For the past couple of days, this friend of mine had been posting ‘heavy’ writings on his blog. Now, him, writing things like this, it isn’t a surprise at all. He’s open-minded and not afraid to let the world know what he thinks about certain things. But for him to have this sudden burst of creativity and write article after article of serious issues is new. Of course, his writing aren’t fluff, and they’re not some desperate attempt to rake in more hits. He’s not a ‘blog-whore’, as he so eloquently put it. His motto is writing to express, not to impress. Something that comes through in each of his posts. He has a very fresh, no-nonsense style with spatterings of dark humour thrown in, a style that I very much enjoy. When I started blogging way back when, I enjoyed writings of this nature, not just by him, but by many others. They seem to have this carefree sense in them, as if the words just flow out of them. My amateurish efforts are nothing compared to the sense of style that they have.

Continued here.

I came down today to find my parents watching the final 40-minutes-or-so of a (supposedly) new Tamil movie they were showing on Astro Vaanavil. The main character was some scrawny-looking guy who doesn’t seem to have an affinity for shaving. The scene was at a restaurant where he and his close friend were in a drunken stupor, disturbing and generally pissing off people. I didn’t need to wait long to find out why: his girlfriend dumped him. Boo-frickin’-hoo. I see, so that would warrant getting piss-drunk and making other people’s lives a living hell. He then proceeded to climb up to the roof of a building and shouting to the whole world that he was going to have his brain matter splattered all over the floor because he putus cinta.

I’m going, “What the hell la?”

Continued here.

Deepavali is tomorrow. And personally, I’m too tired to care.

I’m tired of trying to finish everything on time, of the ever-mounting work, of those small details that seem to mysteriously crop up. I’m not tired of the painting and the washing and the mopping. I’m tired of the little instances. The small things that has to be done repeatedly. I’m tired of just gritting my teeth and pushing on, when all I want to do is slam everything down and shout and get everything out of my chest.

I’m tired of trying to understand his mentality, his way of thinking. I’m tired of trying to justify whatever mistakes he makes by saying “He’s my father. I respect him.” I’m tired of the shoutings and the warnings and the ultimatums. I’m tired of trying to find out what kind of Indian I am, why I am the way I am, why I reject the Indian norms, ignoring the jeers and the insults of being a black-assed foreigner, of being so-called “embarassed of our Indian cultures and values”.

I’m tired.