Dust On The Bottle

A colleague uses double past tense verbs in sentences, so convincingly, that I am almost re-writing grammar. Self-assuredness that blanks his mind and others' too, confidence being synonymous with blindness these days. Impulsive correction is stopped by indifference. Energy is too precious to be lost over Auxiliary Verbs. God knows I lose enough sleep over it.
Folk rock and country music colour my days along with "You're a Kid!" punctuated by pats on the head, cushioned by over-grown hair that is in dire need of sh(r)edding. When will blank stares in book-stores be replaced by the knowing smile of bibliophiles whose day job consist of finding books for me, western music refer to more than Jennifer Lopez and Westlife in music-stores and women be happy with wind tossed hair instead of brandishing hairbrushes at the wind that tries to caress their hair through the train windows?

Formal Churidhaars, necks held by creased dupattas, slip-ons (with heels) too small for wide feet, self conscious fingers, four digit extension numbers, *Beep*ing ID cards, bills and some more. I scan the horizon for 'Frankie The Jaw' t-shirts, frayed cotton pants and dirty sneakers. Thank Heavens, I haven't lost my backpack yet.

Can I paraphrase friendly quotes, in order to sugar-coat them with criticism? Promises have become a burden, like the wisps of hair that fall on my eye. I need to push them to the back of my mind constantly. But they persist. Can I cut them off instead, please?

Questions culminating in "Na?" instead of "Ille?", analysis of hidden motives, notes of unsolicited advice, conclusions that produce loud splashes and ever-lasting ripples when I jump into them, provide the jarring background score to my life. I say, turn it up! I can do with some noise. Really. Career plans abound amidst bouts of indolence, straining to catch my attention, not with the certainty of mountains in the distance, but like floating clouds of uncertain shapes. I have lunches flavoured with uncalled-for interruptions, peppered with geek-speak, complimentary diet coke and chocolate cake that is syrupy sweet with taste buds that demand hot tomato soup and crisp bread crumbs.

IM windows that catch me unawares, sometimes irritatingly like the morning alarm and discontinuous threads of conversation hang like limp festoons after a party - sad, forlorn and ready to be thrown out. But who would do the cleaning up? Not me. I am lying on the couch, legs outstretched and channel-surfing. I am left with a life that has to be customized to suit the whims of the mind, romantic notions, 'The Big Picture' or what you will and a mind that refuses to bend, move and jump.

Glancing over my shoulders, I see desert sands, philosophical paradoxes, yellowing pages, disappointed faces of loved ones and a non chalance that tasted like regret gnawing on the stomach. But those who look back have nothing to look forward to or so I have read on some forgotten page. Apparently there is plenty to see - sunlight on cool white marble floors, clean mattresses, low chairs, high ceilings, space, head thrown back watching stars, an uncluttered life...

Wait! Let me just wipe the dust off this bottle.