“In short, my friend,” I continued, “I am determined that Senor Don Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha until Heaven provide some one to garnish him with all those things he stands in need of; because I find myself, through my shallowness and want of learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am by nature shy and careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself can say without them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found me in, and reason enough, what you have heard from me.”

There’s a certain pleasure in being.. average. A very particular lightness that’s familiar, but never worn out. The knowledge that no consequence of your imagination will be significant enough to make the sky turn a hazy purple. That no turn of the weather – be it for better or for worse – will be attributed to you. That your actions wash over whatever substance there may be even in your own existence. There’s a certain pleasure in being mundane.

There’s a certain calm in being ordinary. There’s a certain calm in being simple. In knowing that maybe someone somewhere appreciates simplicity more than intrigue.

3.00 a.m.

Approaching the bed, he reached for the covers, desperate to get between them and catch a much-needed sleep It hadn’t been a particularly long day, yet it seemed to have been full of memories and triggers. His mind kept racing back and forth, over all the years past, back to his high school days, when the charm of a new romance had first caught his imagination. He chucked to himself as these very words streamed through his head – “Hah! The charm of a new romance!”

The curtains were already draped closed, but a slight parting caught his eye. “Sometimes”, he told himself “you see too much. And that’s why you’re awake at 3 in the morning!” The mist on the darking window looked too appealing to let slip away to sleep. He parted the curtains a bit, and smiled as the lights from across the coastline blurred gracefully out of their crisp routine. “We should have such humidity more often here!”

He sat watching nothing, thinking nothing, for a little while, but then words started randomly filling his mind. He grabbed his notebook from the side table and turned to a fresh page. Momentarily hi paused to look at the page before that, and the only two lines written upon it:

“Dear Life, Frankly speaking, I’m disappointed – I expected more from you.”

“Ah, now is not the time!” And he began to write. Hardly had he written a line that his mind began to wander. “I wonder why people don’t use fountain pens anymore!” And again his mind started to wander, without consent, without regard. he went back to the time he had last used a fountain pen. And then his mind was filled with the tic-tic-tac of the cheap ball-point pens from the lecture halls at college. All of a sudden, the Mont Blanc between his fingers lost it’s charm, it it slipped without grace onto the last page on his notebook:

“Dear Life, Frankly speaking, I’m disappointed – I expected more from you.”

“Sometimes,” he told himself “you see too much. And sometimes, not quite enough!”

P.S. Yes, the thumbnail is my own picture.

Me and I

O traveller, O company,
Where do your Gods take you?
To a numbered cloud,
To a stature proud?
Away from deception,
To a utopia unfound?
Do you walk with One of them,
Standing by your back,
Always waiting, always watching?
Do you you walk with one of them,
Like the air inside your chest,
Like the breath that never draws?
Are your footsteps divine,
Like the whispers they said?
Do your nights shine,
With the light of the brightest day?
Do they give you their dreams,
When slumber may fall?
Do they guard your words,
Like a promise they made?

O villager, O breeze,
I walk alone, I walk alone!
My direction wherever chance would have me,
My nights wherever my sights are heavy,
And my dreams are my own!
I whisper my days myself,
And what I draw in, I draw out.
My words also bleed,
Should you prick them with doubt!

O villager, O breeze,
I walk alone, I walk alone!

I don’t wanna be your friend
I just wanna be your lover
No matter how it ends
No matter how it starts

Forget about your house of cards
And I’ll do mine
Forget about your house of cards
And I’ll do mine

And fall off the table, get swept under

Denial, denial

The infrastructure will collapse
Voltage spikes
Throw your keys in the bowl
Kiss your husband goodnight

Forget about your house of cards
And I’ll do mine
Forget about your house of cards
And I’ll do mine

Fall off the table, get swept under

Denial, denial
Denial, denial

Your ears should be burning
Denial, denial
Your ears should be burning

Lying flat with his arms across his chest,
The same as the the next man six feet far,
Playing pretend,
With he who cannot play back.

He lives under the influence
Of the cruelty of the metropolitan,
Under the premise of emotion and sincerity.

The warmth of the day
That once crept into the night no longer warm.
As the reverberating, cold, mechanical whispers
Send him back to that night.
He lives possessed
By the cruelty of the metropolitan.

The dark sanctum of the night no longer dark,
With strobing neons
And bright aviation lights
Playing roulette with his memories
On the cieling of his room.
The greens and the reds of memory
Soon blend playfully with the light.
He lives infected
By the cruelty of the metropolitan.

He lives under the influence
Of the cruelty of the metropolitan,
Under the premise of emotion and sincerity.
And under the guise of hope and promise,
He corrupts upon touch,
Or by the lingering warmth of his breath

The Pretenders – Human

I play a good game,
But not good as you.
I can be a little cold, but you can be so cruel.
I’m not made of brick, I’m not made of stone,
But I had you fooled enough
To take me on
If love was a war, it’s you who has won.
While I was confessing it, you held your tongue
Now the damage is done…

[Chorus:]
Well there’s blood in these veins,
And I cry when in pain,
I’m only human on the inside.
And if looks can deceive,
Make it hard to believe,
I’m only human on the inside.

I thought you’d come through,
I thought you’d come clean.
You were the best thing I should never have seen.
But you go to extremes, you push me too far,
Then you keep going ’til you break my heart.
Yeah, you break my heart.
See I bleed and I bruise, oh, but what’s it to you,
I’m only human on the inside.
And if looks could deceive,
Make it hard to believe
I’m only human on the inside
I crash and I burn, maybe some day you’ll learn
I’m only human on the inside
I stumble and fall, baby, under it all
I’m only human on the inside
And the damage is done…

[Chorus]

I crash and I burn, maybe some day you’ll learn
I stumble and fall, baby, I do it all
I’m only human on the inside

What I had feared has finally happened. He has passed away.

The romantic in him has died a slow and painful death. Crushed beneath the tracks of an unidentified paling yellow Mustang, he lay in the middle of a busy street as people breezed by his weakened body, ignoring the absence of his cries of help. Although it’s tough to tell what goes through the mind of a passing person, it is easy to assume what went through his. Perhaps it was these visions across his mind that rendered cries for help uninviting. He drew his last breath not-staring with dry eyes at a distant halo against the setting sun across the dusty horizon.

Friends and family were not available for comment, and even though it appears no one expected such an abrupt end to an unfulfilled story, no one seemed particularly affected by the incident.

He will not be missed.

But truth be told, I’m gonna miss the old apartment a bit. We’ve lived here for a good fifteen years now, and it just feels like home. Sure it was getting a little cramped for us, and sure there were annoyances of age, but there’s things I’d grown used to about this place. I’ll always remember that you have to turn the key the wrong way to open the door. I’ll remember that in the summer, the hot water tap runs cool water, and the cool water tap runs hot water because of the exposed tanks. I’ll remember that there’s a light-bulb socket behind the wardrobe that can’t be used. I’ll remember that the wall behind that same cupboard is a dirty beige color compared to the creamy white in other places, because the damn thing was too freaking heavy to be moved for painting behind it. I’ll remember that apartment on our floor where Bengali bachelors lived (GOD I didn’t ever see the same guy go in twice in the same apartment). I’ll remember the day I got my O Levels result in that apartment. I’ll remember the day I shot my music video in this apartment. Yes, there was a music video. Get over it. I’ll remember 1997. I’ll remember 2009. I’ll remember that Ramadan.

But soon, I’ll begin to remember 2010. And 11. Here’s to the future.