Sunday, 24 August 2008

Birthday Blues

August 23, 1984 at 6:30 am, I was born, crying, screaming and most probably, not kicking. Am a gentle soul, self-criticizing and paradoxically egotistical as well. Yesterday, as revealed by the date, was August 23, my birthday, a saturday. I was happy that it was a saturday because I thought I would be popular enough to host a big party and celebrate my awesomeness, along with me becoming 24 and officially starting to walk along the hallway that leads to old age. However, as days passed by and the event on facebook indicated the date closer to the party, the lack of confirmed invitations increased my dissatisfaction with myself and the doubts that am liked. I wondered why we feel the need to be liked. Why is it so important for us to be accepted by many and liked by many? The more I tried to reason with myself as to not let my emotions overrun me, the more confused I got. I had no answer for why I wanted to be liked by so many. I know (as it is advocated in every movie, song, book, etc) that it is better to be liked by few for who you really are than by many who don't even know you, but acknowledging this did not help me. I still wanted many people to like me, come to my party, give me plenty of warm wishes and great gifts, you know, shower me with attention and make me feel better for myself. Why was this necessary to make me like myself? Maybe the superficial, egotistical self in me demanded this or maybe because seeing how others are famous on facebook (which I have come to hate by the way) and have hundreds of friends made me jealous and want that. Every year it is the same story, my high expectations are never met. That is why, I have decided that from now on, I will not celebrate my birthday anymore. If it is, then it will have to be in the form of a small dinner with close friends and family and a quiet, relaxed time without too much expectations (which am sure will again elevate to stratospheric proportions and I will be here again writing about the same emotions). To be liked or not, that is the question. The question of today's society and the disease that troubles many people who do not have to worry about other things. We are blessed, truly blessed to ruin our brain cells, increase our blood pressure and trouble ourselves with such important things as to be liked or not...
God, please help me! Get rid of the stupidity in me....

Sunday, 3 August 2008

I couldn't help but post something on this, TANGO.
I love it, I absolutely love it. I love everything about it. I love the music, I love the movement, I love the meaning, and maybe without realizing it, I also love it precisely because it comes during my favourite time-period, the 1920s. Argentina, must have been a pretty fascinating place in 1920s to give birth to such a beautiful, elegant, meaningful, and dignified art.
The following are the videos that I love the most out of the ones that I could scourge on youtube, of course). Now, tell me, isn't this divine?

My favourite couple, these two are just incredibly talented, how the heck do they manage to do what they do, is beyond me.

The Tango Lesson (I wanna see ittttt) -

Nice choreography

Wednesday, 16 January 2008

Delusional Sinner

You know, what does one do with a broken heart? Do you pick up the pieces and try to glue them back in, their sharp edges piercing your flesh in the process? Is there even the option of discarding the broken pieces and acquiring yourself a brand new heart, with no wounds or past scars or malfunctions of any kind? What do you do when the sobs of crying are too strong for you to even catch your breath? What do you do to console such a person? What do you do to console such a state of emotional being? What do you, goddamn do? I wish I knew…I wish someone could tell me, I wish there was a manual on it somewhere, I wish and I wish and I wish and yet, there is no restitution. There is nothing left, but heartache and salty tears, dry mouth and succumbed screams, bad breath and crushed dreams. There is nothing left but the ashes of what was once there and there is definitely nothing left, but broken promises. How do you break your own heart? How? How does one cope with the pain of shooting your own heart and killing it? What to do with the aftermath and the surrounding bloodbath? How do you get rid of the blood on your hands, the one that splattered when you killed his heart too, while ultimately killing yours? How do you wash the memories away? How do you live with it? Someone must know…