Roamer

I somehow mustered the courage to wake up early this morning and go for my run. During the run I deliberated a little over the decision, but before I could come to a conclusion I had completed the run anyway. This was followed by a glass of protein shake that tasted awful as I had expected - because it was made in lukewarm water thanks to what Domino's had done to my throat yesterday. I have my suspicions regarding the wonders this product is supposed to work. I try feeling my abs every time I drink it, but my finger still simply sinks into my skin.
I then set a new record of sorts by packing my bags in six minutes before heading out to meet a friend at the only cafe I used to frequent in Mysore. One final Americano from the friendly staff and some nice things spoken about my book, and I had almost forgotten about my sore throat. But only until I made that infamous journey from Mysore to wherever-you-go-because-it-will-take-forever anyway. For a change, the drive was scenic, not riddled with traffic jams, and there was good music. I wanted to sing. But today I cannot so much as caw. By the time the raindrops had started making fine music on the windshield, I was only praying for this journey to end.
In three hours, I will be back in Pune, a city I have always loved. If I hold up a little better tomorrow, I will try and be excited about it.

Foghorn

I have been done in today by the worst recipe of baked chicken that has ever existed. Aargh. I hate you, Domino's, for selling me two chicken legs swimming in some sort of oil that looked more like a car coolant. My tonsils are now on fire and I sound like a foghorn. Nothing less than a complimentary cheese burst pizza (with free Coke) will make up for what you have put me through.
On the brighter side, I watched Transformers-4 today. The popcorn was nice. I mean, the movie could have been great too if it were not arduously long and if the mall had not turned off the air-conditioning because "We don't know please speak to the management on Monday" and if the guy sitting on my side had been able to digest the pork chops he had had for lunch earlier today.
On an even brighter side, I have been getting some emails from readers that contain good things written about Chaos Down Under. If I could garner some sympathy with every instance I recount of the struggles I go through everyday to get you guys to read my book, I will probably not have to struggle so much to get you guys to read my book. Well, a good start is the one that starts some day, I guess.

Unsettled

It has been the kind of day that keeps you on your toes even as the world thinks you have a lot of time to kill. News came in that I am expected to be on the move once again. Another city, another house, the same, familiar restlessness.
Well, to be honest, I am being crabby. Because I had been waiting for this move for eons. But that's the problem of being made to wait too long. You get used to not getting what you had been longing for, and just when you make peace with what you have got, you are taken by surprise.
I love surprises, as long as they make me comfortable. All the time. Know what is really uncomfortable? Packing. The average time I take to pack my bags, as many as there might be, is ten minutes. The average time I spend worrying that I have left an important valuable or two behind ranges from anything between a week and a year. Most often, my worries are not unfounded.
There is immense pain in realizing you have let go of a valuable - which, sometimes, can be a little trinket. For example, the two wristbands I won at the mock awards night of my college farewell. I had treasured them for years, and later lost them just as effortlessly while shifting houses.
I hope I can be a little more careful tonight. Because as I grow older, I am getting increasingly more sensitive about latching on to every association of a more youthful past.

Melancholic

I have been in this state of mind a lot lately. My mind meanders carelessly into the past, seeking something I do not understand or possibly even need. I try not to dwell in the past, but people close to me insist I can hardly help it. Such is my wont.
There may lie unrequited dreams, some things not said, or some things that should not have been said. One reason or the other pulls me back and I try to turn back time. All that the exercise gives me in return is melancholy. I hate it. I want to be free and funny, maybe like the characters in my books. I hate maudlin tones even if they are my own. Then sometimes I feel the characters I have built are only a cover up, because I am somewhat embarrassed to let my real self out.
My memories are divided into various segments: of a protected childhood, of inquisitive adolescence, of the first notion of love and its immediate dismissal, or even of the dark fear ahead of every university exam. What may have been dreadful then feels endearing now. What was ridiculous then feels precious now. What was poignant then feels amusing now.
Every now and then, one of these memories returns to haunt me. I feel torn between the need for a reparation of the past and an obligation towards the future. Maybe it is best to stand still and allow it to pass. For all I know, it might be a matter of time before I am able to wear the garb of indifference. In the meantime, I have the right to resent these memories, if not the power to resist them.