Irony

So

Can you actually read my mind? Not in a Killer-esque manner, my expectations aren't that high just yet. They probably never will be either. But what if I screamed a thought? Yelled it right out loud? That should wipe the smile off your satisfied face, should properly halt the conversation, you may even turn and never look back. There would be an awkward pause in the very least. Except there won't be. Because (some sentences should just start with reasoning) of course, the screaming will remain in my head.

Funny how I'm always telling other people to be more expressive.

It doesn't matter much. Minds aren't meant to be read anyway.

Just because

Today I spoke to someone who I thought used to mean a lot to me. I say 'thought' because he still does. It wasn't awkward at all despite the fact that I always find Skyping awkward. He still knows exactly what I am about to say which is something no one else really does.

I didn't realize before I spoke to him today that I miss him. I think he knows that. And I'd quite like to think that he misses me too.

Sometimes I'd fool myself into believing that whenever he looked away into the distance it was because he was actually thinking about something and not because his eyes were losing focus. I'd tell myself that what I had said the day before had just slipped his mind for a moment and hinting at it slightly would make him remember. I would convince myself that he dreamed dreams that would make me smile if I heard about them.

And I would always be wrong.

Off stage

When I saw her later I couldn't quite believe it was her. She was wearing far too much eye makeup for one thing and it made her look gaudy. When she was on stage, the make up wasn't even noticeable because her eyes were distracting, sparkling wickedly whenever she made the audience laugh. Her clothes had seemed alright on stage too but they didn't make sense now. All that unnecessary glitter. I noted that she had lines on her face that makeup couldn't hide, her hair was a mess which is funny because I swear, it had seemed fine when she was performing.

She sipped her coffee, completely unaware that I was looking at her. No less than ten minutes ago she had been full of energy. She had stood on stage, used her hands a lot and successfully held an audience's interest for a whole hour. Hell, she had made them laugh almost non stop for a whole hour. Not an easy feat.

She was just a performer and was bound to do normal things like sit alone, drink coffee and look tired afterwards. But there was still something oddly sad about the whole thing.

rat racing

It is six in the morning.

I have a History mock in five hours.

I need an A in said History mock because if I do not get an A then I will not get an A overall this year. And then I will shoot myself. Because I have, successfully, entered the rat race. And I want A's. They are pretty. They assure me I am intelligent because I possess the ability to write down useless facts about nothing much really and then analyze those facts and link them back to the question. Yes. As in, how many battles Napoleon fought because after all, WHO cares about why he fought them or how it is fate really that made him as great as he was. And really, what defines greatness?

Never the philosophy behind the things people do because that's not part of our history syllabus.

So HERE'S an idea. I'll move to New York and write for the stage. I will only deal with drama in the literal sense of the word. And then eventually come back and write plays here. Political plays. In urdu. I will be able to write in Urdu by then. And no degree will ever matter. What a plan.

Okay back to History.

Benassi

He's going to dazzle and daze me really. There will be bright lights and sunsets. Fireworks and looks across rooms. Careless whispers and less glorious moments. Times when I'll be driven to distraction. When I won't sleep nights but somehow stay awake mornings.

And he won't even know.

There are times when I am overawed by knowledge. The depth of it. The diversity. The shades and colours.

The fact that I lack it on so many levels. And the impatience that comes with knowing that.

I should scold myself for such pretentious writing.