Random Psychobabble

Another 3:30 a.m. with no signs of sleep and no will to call up a random friend and talk about nothing in particular. Reaching under the bed for a pen, (pens do have a habit of rolling into the unlikeliest of places in the middle of the morning, don't they?) she wonders if the hour of being able to write anything that makes sense has long passed by. Wincing as her hand traces the outline of a stray dustball, her fingers touch the cold, metallic spiral of a ragged-edged.. what is it?.. a paperback it seems. Hooking her finger into the end of the spiral, she pulls it out with careful precision for fear that there will be mucky dirt and crawling spiders tracing their way over her knuckles by the time it reaches eye-level. A surprisingly bright pink notebook makes it's way out with her finger. It has a blue, glittery flower on it and the word 'Journal' printed under a thin film of dust.

'Uh oh,' she thinks. 'Never thought I'd see you again,' she says out loud in a bitter tone, scrunching up her nose as if to brace herself from the stench of faded, old memories. Taking a deep breath, she gingerly raises the front cover to find a name of the present printed on the first page... ... A name that replaces the expression of disgust to a faint hint of a smile. She begins to read the notorious records of memories old and new, that had been stashed clumsily away under her bed during a bout of depression after which she solemnly vowed never to write in that blasted diary again. 'Well, I never said I wouldn't read it,' she ponders as she scans page after page.

Every page is written in an ink of a different color than the last. Every entry has a date and a time written on it and the hint of a thought runs through her mind as she wonders why all the entries are written after one in the morning. At the end of every day's episode, there is a name... the same name printed with the intricate self-designed logo on the front page of the journal... written in a different style, with a different form of art each time. Sometimes the name is joined to hers.

As she flips through page after page, the entries get shorter. 'As did my hope,' she thinks silently to herself. A tear escapes the corner of her left eye and falls as if preplanned, onto the word 'anniversary' printed in bold black letters on an entry dated '10th Feb, 2006 - 12:01 a.m.'. All of the pages written after that date seem to hold am ambience of melancholy and the tone turns from one of anger and scolding, to one of misery and silent pain. Every page holds the same complaint... the same plea for attention... and in every subsequent entry, it is evident that the plea remains unanswered.

Through the haze, she can see that the drops of fresh tears are doing nothing to damage the already tear-stained page filled with words of questioning disbelief and hurt written on her birthday. The pages turn blank soon after and she reaches for the phone to call the man who's name is ringing in her mind - the image of the name at the front of the journal flashing through her mind, reminding her of the hours of painstaking effort that went into designing every intricate detail of that journal. It was to be a gift. A gift of love. Every month she would think of handing it over to its rightful owner, and would hesitantly draw back from the thought and postpone it to the next. She fears it would not be valued. She fears it will be laughed at... or worse yet, ignored. Like she has been... what had seemed like a trivial reason for the heartfelt entries of sorrow in her journal, has somehow over the course of time, become the reason for prolonged pain and a distance that can now, never be crossed between the two.

Replacing the notebook in its place of rest and lying back against her bed with the lights out, she wipes the last tear from her eye. She can't help taking one last, prolonged look at her cell phone to see if maybe she has missed a call. There is no call; but still a question of 'What if...?' lurks in a corner of her heart. 'Maybe tomorrow,' she murmurs under her breath, as a disturbed, restless sleep finally takes over her at 5 a.m. replacing her disturbed thoughts with deafening dreams, drowning out the sorrow in her heart with one of a higher degree...

She awakens in the morning, with a heavy heart and reaches for the phone.

'Wound, Stain, Rinse, Repeat' is the schedule of the day... every day.

Dance with me baybee

I haven't blogged in years, it seems.

My life is full of the kind of happiness only Maltesers, Mc Donald's, sunshine, good friends, a pay that fulfills (even exceeds) my requirements of buying gifts for everyone I love all month, lots of new and interesting music, and of course; lots of lurve - can bring!

The more I get, the more I want..

Human nature is quite a bitch, you know. Blame her, not me.. ;)