mask I portray?

Maybe what I need to do to get your attention is something drastic. Leave without ever returning. Leave without a goodbye.

Oh, wait, isn’t that what you did? Did you really think I’d never need you? Did you really think id be fine? Did you not know me at all? How were you so sure id keep coming back to meet you? How did you know that id be the one who made sure the marble slab 6 feet over your head would always be clear off flowers? How did you know? And why won’t you answer me yet?

Can you hear me? Can you hear me at all?

I wish you could hear me. Maybe someday, someday, but for now I’ll continue to sink.

Sinking...

Can you hear me? Can you hear me at all?

Probably not, I’ve sunken to far into the darkness to be heard anymore.

I wish you could hear me. Maybe someday, someday, but for now I’ll continue to sink.

I look around; all I see is emotionless bodies, unrecognized faces. It’s all shadows down here. I can only wish yours was somewhere in this misted dream.

It’s more like a fogged nightmare.

If only I could wake up. If only I could find some sort of light in the black nothing.

No matter how dark it gets there is always some light, somewhere. I’ll just hold onto the scrap of hope I have left. The hope to find my way out and see you. If not be with you, I want to say goodbye.

Because I think I am dead. I think I’ve died, and this is the end.

I’ll just keep on sinking, sinking further down.

­

-not mine, but too beautifuuly written not to put it up.

written by a guy infact... hats off to u man!

The Perfect Ending

A bright sunbeam decided today that I shouldn’t be let to sleep in. My mind struggles to clear the fog of my dreamless sleep. Dreamless... that’s what all nights have been since… well, I can’t remember. I look around. Not that there’s much to observe around here. I might as well have been in paradise, it’s all so white. White walls, white bedspreads, white curtains, white everything… even this excuse of an outfit I’m wearing is white, now why on earth would I buy something like this? Besides the white, there’s the smell… its unbearable, like everything ahs been washed 10 times n then some weird sorta cleanser used 20 more times. Does everything have to be so clean around here? There’s some stuff in the room too (maybe just to distract a person from being blinded by all the white). Some medical mumbo-jumbo, a small table with a jug of water on it and a diary...

A diary? What’s that doing here? I know I shouldn’t be reading it, but I can’t resist. Only a few pages have been written in. Before I can do any reading, a woman walks in (dressed in white, you guessed right!) She has a tray with her, with some food on it, and medicines. Something’s oddly familiar about her. Maybe she feels it too; by the way she’s smiling at me. She gives me some tablets, the food is my breakfast. I suddenly realize I’m starving. As I eat she asks me about how I feel today, well - as bright as..uhmm.. She smiles a bit sadly at my sudden loss of words. She asks me to read the diary, says its mine, says I might find some answers there. She leaves me to finish my breakfast and leaves, saying she’ll come by tomorrow as usual. As usual? Was she ever here before?

I begin to read. Well, like I said I haven’t written much. Well to sum up what’s written in there, I have what could be called total amnesia. How I got here, I don’t remember (well, duh!!). But the sad part is not just that. I came here in a very bad state, and even though the fixed me up pretty well (I got out of a coma after a month, just before they were about to take me off life support, having given up all hope), and while I can function as well as the next human being, I have no memory of what I do, even temporarily. And it’s getting worse by the day. I am forgetting even the smallest things. There are sudden moments where I remember stuff, but not more than that. But that’s not what scares me. I’ve written that I’m supposed to read this every day. Every day? I don’t remember how many days I have been reading this. I don’t remember when I got out of a coma, was it yesterday? Was it a year ago? Does it matter? Tomorrow I will wake up again with no memory of today, read this same crap again and ask myself the same questions.

Suddenly, this white room seems a lot smaller. Who ever said light colors create an illusion of space? Now everything I do, every thought I think, I wonder how many times before I have thought it. I haven’t written about whether my condition is curable, which leads me to believe it may not be. I’ve just been asked to write it down, so I don’t go insane wondering about stuff. From what I’ve written, I gather that no one has ever been to visit me here. The guy who found me was the doctor himself. I’ve not yet been told of the cause of my condition, to spare me mental trauma apparently. Mental trauma? Seriously? I can’t even remember my name. I don’t know how old I am. I don’t even know what I look like, no mirrors here.

All I know right now is that I’m choking. I’m choking and there are invisible metal fingers that are clasping my windpipe and I can’t breathe no more. I stumble towards the bed and sit down heavily on it. I need something… but I don’t know what. I look around helplessly, hopelessly at the white around me trying to figure it out. My eyes land on my uneaten breakfast plate, there’s a spoon and a fork. Before I know what I’m doing, I grasp the fork.

After it’s all over and done with, I realize it’s not the fork that killed me. It’s not the metal fingers around my windpipe. It’s not even the blood flowing along my wrist, staining the white bed sheets red and disturbing the flow of white in the room. It’s the uncertainty. It’s the “not-knowing”.

I wanted a perfect ending.

Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme,

and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Life is about not knowing, having to change,

taking the moment and making the best of it,

without knowing what's going to happen next.

Delicious ambiguity.

The Path I Choose

There are moments in our lives when we find ourselves at crossroads.

True enough. So many times in life I can’t help but feel resentful for the abundance of choices. Oh how wouldn’t I love someone else making all the tough choices for me. To not have to bear the consequences. To not have to answer the “what if’s?” But as a friend of mine says, if wishes were horses, stable boy would be a prince.

The choices we make in those moments can define the rest of our days.

Great. That reduces some of the pressure. Every thing you, say, everything you do, decides what happens to the rest of your life. And yet, there is no way of actually knowing what will happen. No way of knowing how right your choice is, no matter how right it may seem.

And, of course when faced with the unknown, most of us prefer to turn around and go back.

You know, how sometimes you come across some people, and it’s all great for a while, but it slowly melts away to nothing? I don’t know about you, but I sure wonder if I’d have been better of without ever having met them. Because if it can’t be like what it used to be, I fear for what the future would hold.

But, once in a while, people push onto something better. Something found just beyond the pain of going it alone. And just beyond the bravery and courage it takes to let someone in.

Again, don’t know about you, but it does take a lot of bravery and courage on my part to let someone into my life. Ask my friends. They’ll tell you. On a more serious note, it is only the hope for something better that keeps us all going… and sometimes, when we get really lucky, when we are least expecting it, we find something that almost makes everything we faced until then seem… bearable (worth it would sound more fitting, but its not what I’d feel). Almost.

Or to give someone a second chance. Something beyond the quiet persistence of a dream.

Maybe it doesn’t have to always been the path less trodden, you know? Maybe the other path seems simpler because a lot have people have used it to make it easier for you. I’d leave thank you notes for them, but I doubt they’d want to return. I don’t believe too much in second chances. I don’t believe in people changing. Those who do are not meant for me. But I figure, maybe I need a second chance at times. Maybe… just maybe, I might have gotten my first chance wrong… MAYBE.

Because, it's only when you’re tested that you truly discover who you are. And, it's only when you're tested that you discover who you can be.

And who I am, is exactly who I want to be. Where I am, is exactly where I wanted to be. Maybe with slight changes. Maybe not always at the right time. But I’ll get there. I know that. Especially now. Especially whn I know it need not be alonely journey. Not if I don’t want it to…

The rain

It’s raining outside again. It should be her favorite time of the year. She sits by the window as usual, looking down at the small whirlpools created by rain drops in the tiny puddles of water. She loves doing that. There is something just so beautiful about the patterns made by the drops of water. But something is different this year. Somehow she can’t find the peace that she normally does when it rains. As weird as it may sound, chaos outside always seemed to bring peace within her. This time there was something distinctly missing.

She decides to take a walk in the rain. Chaplin once said “I love walking in the rain because no one can see my tears”. Ironic that she should be thinking of that now. As she wanders without too much thought over a familiar path, it dawns on her. It isn’t something that’s missing, it’s someone. It kind of stills her for a moment that something as simple as this took so long to figure out. She should probably turn back right now, but her mind is too far from her feet apparently, so they don’t take any instructions anymore. She wonders if he’ll be there today, she wonders if it would make a difference if he was. Last year, she probably wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought to it. Walking up to that place would be something she looked forward to. Again, weird. There are only two situations that can take place now if he’s there: he sees her, pretends he dint and walks away or he sees her, they have a small awkward conversation and yet again, he walks away.

She should be used to it now. She’s wondering what it will be this time just as she enters the familiar arena. Ah, he’s not there this time. She goes over to one of her favorite spots, right by the huge window that overlooked the ocean and sits down for some pondering. She’s lived a life without regrets so far, she’s not going to let him be her first. She realizes she doesn’t have to look back at those past moments as something she should regret. It could also be some happy memories that just aren’t anymore. Maybe he does. Maybe he regrets it. It doesn’t matter anymore, not to her. Years later, when they both look back at this, if they do, she knows she won’t be the one who had anything to regret. She can only hope that he doesn’t too. Damn right, people change. She just wished she dint change much.

She sets out to the ocean, her mind clearer than when she left home. She reaches the beach, she can feel the sand slipping beneath her feet, yet she has no fear about where her feet may land. It’s raining again. It is her favorite time of the year. She sits by the ocean as usual, looking down at the huge waves constantly crashing at shore. She loves doing that. There is something just so beautiful about the chaotic waves and the fact that no two waves ever seem to form or crash at the same spots. Finally, she is at peace. As weird as it may sound, chaos outside always seems to bring peace within her.

easily the hardest post to put up.

I HATE LOVE

NOTE: READ DISCLAIMER

There was this little sparrow, she loved the white rose,
One day she decided that her love she would disclose,
She told the rose about her love and thought he too would propose,
But the white rose told her, he could love her only when he turned red,
So the little sparrow tore open her heart, and she bled and bled,
Her blood turned the white rose into deep red,
The rose fell in love with her, but the little sparrow was dead.


They say it hurts… being with someone who doesn’t love you back. Does it really?? What about being with someone who loves you more than you would ever love them? Or rather someone who you know you never could love. All this, considering that the person really is the best of their kind. Someone you should be really happy to be with. Only teeny tiny problem is that they you don’t love them. So now, what hurts more? Being with someone who does not love you or being with someone who loves you more than you would ever love them?

It is often human nature to decide upon comparative issues on the basis of a personal perspective. (WHAT??) When asked what is worse, it is only human to think of yourself on the perceived worse side… in this case unreciprocated love. I respectfully disagree. For someone who believes the former is worse, they clearly have never been on the other side. Because that hurts… a lot! Just try imagining yourself on the other side. So you’re with this great person, admit it, you possibly couldn’t do any better than them. But somehow, the great guy isn’t someone you could ever love. No, I am not going to say that is because you love someone else (that’s just lame!) don’t get the tissues out yet. It gets better. The person knows your side of the story and still loves you. (Cue: the tissues)

It is weird, sure! It is totally (??) the ‘never-thought-it-would-happen-to-me’ situation. The problem with those kind of situations is that you never really think something would never happen to you, until it actually does.
Damn Life!
I HATE LOVE :)

Black spots

I happened to read a book named “Blood Memory” by Greg Iles recently. Well ok, not so recently. It’s the only book I’ve read by the author so I won’t comment on his style (diverting from my usual judgmental self.). Anyway, though the storyline (don’t remember much of it in detail) isn’t the best ever, the suspense in the book is killer.

Anyway what struck me most about the book was the topic it dealt with. On the surface it’s just a book about a crime fighter (the protagonist) with past issues that she sets aside in her daily dose of alcohol, has an affair with a married man but overall does her job well.
As it turns out, her past issues deal with what is known in the medical world as “repressed memories”.

In the story (going to kill the suspense here... so if you want to actually read the book, skip this part) the protagonist was sexually abused as a child by her grandfather. This is where repressed memories step in. by the time she had grown up she had completely blocked the traumatic instances from her memory... for her she had no idea anything happened.

According to sources (read: wikipedia):
A repressed memory, according to some theories of psychology, is a memory (often traumatic) of an event or environment which is stored by the unconscious mind but outside the awareness of the conscious mind.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Repressed_memory

I also realized that this was not the only place I had read/heard about this. The same stuff has been seen in the movie “The butterfly effect”. I remember watching some crappy show a long time back wherein another girl had repressed memories but she recovers them by some means. Even Harry potter has a mention of it (remember Slughorn and his memories about the horcruxes?).

On the surface, it seems a pretty nice thing, not being able to remember the bad stuff. It’s like having a black spot in your mind. You remember everything before and after the incident but not the incident itself. Your mind automatically blocks out the entire incident to save you from the trauma of having to live through it in every nightmare that you have.

But this is not the case normally. While you may not remember the incident, you do remember that something happened, just not what happened. People usually even have nightmares (as in the story) where they live through the incident… again without actually knowing what happened. At times a certain trigger brings one back to the situation. That in a sense could be a lot more traumatic.

Researches say every person has some repressed memory... it could even be as simple as an embarrassing moment for someone… like going blank on stage… a game you lose very badly… anything that for you on a personal level was too much to handle emotionally. You don’t ever want that to happen again… so you pretend it never happened in the first place… And your mind helps you by blocking it out completely.
My point is,
What is your black spot??