Friday, November 24, 2006

Five minutes before sleep

Sleep. Tired eyes. Silence. Whirr of CPU. Dog barking. Whizzing traffic. Faint honking. Obvious speed.

lots of thoughts. Some incoherent. Someone talking about Simi Garewal on the street (what. Dog howling. It is 1:25 a.m.

stomach full. Over-ate. Not happy about that. Feel the chillies burn my gut. Nice :).

Sigh. Uninstalled unwanted programs. In the middle of defragmentation (of comp drives, excuse you). Killed lone loathsome mosquito. Another one is sure to fly by. More silence.

unsure of where unhappiness stems from. Second mosquito on cue. On time.

gate crunches open at the front of house. Neighbours are back from some place obviously.

More thoughts. Creaky car door sounds. Defragmentation process complete. Gate closes. Sound of neighbours locking gate. Ironically enough the gate is never open. Slip of thought into the open.

jingling keys at door. Their door. Dragging something. Door swings open and shut. Click. Door locks.

more traffic whizzes by. Second mosquito gets small bite. Annoyance sets in. Traffic. Whizzing by. So is time.

log in time. 1:30 p.m.

good night.

Sunday, November 05, 2006


So i'm sitting on the edge of reason, legs dangling over the last strand of sanity that enables me to put in more than 8 hours of work everyday, when i feel a tap on my back and a 5 minute tirade on consistency.

My initial reaction? Cannot be printed.

But my more humane response were non-commital hmmmss and haws...I made no bones about how ridiculous this here stress on consistency sounded to me. For the love of all things good, when we lack the sheer capacity to be consistent with more meaningful things in life, i daresay (indeed!) that a minor formatting error on a sheet of paper only brings to light the complete waste of point, time and breath. and of course also completely throws light on how utterly jobless we all are. Nuf said.

Where i come from, formatting issues are either solved, taken care of or dealt with and not hankered on day after day, month after month or year after friggin year. Life goes on, really. And the formatting (God bless the effort, no really!) makes no meaningful dent and wastes away in cyberspace while it transits to an equally 'give a damn about paperwork' recipient who could well be more worried about whether he/she will wake up to a job tomorrow or not. Sales is a tough job, overrated, but tough. I will admit that taking a completely useless product or service putting a waste of spin on it and then setting off coat in hand to 'hawk' the darned thing is a self inflicted welt for a living, but then is every other man made occupation, isn't it?

The lucky few walk down red carpets, strum guitars, and capture frames of habitat, emotion and colour. Their works are paid for, their lives are celebrated. By the very hands that employ millions of people across the world. You and me, my friend.

Somewhere in my youth or childhood.....I must have f@#%^ed up prettty badly!

Over and out.

For every 100 seconds...

It's officially going to be close a month since i posted here...

A thought occured to me as a spent 15 minutes on the rowing machine, mentally clocking a minute before speeding up the number of reps on the machine....

"It's funny how we need to quantify everything, even when we exercise. We stop at 15 and start a new rep, the closer we get to 15 the quicker we push ourselves to reach the edge of that defined activity. It's like our mind's are attuned to the numbers and the closer we get the more the muscle aches to stop.

I wonder...what if there were a hundred seconds in a minute...would it then push our limits of endurance or make us less impatient? Would it in a sweet way shorten our attention span but pack in more matieral? Would i walk for a 100 minutes? It's only an hour it you think about it..."

Time. What a limitation.