The Miscellany Manifesto

Random Musings of a Transient Soul





Going home...

11.12.06
Its almost the end of term and it's two weeks until I leave the campus for a week's break in Mumbai. This has been a strange term- too full is some ways and simply empty in others. I wonder over and over what I'm taking back home with me this time around. And although it sounds a little like The Pessimistic Trip of The Disappointed Soul, I am taking home a heavy heart, weakened resolve, tired body and empty mind.
Yes, I know, quite the list.

Its also that strange and inconvenient time of year when it is tradition to regurgitate the past twelve months so that one can chew the happy times over like cud, spit out the disappointments and digest everything in between. I've always thought it a slightly unnecessary process, though I have to admit, almost inevitable as well. Its almost as if nostalgia and December end were intrinsically linked. Or maybe its just all the celebrations and alcohol.
I begin to think of the happenings from January upwards and stop almost as soon as I've begun. I realize that this entire recall process has certain prerequisites- a little bit of happy, good friends, the proper holiday mood (shorts and vacation reading included), a total break from the campus and fat textbooks looming on the desk (poor things, unwanted and unread), and finally, and most importantly, I need home.

Like I said, this term's been a little rough. The simple thought of venturing to an unknown place nearly scares me right now. All I want is comfort- the comforts of home, of familiar things, the little certainties of friends and loved ones. I guess I just want to go home. Strange, isn't it? I stepped out welcoming the chance of an independent life away from the very same certainties I yearn for today. Teaches me much- one just wants to be taken care of when tired and lost. I'll save the independence for another day.









Waiting Rooms

8.12.06
Now is the space between a little too late and a little too early. The silence of the red campus is punctuated by the occassional happy drunkard. I sit in my room, intimidated by the space between all that I want to say and the wordlessness of a blank screen. Still, some consolation now that slow words are single filing in, filling the space in.

The early morning headache plagues me, I still feel the alcohol from three nights ago lining the sides of my stomach. I recall that drunk night- blurred, sad/happy, the cold 5am chill on my bare arms, the escape and the chase, giving in. I remember sitting with my near empty glass on the balcony, feet swinging over the parapet. I remember peering at the final dregs in my glass- I could almost see the knots from the past month in my drink, polluting it.

They aren't just polluting my drink though; the knots are all around me now. The debris of a worn out love. The remnant questions that linger after an abrupt end. They are in my room, they are strewn across the campus, they hang on to the lyrics of our songs, they even pollute my dreams now. And that final breach, the final decaying crusts of old feelings littering my dreams, I will not stand.

My dreams are my own creations- incomprehensible and unbound. The bridges between the end of the day and the beginning of another, the consolations for the absence of colour and fantasy, the answers to the pointlessness of everyday reason and rule. And for such wasted feelings to invade that space, the insult of it is both sharp and unexpected. My dreams are my own creations- I apparently don't take to their being abused at the hands of junked emotions very well. And its a good feeling, this sharp insult, I was beginning to wonder if I'd stopped standing up for me.

My dreams are my waiting room before the next day: the same way that the campus is the waiting room before I am admitted to the real world. My dreams are the fancy, the flirting with reality before reality itself: just like this campus- a strange version of reality before reality. My dreams are like rejuvination, a clinical break from almost all things certain and plausible: this campus is similar- it too is almost antiseptic at times, free from all the hurt beyond.

And now both- dreams and campus- are littered with wasted emotions. It is a sharp and unexpected insult. My waiting rooms polluted by the debris of a worn out love.

But then again, they are waiting rooms. I need only wait. Wait before the debris are cleared, the junk removed, the crusts swept away. And of that I am more than certain- I need only wait a short while before all things return to their rightful nature. All things; me included.






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"First say to yourself what you would be, and then do what you have to do." -Epictetus.
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