On Sunday, June 24th, 2007

On that day, like many other days, I’ve written a fine article of childish humour where I looked back on one of the unforgettable days I have spent in the greatest city in the world: New York City.

But on that very same day, I wrote something else, usually the type of writing I keep to my notebooks instead of here. I am often asked “how can you come up with such posts?”, though usually referring to the more insane Moogle, but a feasible general question nonetheless.

Difficult to answer through explanation, I will allow myself this time to share what else I wrote on that day that I kept to myself, and you can form your own links to what’s below and what I posted here on that day.

Dust covered my book of memories. This very book that is a testament to my existence. Covered in dust, neglected for months and years on end.

My handwriting gets poorer with every passing day. My English is but a former shadow of itself.

Here I sit at 10:03 PM in my new apartment. A one bedroom apartment that I would have only previously dreamt of living in and probably avoided those who did. Street and house lights shimmer in the distance; people stroll the streets below and others ride their expensive cars.

Life goes on.

But it changed a lot, it moulded different personalities into different people and even myself. I do not know who anyone is anymore. And to a larger extent, I do not distinctly recall who I am anymore.

But my fingers firmly press against the pen, aching my wrist, only affirming to me that some habits don’t die. Or, probably, that I am still, as always have been, tense. Perhas even sad, or angry. A combination, for sure. One emotion cannot control all five fingers.

My handwriting is aweful.

And I hate myself for caring as much as to note it. Why would I care if my handwriting, in this very book at least, mattered? Who is to read it, and if there is one, reading these very pages, what would he or she think, that, here I am, discussing my handwriting?

Or perhaps, rather, it is not the matter of handwriting itself, but the cultural attention and effort that is put into making all letters flawless, comprehensible, but, as all concentrated efforts poured into perfection go, is nothing but a ludicrous task that only makes this very script wors than it actually is.

And what of all the uniformly black colour? And odd page or so in blue, written in a state of urgency, or, perhaps, neglect. Where do I go with all this rambling.

I sit here, fragile, hungry, thin, alone, lonely. These appearances and states only clouded my vision. My strive to own, possess, and execute everything perfect had only made me hollow to the fact that beauty lies in the imperfections of things.

I forgot what I love. I can only focus on what I hate and don’t like. When I am confronted with something I love, it appears novel, and brilliant, so much that I grab on to it so hard, I often lose it.

I cannot loosen my grip on the pen. I only momentarily wake up to my hurt hand’s calls. No sonner than I acknowledge the euphoric relief of my muscles that they are stressed again with my subconscious vehemence.

I lied. I stole. I said the truth. But all was not worth this. Perhaps a little. I cannot be certain. All blessings are curses and vice versa. Humans do nothing but come up with convoluted explanations to every problem. Others blame God. I don’t know who to blame but myself. Blaming adds nothing worth any value.

A turned page with absorbed ink and oil. I look ghastly in my reflection on the window. A pathetic, hunchbacked, slim indivudal, with success that is not shared with anyone nor attributed to any virtue present in the self. Goodwill, good fortune and God are all active roles in my success. My success is only realized when I see how I failed in so many other things. Things that were worthwhile.

Things that were me.

My fingers grow weary.

And I don’t like this black pen anymore.

Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad

I’ve always wondered if it is possible to fall in love with two people, not necessarily at the same moment, but have the two overlap. I am not talking about the kind of love that it physical, or is a crush or infatuation. I’m talking about the type of “complete love” that is “scientifically defined” as possessing the three qualities of intimacy (sharing exclusive information, emotional connection and closeness), physical attraction (sex, to be blunt) and commitment (not necessarily marriage, just the notion of the couple’s commitment to maintain the relationship long term).


Now from an evolutionary standpoint, it’s to humankind’s advantage to have the answer as “yes”. Considering the ultimate goal of any living organism is, regardless of its complexity, to pass on genes, then as many men and women cross-loving as possible is the best way to go about it. But we’re not animals (in a sense) and we are more inclined to parent our offspring with someone we are intimate with, definitely have sex with (till love takes its course and waxes and wanes anyway) and be committed to each other and their kids.


So the little Darwins in us would compel us to do our best to fall in “complete love” with as many partners as possible.

But society doesn’t always endorse polygamy, and those that do allow it don’t normally have that high a specimen as expected. Somehow we are told, no rather, we feel wrong/guilty about being intimate with two partners at the same time, having sex with both (hopefully not in the same bedroom) and being committed to both. I don’t have the stats to back me up but it is very difficult to find someone who is totally in love with two partners and is completely fine about it. And if there are numbers the ratio will be very small. What I believe is the case is that men (or women) would be seeking out “what’s missing” in the first partner in the second. It’s usually the physical attraction or some intimacy – another person is often easier to talk to about personal problems than a partner who just can’t take your shit anymore.


So what gives? Darwin vs society? Just like… almost everything! We are wired to do things but not keeping within the constraints of society suddenly makes us outlaws. Probably for the better, sometimes.

But hey, two out of three ain’t bad, right?

post inspired by a psychology podcast

Sleeping on the Couch

As I grew up I suffered the humiliation from a thousand assailants with regards to my prim and proper boyish look with a bad case of malnutrition. I have been called many names, by strangers, friends, and family, and the names include almost every single thing you can think of. Mock my weight as you might, I have heard it all.


Not one to give up, though, I held the belief that one day, Fate would favour me once in my lifetime and I will emerge from my ugly caterpillar husk into my handsome potential.

And, many years later, I got a nice taste of handsomeness. I gained considerable weight, became part of normal human society, and became accepted and approved amongst my peers and strangers alike. All good, I thought to myself. Finally, instead of being mocked, I am praised. People applauded me for my efforts, and years of mockery have been replaced by a sense of profound achievement.

But alas, Fate sensed my pride and decided my potential was to be fully reached another day. My short lived bliss has reared its ugly end. I now sport a little belly I have no hope of ridding myself of. I haven’t been eating properly for the past two months, I haven’t been sleeping properly either.

But worst of all, karma chose a trait I used to mock people with when I was being mocked at: That they snored.

And now, I do.

Unaware and turning a deaf ear to my own snoring, I didn’t care. My sister, however, keeps waking me up several times every night so I can stop snoring. Oblivious to all of this of course, I carried on, thinking my sister was over exaggerating. Everyone snores at one point, from a weary day or a bit of extra dust in the air and clogged air passages.

Brief background: My most common nick name is “Nani”.

So my sister calls me by the name of Nani whilst I snore. Now all was well until I noticed, during my waking hours, that hearing the words “Nani” agitates me! It eventually caught on – I wake up every morning slightly agitated, given that my sis “wakes me up” several times a night by shouting Nani. So my brain formed a link between Nani and feelings of shoving a fork into someone’s eye.


And so it has been decided that until I visit an ENT, I am to sleep on the couch. It’s been great so far. The couch is quite wide and comfortable, I get a full night’s sleep (and so does sis), and my response to “Nani” is returning to normal.

Well, mostly anyway!

The Artsy Fartsy World

Who would have reckoned that it’s quite enjoyable actually? For the past few months I have been visiting art galleries around Dubai and Abu Dhabi, getting inspired by the hundreds of brilliant pieces of artwork that I come across. Whether they’re photographs, paintings, sculptures, or some other odd form of art, there is always something interesting to see.

Of course, attending The Lost Fingers exclusive concert in Dubai (and they were an arm’s length away) was the highlight of the whole lot. There have been some off galleries here and there, some of them in ungodly places even, but at the end of the day it’s a good escape from an otherwise over industrious city.

I will be leaving you with some photos. And yeah Twitter is consuming a lot of my time, I will return slowly to blogging. Sorry about that!