Diary Without Pages

Trivia I find Ignored


Blocked and Stopped

In the last ten days, I’ve not written anything. Various reasons, exams chief among them. But that is done and finished.

So, I return to my usual practice. Only, its damn hard now for some reason. Ideas for the next post are there, nagging at the back of my mind. But my brain, for some blasted reason, is refusing to function. Like a virtual standstill, only, it’s not virtual.

Let me break it down for you. I am sitting here, in front of the computer. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I write a sentence. Two sentences. Halfway through the third …

Halt. Backspace. 

I write again. Backspace. I grit my teeth. I write a whole paragraph, pleased with myself – for a minute. Standstill. 

It’s not a writer’s block. Nothing like that. I had one of those once. This is different. I know what to write and how to write. My mind approves, but when it appears on the screen. It just seems … wrong. Out of place. Like gold embroidery on a toilet seat.



Just … Just Let Go

I. Trashed. a. post.

-And that's how full of it you've gotta be to write something like that.

Oh dear God, I cannot believe it. It was so so stupid. The post, I mean. The act of trashing it was possibly the best decision I’ve made in my life.

The post was like a sick version of me, drunk and tipsy, telling a tale with so much enthusiasm, it was embarrassing. I think I truly defined the term ‘a mountain out of a molehill’ yesterday.

What was I thinking! I keep saying to myself. And the title, oh the title, you wouldn’t believe the lengths of stupidity you’d have to cross to come across a title like that. I’m not even brave enough to mention it here for the sake of credibility because of the embarrassment that will ensue. Any day now, they’ll have the poster of my face on merriam webster, right below the term of idiot. For visual aid purposes.

Thank God, there was no feedback. A couple of likes, yes, but those were bearable. But a comment would’ve killed me. How do you respond to something like that. Yes, Thank you, Choke me now.

But all is not lost. I made progress. I’m big enough a man now to admit when my stuff is good as a dead rat’s bony ass. So, that’s definitely cause for celebration, right?


A Wise Man’s Tale

Once there lived a wise man.

He was wise, no denying it because if the author said so, it must be true. That’s the rule, you take his word for it.

He was wise, wiser than any of you. Believe it! 

So, one night the wise man was sitting in a pub.

Now, why would a wise man do that. There must be a very deep, very thought provoking, very attention worthy, very mystic reason behind it. I mean, wise men don’t just sit in pubs.

Unless …

He was there to eat …

What?! He was, he actually was?!!

Not your average wise man, is he? But we’ll humor him for now …

He told a joke.

Seriously? Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me? I let the pub one pass, but this is just rubbish. He told a joke!. Was there no philosophies left in the world to ponder on. no brilliant plans for the greater good, no theories about Justin Bieber’s gender. No? Nothing?

OK, I’ll let this one slide too. Go ahead. Knock yourself out.

Everyone laughed.

Well, Duh!

What were they supposed to do? Roll over and die?

Come to think of it, I’m feeling like that right now, so that’s not such a long shot.

When they laughter died out, he told the joke again.

Keen to spread a few smiles around, huh? Well, good for you wise man. Good for you. When are you gonna hang yourself?

Soon? I thought so…

Few people laughed.

Were they laughing at the wise man, or were they just stupid?

The wise man told the joke for the third time. Much to the disapproval of the crowd. Not a single laugh was heard.

Were there swords involved? Daggers? Artillery? Anything?!!

Come on! my hands are getting itchy just thinking about it.

The wise man said,”When you can’t laugh at a joke again and again, why oh, why do you cry at the same sorrow over and over again?”

Well, what do you know. The wise man’s wisdom finally came through. now all that’s left is to show the guy some real pain. Let him contemplate some sorrow for himself. Let him show us how to deal with sorrow.

Folks, are you ready?

Knives, on my mark.

1 … 2 … 3 …



Spring Spring Go Away

There has always been one mystery that has baffled me. When people talk about seasons, they talk about four.

Summer, autumn, winter, spring.

Everyone knows this, it’s kindergarten stuff. But often, I find myself wondering, why four? why not three? Because spring just doesn’t seem to be there. There is winter. You feel it going. Its going, going, going, Gone. And you wake up one day covered in sweat. And you think to yourself, was I in coma, how did I skip spring and jumped from winter to summer.

Where did spring go?

This year, I planned it all out. I actually noted the day winter turned to spring.

March 6

I didn’t wake up with a blanket on top of me. Clear sign that winter was gone. But it rained the next day and winter was back. Another 3 days of blissful cold. Officially, winter was done and gone on the unfortunate day of March 9.

March 10

I tried to actually feel the spring. Stupid as it may seem, I tried it. And believe it or not, I felt it. Maybe it was something in the breeze or just the smell but I actually felt it. All the signs were there, once I started looking.The grass was greener than ever and the wind more friendly than it had been for weeks.

March 11 – 19

Spring was there, I could sense it. These were the glory days of the season. It only showed in the flowers and the greenery. The breeze was great, not too hot, not too cold, just right. But the there was still a hint of sweat whenever there was outdoor work involved. Something I had not experienced for quite some time, and did not miss at all.

March 20

I tried to feel it, I really did. Nothing. It was finished. Done. Not a single damn sign that spring was still around, except perhaps the flowers, but what good does that do to anybody when you know that the heat is settling down like a fat kid for a particularly long meal.

So, concluding, its safe to say that spring is a season that lasts 10 days, give or take. Poets and writers find inspiration in this season. Though, I can’t imagine how. One way would be to get it on recording and watch it over and over again to find something meaningful and heartfelt. It’s bound to be more successful than having half a month to work with the entire year. But that’s just me.


Too Much Time

My head is swimming right now, what with annuals coming up and regular black outs in the district its kinda hard to feel sorry for anyone but myself.

I haven’t got a whole lot of patience right now either, one moment I’m skimming through text books and the next I’m desperately trying to persuade myself that its not summer its spring! But the sweat that I’m currently bathing in begs to differ.

Strange, I never had problems with sweat before. Maybe its a puberty thing – the armpits do smell more manly. Manly is synonyms with he-man. The cartoon, remember? So, if your armpits smell, you’re he-man. God! he man must have been gross.

I’m angry. No, no, that’s not the word. I’m frustrated. The internet was down for two days, turns out a truck driver drove through our phone line. Snapping the fragile thing in two.

I always wondered how you can snap a wire in two, it’s actually metal isn’t it. I thought metals didn’t break, the just sort of – stretch (?)

Imagine a couple of stretched ropes lying in the middle of the road. Little girls wouldn’t have to buy ropes to skips anymore. Wait, do they buy ropes? If it were me, I’d just pick one up from the road. In the name of recycling.