old leaves.

So I had set out on a mission to edit some videos I took from our visit to Niagra Falls last month. But it didn't work out so I decided to look through old stuff from India in my hard drive. Pictures, but more effectively, words. Saved conversations on MSN, letters I wrote to people..and weird novels I has started writing. Almost brought tears to my eyes. I miss the past. I think I've almost reached the part of my life where I've learned not to deject but embrace the past. So now, although I never thought I would, I miss my old self. And I care about my old self. I think, maybe, reading through all the conversations may have suddenly stirred up this change in me. Or it was always there and I acknowledged it now. I don't know. Once I've completely reached the so-called "part of my life" when things get sorted out, I'll know everything. But then, on the other hand, maybe it's okay not to know everything.

Anyway, here's the first chapter of my "story". I do remember that I infact didn't have a story. I just got inspired and started writing. I wonder if I continued writing now, what it would lead to? See there's a wide range of things I could be doing now, yet HOW i manage to spend days without accomplishing things, I don't know. I think, partly, it's my parents and their presence. I don't know what I mean by that, but it's my gut feelings. Whatever. Here goes Chapter 1:

~

I am always the last person, to hang from his last feeble thread of tolerance. Today, I hung again. Challenging the tensile strength. Which was fun. And like always… TWANG. And the sting tore.

Oops. Here we go again…

I sat on the floor, engulfed by a battalion of words of discontent and juvenile frustration. I waited patiently. I seemed to do that often these days. Either wait patiently, or pacify him, or speak the truth. Usually, I start by speaking the truth, then wait patiently, and then pacify. This was my job. And the side-effects of it were beginning to become more prominent, ever since I befriended this rather old, yet verbally active, man. A 68 year old man.

And I’m not bored yet. This man was infinitesimally interesting. But I wasn’t bored. Not just because my job didn’t allow me to be bored. I don’t exactly know why I wasn’t bored yet. But, I wasn’t. Ouf. And I’ve accepted it.

Obviously, things wouldn’t change. Just get worse. And that’s the fun part of it. And I’ve wasted infinite years of my life waiting for something fun to happen. The fun came since I got the job. It came in freakishly horrifying ways. Entertained me, and left me blunt, stupid…and not so much dumbstruck.

However, nothing fun was about to happen now. This was more than just a daily routine of venting. The “cleansing ceremony” as all my other peers call it. This man had advanced in the performance of unbottling his heavy feelings quite well. He learnt it, from his previous melodramatic, hypochondriac ancestors. And even at the age of 68, he was astonishingly good at it.

But today was different.

And unlike other days, I was meant to stop this ritual of harsh abusing, even though I triggered it.

After all, it’s not always easy to tell the recipient of a “thorough rage-management-therapy” (especially if he’s your client) that his only daughter was murdered by his best friend from kindergarten.