I am so thoroughly... whatevered.

Speaking plainly, there have been very few times in recent times when I have actually felt as expectantly slow, lazy or, as I greedily put it listless.


College, the old monument of unruliness, still feels like school – making me desperately wish I was somewhere else, in some crazy tree of wakelessness penning prose that only the other monkey in that tree could read. In this state of semi-consciousness I go to college, run about a few classes, make fun of practically every thing there is to make fun of, and then come back home with workload for the next day, finish that as quickly as I can, sit down in front of my ailing and service-deprived computer and start typing random emails, or chat with those few friends that come online.

And suddenly I never get inspired as much as I have always been. Suddenly old and painful memories flood me with the slightest of triggers and suddenly I find myself sleeping and wishing I could dream properly.
With the entire day's curriculum compressed and canned into paragraphs of wastage I find little else to say when friends, family and others ask me how my day was.
Whenever there was a little bit of excitement, the day is “AWESOME!!!!!!!!!”
And when there isn't, it was “Normal.” Which is completely true.

And for all I know, it's just my current state of zombification that's making me say it, but I have too many things in mind that I really can't say here.

And I have nothing else to say but, “But, whatever.”

Fireflies in the sky

It's not always that I yearn for company when I go to the Lake. I have always had company whenever I've visited this place of beauty, tranquility, hilarity and love. However, I have never had many opportunities to visit it at the crack of dawn, or walk through it as the last ebbing blurs of twilight slowly disappear.




This is the time when fireflies light up the neat bushes with their visual sonnets. It is, in a word Wanderer, Beautiful. You see them light up countless bushes, and you see people walking around those bushes. A few now; friends walking around, guessing where they'd be a few months from then; middle-aged men lumbering together away from the hustle of their lives.


And when you take the turn at the vertex of the lake, the numbers increase. In the half darkness and shade you see more friends- a bunch with two guitars performing Sweet Child of Mine, grandpas with their little grandchildren, couples kissing with the backdrop of the lit-up bank thinking they are hidden, while knowing everyone knows their little secret.

It is a place vibrant with the secrecy of life, and the patient arrival of the fireflies in the sky that would tear through the deep, pink clouds and bear witness to everything that would happen there.
And no one else has any idea.