Dial 100

Centuries are not supposed to be like this. This is my hundredth post on this blog, coming despite all the abandonments and shutdowns that this blog has seen in less than ten months after the first post. I expected to write something happy; I wanted to rehearse my Oscar-winning Thank You speeches perhaps. At least I wanted to raise my bat(mouse?) towards the pavilion and acknowledge the applauding millions who would be celebrating my first century, coming in only the second innings of my career, whatever that means in this context. OK, I know this sounds like pathetic humour, but there ain't much not-so-pathetic happening in life anyway all of a sudden. I don't even know why I'm writing, or largely, what, but the self-obsessed selfish me has another 'meri kahani' to weep at, and that's all I know. Better not read this post after this.

Centuries are not supposed to be like this, but then most things in this world don't happen the way they are supposed to. Most things that happen are not supposed to happen in the first place. Most people who are in our lives, and impact it, or to borrow Sayesha's words, make and break it, were never supposed to be there in the first place. Whether it's by choice or by destiny or with/without any malicious design that they enter our life in the first place is not something I would know, but what I know is that most of all this unexpected crap that happens, hurts, and hurts too much, without ever being supposed to.

Centuries are not supposed to be like this, they don't have to be soaked in tears instead of jubilation. But when life drowns, so do many things alongwith it, including trivial happinesses numbed down in surges of gloom. Surges where no way is the way out, and nothing is what you have in hand. Nothing is what I have in hand. Except for those rare tears that had so far forever refused to fall. You know what, they are shining. They are not supposed to.

Centuries are really not supposed to be like this. This one's just come at the wrong time. Time, yes, time is what it is (perhaps my second-favourite scapegoat, but whatever!!). The fault is all of time. The time that moved too fast, the time that moves so slow, the time that I don't have, the time that's not mine, the time that I want, the time that meant nothing, the time that I'd never forget, the time that's never right, the time that's still waiting to come and the time that could have been and I have lost. There's a shit load of work lying in front of me that I have to do. I don't have the time, and time doesn't have me existing within. There's no harmony where it's most needed; there is just one problem: we both want different things out of each other, and we cannot co exist like this. so there's no harmony. I expected time to stop in the joy of the century celebrations, but sorry, dear diary, we both just dont fit together. Ah! What a crappy post. Coffee to anybody who understands one word. Bravery award if you have reached so far.

Centuries are really really really not supposed to be like this.

A public diary is 100. Open the champagne. Or call the asylum.