Blogger's Note

Clearly, this blog is going through a majorly emo phase. Pliss to be excusing.

Actually, you know what? I take that back. Whatever brings me back to writing, I guess. There may be a short interval as I shall be off in the town of getting laid often (without getting any, if I may add). To that end, this blog will now see you in the new year.

At that point, we shall look back at the dismal 34 posts that this year has seen, and attempt to top that number before the first three months are out.

Wait, don't look now, but I think I just made a plan, there.

Anyhoo. G'morning, folks. See you in the new.

(Points to people who guess the place I'm going to without already knowing. You have won your freedom, yo.)

Smile at me again, why don't you?
I'm not cut deep enough, yet.

Pyromaniac's Paradox

In the heart of the flame,
I watch myself burn,
and it makes me smile.
But I know, very soon,
the emptiness inside
will return.

The demon blog-eater was going to snatch this one up. I decided against it. And clearly, I'm back to my bad-poetry self. Whoopee! Does this mark the return of jhayu the blogger? We shall soon see.

Unmasking

They found him dead in his bed. Natural causes, as far as the doctors could tell. No one knew he wasn’t well.

They grieved for him silently for the most part, once the initial shock wore off. Each in their own way. Slowly, as the news spread, people trickled in. At first, it was just family and close friends, then in large groups, acquaintances, old flames, college classmates. So many people remembered him; a kind word, a helping hand.

The memorial was beautiful. Some were weeping, but only silently. Everyone remembered and tried to respect his well-known wish: Smile at my funeral. Dozens of them spoke, telling of how he touched their lives, selflessly. Made them realise what it was they wanted to do with their lives. How his smile had moved them all so deeply. How he’d always been laughing, always trying to make everyone smile.
Towards the end of the ceremony, just as people were about to leave, his lawyers walked in. Said they needed everyone, just about everyone to stay. Apparently, he’d left a message for them all. A video tape, with the explicit instructions that it be shown to everyone who came.

A large television set was arranged for, and the tape pushed into the VCR. An expectant crowd leaned forwards; some anticipating a reading of his will, wondering what he’d left them; others simply curious to know what he could have known he wanted to say to them even before his death.

Static. Then a hand moving away from the screen as the camera was turned on. And there he was, sitting on a simple chair, smiling calmly like he always had. To many, it seemed at the time as if the dreaded event had never happened, as if he were just somewhere else, talking to them all via video conference or something. And then he started talking.

If you’re seeing this, I’m dead. Heh. I’ve always wanted to say that. I hope you idiots aren’t all dressed in black, weeping around an open coffin draped in flowers. I sure as shit hope to God not.

Now, some of you are expecting me to start reading out which of my ample worldly possessions go to whom, and I’ve got a good feeling I know who you all are, too. Well, tough shit. My lawyers will do that in private, later. But I respect the fact that you’re here, eagerly listening, sitting at the edges of your seats, barely able to conceal your greed behind what is now your rapidly fading glee.

No, that’s not what this tape is for. This tape is so that those of you that have the wrong impression of me get the story straight. I know some of you would have eulogised me, said lovely things about me. Mary, I bet you told everyone the story of how we met. And Paul, how we built that treehouse one summer and I taught you how to hammer a nail in straight. I bet you all said how you really enjoyed all my annoying habits and that as you now realise, much too late, that’s the reason you loved me.

Well, this message is for all of you so that the record’s set straight. I hate myself. I always have. I couldn’t stand my guts and I don’t know how you idiots did. Mary, I cheated on you. Thrice. Once with your sister. I’ve done things that would make you people look back at me and ask yourselves if you ever knew me at all.

And the answer is no. You didn’t. No one did. And that’s why you liked me. And that’s why I hated myself. Because I knew me. And that’s why I’m in that coffin. You cannot imagine the relief I’m feeling as I tell you this. Good bye, and good riddance.

Static.

And silence.

How Messiahs Are Born

The Dreamcatchers come around everyday.

They're there, at my door, every morning, in their pink and blue suits and large, yellow-rimmed sunglasses. I never understood the sunglasses; it's only about 7:30 in the morning. I think they have microcamera screens on the lenses to help them see the fragments of dreams hanging in the air around us. Did you know pink and blue are relaxing colours in the morning? The State told us. They saw it in our dreams.

Ever since Executive Decision 47065B, our dreams are property of The State. They're collected so that The State knows what the people hope and dream for and can give it to us. That's what all the campaign commercials said. So yeah, they give the people what they really, truly want. And they'd know, right? They have the only copies of our dreams.

They come in your door, bright and early; right after you wake up. I guess they have advanced sensors that tell them when we've gotten out of bed. The Dreamcatcher Wands don't hurt. They wave them through the air around our heads, and the blinking blue lights help us relax while they suck the few remaining shards of dreams out of our peripheral memory. The State tells us that The Wands are like vaccuum cleaners for our brains. Just as safe, too.

Don't tell anyone this, but I don't trust The State. That's why I have this plan, see? I've figured a way to get around The Dreamcatchers. And they'll never find out.



You see, I have a dream diary.


Sshhh!

Storymaker

He was the first – perhaps the only one – of his kind. Your own personalised storyteller. I know what you’re thinking; anyone can read you a story. Few can even make one up as they go along.

But he was different. He’d spend time with you. Days, weeks, months. Whatever it took to get to know you. To become your best friend. Until then, he’d be a fount of information, effortlessly holding his own in any conversation. Drawing out your likes, your dislikes, your preferences. And then one day, when he was ready, the stories would begin.

Fantastic stories. Stories you could never have imagined, stories you’d never hear, others you’d encounter later in life. Stories about life and love and dragons and oceans, serpents and fairies. Everything your heart desired, everything you needed to hear. New stories, made-up stories, stories as old as the world. Every day, he’d take you through stories, mixing them up so they’d be just right for you. Leaving out the bits you’d hate, adding in things you’d love. Things that drove you wild and set your mind on fire. Some days, he’d tell you only half a story, leaving you aching, begging to know how it ended. And then just when you’re losing your mind, wondering what happens next, he’d finish it for you.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when he felt it really necessary, when he was sure it was something you couldn’t deal with, he’d change the endings to suit you.

 I’ve had this post in my head for the longest time. This one’s for you, anna. Someday, I hope you will know how much I looked up to you then, and how much I think of you now.

Khattam-Shud

And in the depths of the city, beyond an old zone of ruined buildings that looked like broken hearts, there lived... the storyteller Rashid Khalifa. ...he was Rashid the Ocean of Notions... the Shah of Blah.

Then the thing happened. The Unthinkable Thing. Rashid went out on to the stage in front of that vast jungle of a crowd, and Haroun watched from the wings - and the poor storyteller opened his mouth, and the crowd squealed in excitement - and now Rashid Khalifa, standing there with his mouth hanging open, found that it was as empty as his heart.

Salman Rushdie,

Haroun and the Sea of Stories

I've lost my words. Until I find them again.

I'm in the seventh circle if you need me

"We want you to be independent.

Just tell us where you're going, how you'll travel, who you're meeting and what you're going to be doing.

We'll call an hour later and ask where you are, what you're doing then, what you did, what you ate, if you had any alcohol, when you're coming, how you'll come and how long it'll take for you to travel.

Okay? Good boy."

My Calvin Moment

The most surprising thing was that she was cold to the touch.

Dark as unpolished onyx, she loomed over me, her features seeming to harden even further as she scrutinized me. I placed her at over 40 cycles, but with her kind, it's hard to tell.

She flitted gracelessly to the counter, rummaging through her supplies. Returning with what she needed, she began buzzing her instructions at me. And when her chitinous flesh came into contact with the skin on my forearm, the most surprising thing was that it was cold.

Sticking in the needle and drawing the blood only took about five seconds. She was good at her job, I'll give her that.

But she was cold.

Silver Linings

Fifteen minutes after my tweet saying I was having a bad day:

There are no words that adequately describe what I'm feeling for this man right about now.

The Rain God Is A Sadistic Bastard

Look, buddy.

You want to rain down on me? Go right ahead. You want to fucking drench me, then you bloody well do it. I enjoy that shit.

But if you stop halfway and say, "Thanks, I'm done," one more time, I will break my foot off up in your ass.

Slow Decay

He stumbled a little. The pain in his foot had been growing.

He sat down on a bench and took off the shoe. The sock was sticky at the big toe. Gingerly, he pulled it off to find a rather large hole at the end of his toe. Later, he remembered thinking how remarkably little blood there was for something of that sort.

He turned his foot around to get a better view. That's when he saw the maggot inside his toe, eating away at his flesh. He woke up screaming.

He could still feel it, inside his toe. Quickly, he pulled up his foot to check. Nothing. Sleep didn't come back to him for a very long time.

He felt it on the bus, going to college. Frantically, he pulled his shoe off to check again. Nothing. 'Get a grip,' he told himself, pulling his windcheater on and stepping into the rain.

Through three classes, he paid rapt attention, willing himself to concentrate on anything else. His friends found it odd that he was so quiet.

In his head, he was screaming.

Why I Don't Go To McDonald's Anymore

1. A burger that used to cost me 55 bucks (all inclusive) now comes for close to 80 (+ taxes).
2. I like to eat a full meal. Ronald's food leaves me hungry half an hour later. This fact is simply horrific in light of point 1.
3. It has people that wave their heads and mouth the words to 'My Dil Goes Hmmm'.
But far more importantly,
4. It plays songs like 'My Dil Goes Hmmm'.

Of overcoming Fear

I've been terrified of picking up Pratchett for a while. As with any author that everyone unanimously says is fabulous, I'm terrified that I, quite simply, will not understand the writing.

So understand my trepidation as I pick up Small Gods. And on the very first page, this happens:

Now consider the tortoise and the eagle.

The tortoise is a ground living creature. It is impossible to live nearer the ground without being under it. Its horizons are a few inches away. It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce. It has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past by being, on the whole, no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat.

And then there is the eagle. A creature of the air and high places, whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world. Eyesight keen enough to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away. All power, all control. Lightning death on wings. Talons and claws enough to make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack out of anything bigger.

And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus, focus on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there on the desert. And it will leap...

And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it. And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground, but five hundred feet from it, and it thinks: what a great friend I have in the eagle.

And then the eagle lets go.

*sigh*
I'm sold, Terry.

Flight

She looked around herself. At the clouds. The ground so far below. She stretched out an arm. Flexed her fingers and felt the wisps of cloud trailing between them. 'Cold,' she thought. 'And tingly...' She shivered a little. She hadn't realised how cold this would be. Reaching out, she traced the edge of another cloud. Then swooping, pirouetting, drawing lazy circles through the air, she flew. The sensation was unbelievable. The freedom. The beautiful feeling of detachment. She pulled to a stop and swirled on the spot, arms stretched out on either side. A feeling of warmth began to spread through her as she climbed, soaring, above the clouds. If she were someone else, she'd have whooped in delight.

For another moment, she stared longingly out the window. Then head bent, she continued to sketch.

(Found this lying in my drafts since October 2008. It was practically finished.)