To step back, and take an objective view of the holistic situation gives rises to a plethora of thoughts and ideas, each of them unique. In a manner, that cannot be rationaly explained. The insipid nature of some makes for stark contrast with the rest which epitomize passion, an insuppressible urge to make a difference.

Which makes way for interesting conversation.

Ideas are meaningless without expression. The nature of an idea determines the relative importance between expression and communication. The medium of expression for an idea meant to be addressed to a mass audience merits attention. On the contrary, the expression of an idea that does not serve a greater cause is fairly insulated from the medium through which it is expressed.

Now, to what i really wanted to write about.

Inspite of much deliberation, i have only managed to reach a rather insecure conclusion on medium of expression.

Art is a form of expression. The definition of art is very subjective. The word "art" has been very loosely used in various contexts which, over time, has corrupted the original significance of the word. The etymology of the word suggests its latin origins which roughly translates to "skill" and "craft". The Indo-European origins of the word points to "arrangement" or "to arrange".

But the most acceptable definition of art i could find was: (slightly modified from its original form)

Art is anything that agents add to their 'output' which is not functionally necessary and is other than the default properties of that output.

A person adds a certain unique flavour to anything he/she does. An aesthetic addition which is not a functional requirement. In this flavour we find the distinction one can bring to any existing form. Subtle, yet undeniable in its existence.

It is this expression, which when similarly interpreted by a larger section of society becomes profound communication.

Massive Attack - "Dissolved Girl"

Shame, such a shame
I think I kind of lost myself again
Day, yesterday
Really should be leaving but I stay

Say, say my name
I need a little love to ease the pain
I need a little love to ease the pain
It's easy to remember when it came

'Cause it feels like I've been
I've been here before
You are not my savior
But I still don't go

Feels like something
That I've done before
I could fake it
But I still want more

Fade, made to fade
Passion's overrated anyway
Say, say my name
I need a little love to ease the pain
I need a little love to ease the pain
It's easy to remember when it came

'Cause it feels like I've been
I've been here before
You are not my savior
But I still don't go, oh

I feel live something
That I've done before
I could fake it
But I still want more, oh.

!:30 a.m, 25th august 2006

I find myself laughing, at myself. I had just finished watching Kabhi Alvidha Na Keha Na, "KANK" - as some of the more intellectually challenged prefer to call it. I had sunk to new lows. Feels like i've been covered by an invisible veil of utter shame.

I had wasted three and half hours of my life watching the handiwork of two men who's sexual preference is clearly homo.

Bollywood in all it's glory.

Is maturity a function of only physical development ? I'd like to think not. Webster says,

mature adj. -turer -turest
1. a. Having reached full natural growth or development: a mature cell. b. Fully developed; ripe: a mature cheese.
2. Of, pertaining to, or characteristic of full development, either mental or physical: mature for her age.

Full development and full natural growth are a touch too abstract to derive a meaningful conclusion. Maturity is a level of evolution which should commensurate the time line on which its measured. I realise evolution may not be the right word for what i'm trying to convey here. But then, metaphysically I think a person is capable of evolving in one lifetime. I'll write more on that some other time when my mood is right.

Coming back to our original topic, a 20 year old cant complain that a 3 year old behaves like a kid that he/she is. Doesnt make sense if that happens right. Infact, thats a good thing. It kinda shows that things are normal, as we understand the meaning of normalcy. It would be wrong to expect too much when its not really a possibility. It would be even more wrong to get judgemental based on those misplaced expectations. On the contrary, I dont see anything wrong in admonishing a 20 year old for not acting like one. In common parlance - juvenile.

There must be some small print in webster which i missed. Under what condition is the above given definition valid. Again, i'd expect to hear the answer as "normal". Under the blanket definition of "normal", i guess even exposure to the real world on a daily basis is included.

Which brings me to what i really wanted to write about. Normal has a fairly unilateral meaning. Anything typical, which conforms to a known standard is normal. Typical of what, what standard. Do all sections of society have the same standards ? Obviously not. A boy born in a slum understands normal as living in a hut, probably disease infected neighbourhood, bordering on , if not, buried in poverty. A boy born in an affluent household knows normal as a healthy life, good education, a secure livelihood.

As these boys live through their respective maturity cycles, how can they finish at the same point knowing that they started so wide apart and grew along totally differernt lines. A far more simplified example would be, would you expect a dangerously under nourished child born in Sudan or some god forsaken place to have the same level of "development" as a child born at the same time in any first world country. What is normal in one world is daily news to the other.

So, i'll retract my previous definiton of maturity being a function of the level of evolution with respect to the point in time when it's measured. Maturity will probably be, the extent of evolution measured with respect to that point in time, keeping in context the conditions that prevail in the external environment.

I dont really care if people agree with this or not, this is my blog and I write what I want.

I'm trying to be intrepid when i write this.

My spirit bows in sorrow. There is that familiar sinking feeling. I wish I can melt away into a state of apparent tranquility. Apparent will do. I've stopped thinking in terms of actuals. I'm being introduced to the true depth of my demons. I'm not surprised. I was always aware. Now i'm facing what I always knew.

Time doesn't heal, contrary to common perception. The mind is fragile. The mind can take an extraordinary amount of abuse. But, at any point in time, the mind is consumed by the most recent act of idiocy. Time is for escapists. The absence of omnipresence is the reason for my survival. For how long ?

My past is catching up fast with my present. Should be interesting to see what happens when they come together.

Profound piece of literature written. Taking the first two lines out of context, they can mean so many things.

William Shakespeare- All the world's a stage (from As You Like It 2/7)

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Two days of almsot non-stop joblessness and what do i have to show for it - nothing. I decide to make amends. I decide to put something up on my blog. I start to type. As usual, not really knowing what i'm going to type. My ability to come up with coherent statements seems to be severly challenged. I stop typing. I try to think. Nothing comes to mind. But, I keep typing. Now I really have nothing to type.

Suddenly, I think, what if i write a book ? Not a bad idea. My one chance to make an impression on this pathetic, miserably misled world. I like the idea. I decide to take it further.

What will be the name of my book ? I wouldn't like to make it sound very profound. It might scare people away from reading it. Atleast the title needs to be appealing. I cant think of a name.
Ahaa. Something clicks in my head. I think, what if I dont name my book ? The title of my book would be - Untitled. Excellent. I like it.

What should I write about ? I consider the broad genre of topcis. Fiction - no. Religion - no. Philosophy - no. Biography - no. Autobiography - Hmm (I think) ... no. I cant think of an appropriate topic. Thats when I decide to create my own topic. Something peculiar, which a majority of whom we call rational people would find irrational. Thats where i decide to leverage my ability to write ad hoc statements. I have the audacity to think i can get away with it.

The next phase. I need to add form, structure and substance. I have no idea what that means. Typed it 'cos it sounds good. Another thought springs in my head. I think, what if I dont write anything in my book ? I try to imagine.

I put myself in the place of a reader entering a book store looking for the latest publication. The reader sees a book named - Untitled. The reader is curious. The reader picks up the book and opens it to see what the book is about. The first page is blank. The reader doesnt think too much of it as most books have a blank first page. The reader flips to the second page. Finds that also to be a blank page. The reader turns to the third, fourth, fifth page - all blank. The reader quickly brushes through the entire book. Finds the entire book to be blank. The reader stops to think. Maybe its a printing error and that copy was placed on the stands by mistake. Puts that copy aside and picks up the next copy. The reader, after the first experience, is quick to realise that even the second copy is all blank. Thats the point where the reader thinks - its a prank. The reader puts the book down, calls the writer (ironically) of the book, namely me, an insane little #$%^@# and leaves.

I come back to reality.

I realise thats exactly what i'm looking for. A book which most rational people would think is irrational.

Ahaa, I'm a genius.

"How can you write about someone on your blog ?"

I'm asnwering in kind with the person sitting next to me. I'll write about that person. Now, what do I write. So many options, so many anecdotes, so many times, and yet i'm lost. She tries to divert the topic. She tries to avoid the topic. Yet, i type. She talks about the tele serial "Lost". And asks me to stop. Yet i type. I'm tempted to defy. To resist. To quote.

She doesnt want me to type her quotes. She doesnt realise how articulate she truly is. She has an immense capacity ...... I wanted to type something, and she distracted me. Its her fault. She wants me to complete that statement, but i'm going for spontaneity here.

She looks cute. Smug smile, tired look, she looks adorable. Now she doesnt know why i'm typing this. She has no idea. She's probably thinking i'm setting her up for something. Now, Am I, I ask her ? Yes, she says.

Now she waits in anticipation. The smile is back. She tries to hide the smile, but it finds its way to the surface. She stops talking to me. This is where my imagination kicks in. She's given up hope. She now knows i'm an incorrigble $%^@. I type this and she smiles. Now i know its true. She nods emphatically. She says this is more than enough. Is it ? I think not. I've the luxury of time and she has a meeting. She has just under an hour and half before the meeting. She's bored of work. This is her break. She consciously tries not to say anything. She is scared i might use it against her. Against her !!!!! How can I ? I merely quote.

I ask her how to finish this post. She says, "I'm not the person writing". Now the onus is on me to think of something. She waits. I wait too. She smiles. She says "not smiles, laughs". Now i know she wants a more accurate representation. This is where i choose to be more articulate.

She has no clue how to close a post. Actually neither do I. So, what do we do. She wants me to save this as a draft and not publish it, but i decide otherwise. She says, I'm the boss. I say, you're my inspiration. She's probably flattered. On some level. If not, i just wasted 15 mins of everybody's time.

She smiles and I think made my point. She doesnt respond, which makes me wonder. She tries hard not to let the expression on her face change. Stoic faced. but, its not working. I'm still considering how to add some closure to this post. She doesnt help me. She awaits. She says something which is too long to type. Nevertheless, it doesnt solve my problem.

I realise i dont need closure.