I have Art so I'm not dying of Truth. Not today, anyway.

I usually wake up at 5 in the morning without the help of an alarm clock. I know this is the best time to write, and if I do myself justice I might even be able to do a morning run instead of an evening run. But that would mean facing two of my biggest challenges first thing in the morning and once that is done and dusted the day won't hold much for me. Of course That's a shitty excuse. I'll get up and get to it from tomorrow.

Also this obsession with soppy writings about love will have to stop. Most days I'm so romantic that I gross myself out. 

Stupid girl thinks love erupts from the friction between two bodies rubbing against one another.

Short Story Ideas (That I Should Never Pursue)

* Lovers meet after a long time. Wish they hadn't met.
* Man finds love in everything that is not his wife.
* Girl decides to not write about love so that everyone takes her seriously.

Jay, a retired colonel, went to a slaughterhouse for the first time. Spotted a chicken in a corner of a cage packed with his brothers. Bought him and brought him home with his skin on and his heart beating, all this while smiling inwardly for having saved a life. Jay shot it two days later because the ungrateful bird was blind to his great fortune.

Leya resembles a horse in more than one ways. I don't mean this in a derogatory way at all. Everyone saw this in her and she saw this before everyone saw it. I need to specify this because these days it seems that I can't utter a sentence without offending at least one person. She has a big frame, an intimidating jaw held up by a sturdy kind of body that invokes warmth and trust and a sheet of shiny, straight black hair, that has been the envy of all girls in her class.

Leya loves like a horse too. Assuming that horses love like dogs do. You can tell how committed they are to their keepers. The only problem is that you can never tell it by their face, if they are happy or sad to be where they are. This has made it a bit tough for Leya's boyfriends over the years to figure out what she really feels/wants. She can simmer for days on end and no sentiment floats to the surface. This is unnatural, of course, for you blow up like a balloon on the inside threatening to burst. That's probably the only time she resembles a Puffbird. So for a long while nothing is wrong and then suddenly everything is wrong and you can see her galloping away. A few minutes later though, deflated, she trots back towards you.

When I have been away from words for a long period I hesitate a lot while coming back. Fear the many questions I had pushed under the carpet, so that everything would appear clean. Even normal. I worry that when I come back, maybe they wont take me back because of some reason. Maybe sometimes, too long an absence is not short of cheating. 

Sometimes when I find myself being swallowed up by a difficult text I often stop to wonder if I really want to go there. I'm sure that the space I will enter will be complex and terrifying and I will get to learn all these new things but I keep worrying if I will be able come up to breathe and find my way to the shore. By shore I mean the real world where we carry out our everyday thing; where we function with people who don't waste too much time thinking about things, who are mostly just grateful that they can get by. While I am delving deep into these books I'm constantly hoping to bring something back with me. Not something that is complex only to make me look smart. (That kind of bluff gets caught sooner than later). Not necessarily a lesson even but just a simple memento that would make us a little bit happier, a little more at peace and thus make life a little bit easier. After all, what's the point of knowledge if you cannot put out something good in the world?

But that is only possible if you believe me.