Monday, September 05, 2011

To question or not..

I realize I don't have a lot of questions that are my own. (I don't mean questions that haven't been asked.) Most of the questions that I do have and are my own are those that I somewhat know are not worth finding answers for.(or something like that :) ) I do, of course, get curious about many questions after I have heard them somewhere else. I enjoy that too. But then, I have been thinking about why I don't have as many questions as I would like.
The first thing that comes to mind is how I worry a lot about reinventing the wheel and not getting anywhere at all. If I question everything, if I go about getting at everything from first principles, I might spend a lot of time doing just that and not accomplish the task at hand.
I also sometimes find it hard to decide how much of the big picture and how many tiny details are worth knowing. I have realized that the more I abstract, the more I take for granted, the lesser questions I have. It's always that compromise between how much time I am willing to spend on something and how satisfied I feel at the end of learning/doing something.
Heh. I rambled.
Anyway, here are my questions for you:
- do you have a lot of questions that are your own? if so, what's your mojo? if not, how do you feel about it?
- how do you know how deep you should be going asking questions?
- do questions sometimes make you uncomfortable? how do you deal with that? (:))

Wednesday, August 03, 2011


X: You didn't judge her! I heard she lost all her friends because they just don't trust her anymore..
Y: Oh. I didn't think that way at all.
X: Yeah, that's what makes you a good friend!
Y: Well, I guess I just didn't care enough to judge.
X: Hmm..
Y: Talk about friendship!

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


"Ah, lets see! One, two.. you are the sixth!", I said. "Hmm", he said, "Just delete all your old e-mails, okay?" I rolled my eyes. "The past that affects the present is really not past", he said. I smiled. And said sincerely, "Oh don't worry. There are no e-mails anyway".

We didn't see each other again.

Wednesday, July 06, 2011


.. is also about choosing the right battles to fight.

Monday, June 27, 2011

One of these nights..

I thought we had a great time. And then I asked her.
She said , "That kiss was like every conversation we have had. Quiet, long-drawn, passionate and yet of no meaning or no consequence at all!"
I smiled. She brimmed with curiosity.
And now, we are just standing apart. And waiting.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


Sometimes, life is just about waiting for something to happen. And making small talk while we wait.

Monday, March 07, 2011

Love is

.. when you don't have to keep talking.

Friday, March 04, 2011


X: Everyone pretends to be someone else.
Y: Does that mean someone, somewhere is pretending to be me?
X: That is possible.
Y: If I am a person of such worth, that someone pretends to be me, why would I pretend to be someone else!
X: Well, I sometimes pretend to be a fool.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011


Would 'inability to feel happy for others' be called selfishness? Or is it just 'human'? But I think an inability to say "Oh I'm so happy for you" is perhaps inhuman.
It's amazing how we say so many things. And not. :)

Monday, February 28, 2011


They all thought they would be famous by twenty one. And die young at twenty three in a car crash. Obviously they didn't. They stuck around, grew old and quite miserable. They hoped they remain young at heart. Somebody should have told them that childishly foolish dreams would really not make them young! Just foolish.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The game of silence

She looked at him every now and then. But I think he looked away. Both of them were waiting. For nothing in particular. They just thought it would be interesting to just wait until something happened. Some days she wanted his attention and other days all of his attention. Both of which he refused rather curtly. And I think she went away for a bit to see if he noticed. He did and she came back at once. She could no longer ask, he could no longer give. She could give but he never asked. Not that he wanted nothing but he wasn't just sure. Wasting words was something they both disliked. And so they played. Day after day, year after year. Waiting, expecting, looking and not looking. She was a good sport but I think he got too bored.
And today she told me it was called the game of silence.

Monday, January 17, 2011


You praise me because it's polite and I'm happy because I can pretend.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Anna Karenina

Agreed I'm a late bloomer but finally I am reading Anna Karenina. I'm almost done but couldn't resist putting up this part!

She took his hand in both of hers, and drew it to her waist, not taking her eyes off him.

"Well, I'm very glad," he said, coldly looking at her, her hair, her dress, which he knew she had put on for him.

He liked it all, but he had already liked it so many times!

And the stern, stony expression that she so dreaded settled upon his face.

Book 6, chapter 32

Friday, January 14, 2011

The picture of Dorian Gray

One awesome novel. Here is one bit I loved. And I can relate to this very well.
"It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, "an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar."
"I must sow poppies in my garden," sighed Dorian.

"There is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "Life has always poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one."

"What is that, Harry?" said the lad listlessly.

"Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else's admirer when one loses one's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love."

from chapter 8

Tuesday, January 11, 2011


She didn't realize it was a date until they were naked on his bed. After many a deep-breath, sensations, nervous laughter and sweat, she was in a mood to talk. Most women want to talk.
"This is so crazy. What makes me this way! It's not even like my husband is a loveless, cold guy. He is so perfect. And I really love him"
"You do. You love a lot of people. What's so crazy about that?"
"No, really. What makes me different from all those good women? I don't feel guilty but I strongly wish I could be that woman who led a simpler life"
"How does 'destiny' sound?"
After a few seconds, eyes that shone and smiles, she looked up to him.
"I think that explains everything"