Well it wouldn’t be my birthday without me writing a post about it.
Winds of change, change of winds, fart noises.
My sense of humor has devolved to that of a five year old’s. That could also be a direct consequence of watching all those Minion movies.
Yes, I plead guilty to possessing minion accessories. I should be jailed.
I’ve lost a few along the way, people, not weight. And I’ve gained a few as well, weight, not people.
But for once, I’m optimistic and I’m scared too.
But I know that I will survive.
So here I am, giddy like an anime schoolgirl, overtly joyous, extremely anxious and riddled with the need to excessively punctuate.
I’m just a tiny bit less sad.
And I’m smiling tonight.
PS- Highlight of my night, the google doodle.
I started reading again.
This wasn’t premeditated. Yesterday morning I woke up early and I plucked a book off of my very dusty bookshelf. A green cover, bold font, stack of pillows and a glass of lemonade was all it took.
And I finished it in the morning itself.
It had been a year since I had read a book but it felt like a decade. So was it a joyous reunion? Did my fingers rejoice at the feel of those seemingly never ending pages? Did my eyes glisten as I read those tiny words crammed into a page? I think I need glasses.
Anyway, it was a confusing, mixed state of mind that I ended the book in, incidentally which had nothing to do with its contents.
After years of being an introvert bookworm, I had begun preferring my laptop to reading. And I actually uttered the following words: I’d rather watch the movie than read the book. Sacrilegious, I know!
I literally stuck to my precious laptop like a leech. I lost myself in hours of movies and TV series.
I think it was because I forgot how to imagine, to build a world inside my head.
Or I just became impatient.
Here’s hoping this sticks.
Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.
My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.
Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-. Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)? Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.
Regardless, I was happy.
Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.
Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).
This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.
Because I’ve stopped reading.
I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.