Friday, December 28, 2007


I am usually on a hunt for metaphors, I just found mine which should sum the year rather well. I just went to the optician after a year and was told that the power in my right eye has reduced. I am less myopic. I am not as short sighted in my right eye.
And that would be the one line I would write to summarize this year.

So I have decided not to be as emotional as this. But I will write because I need to keep track of what I dealt with, what I achieved and what I lost.

I lost my wisdom tooth. Molar decay, I said.

Apart from that it is nothingness of a year that just flew by, where I struggled with decisions and revisions. And inflation. But that's not gonna change. 2006 was troublesome. 2007 was inconsequential.

Oh, I regained strength. And some of the lost faith. I got a new hairstyle, and I also gained some fashion sense. I now flaunt aviators. But I painted my toenails the same boring shade as last year and the year before.

I saw friends deal with change. I tried be there for them, and yet be still. I tried to keep a neutral perspective.

I wrote many emails. Read not as many books. Spent some time on facebook. Lost interest in orkut. Studied Spanish. Forgot my French. Penned irritating verses.

I forged new bonds. They are the same old people, but there is newfound strength in relationships. This should tide me over any trouble.

Into the third year of working, I had a terrible time at work. One, there was so called "lack of motivation". And then there were the super high expectations. Also, I can't seem to deal with the repetitiveness of this. It's just way too mundane.

Which is like 2007. Random. Mundane.

I have no idea what 2008 holds. But it shows promise.
And at least I am not as short sighted anymore.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Winter Solstice

I wait for what could have been the longest night of the year.
It doesn't make much of a difference at the equator.

And I scratch, pick skin off the scabs, while I wait for inspiration.
The bookshop is in an old shop house, nestled against a hawker center.
Irony of that quiet corner, that isolation.
I buy a notebook. Moleskine. Clad in plastic. Used by Hemingway, Picasso and Chatwin.
I look at it with hope. Oh, the desperation.

The bookshop owner puts a small packet of punched holes into my bag. Paper snow, a handwritten note says.

"Did you notice he put in a packet of paper snow?"
The thought collates.
A sign, perhaps. Maybe I should put in my papers now.
The resignation.

I think I was much happier when I was discontent.