Come on in, it's Kool inside

Its all alone in the world, this light. It shines and it tries to make sense of the way. It shines alone. Will you ever see it? Will it even stay with me once I've forgotten it once more, this sense of loneliness? How long can a light shine all alone, without having its friend? Can a light shine alone forever, if it never had its friend to remember when its alone? I don't know. I swear I don't know. I know that when they shine together, shine once, shine once and for all, then I can rest peacefully because I know those lights will always be there. We had lights of the prettiest green and blue once. Spinning tops sinking to the bottom of the ocean, like being hypnotized deeper and deeper. Maybe they'll never brighten together; but they will brighten together, in a way. Two lights at the other ends of the ocean, you wouldn't imagine one light reaching the other end. Except it will. They will.

Slipping down stairs is as humiliating as its usually harmless. You slip, you land on your hands and your knees, you look around furtively to see if anyone saw, and then you just walk down the rest of the stairs, looking for a way to wipe the grime off your hands. And you feel stupid for not being able to do something so simple. Its such a small and disturbing thing.

Just spent 45 minutes reading a Forsythe short story. I have to say it was well worth it even though I was terribly sleepy. Nice, easy, understated plot, good writing and description and just a great story overall. And its only the first one. I have to say easy reading has its merits.I wish I could say I read a lot. Maybe I will be able to; its not such a hard wish to fulfill. Coetzee, Forsythe, Brearley, Myers, K&O . . I suppose I ought to start very, very soon.

There used to be a shop near my house called Cash Stationers. Actually, its still there. I once saw a 3" x 5" rectangular notepad there that I decided to buy. I used to carry it around in my pocket, to school mostly, in case I thought of a poem and wanted to write it. When I stopped writing poetry, I just forgot about those notepads until I got another notepad a few months ago as a gift. Those notepads were the only place I ever wrote spontaneous poetry in. They were just the right size to carry and the red ink always settled very nicely. I think I'll love red on white, slightly smudged, slightly absorbed, until I die. I never found the one with the art paper again though. Only cheaper quality notepads that I had to make do with. I think I got through a dozen.

I read Ibsen's "A Doll's House" last night. I admit I've never enjoyed plays the same way that I enjoy prose, but it was fantastic. The freedom that comes from developing characters through their own words made it seem a lot easier, but I'm sure a play is harder to write. The characters, his portrayal of their relationship, and most of all his description of guilt is so suddenly universal. In one minute you're moving from an Act of a play to a very real, very common household situation that seems could be your own. He describes Helmer's complete misunderstanding of Nora's charachter so brilliantly. The patronage. The anger. The expectations. The loss he is at when he sees her change. And I admit, I've come to appreciate strong endings by realizing how terribly difficult they are to write.Fantastic play. And I got it for only 30 rupees too. I've always wanted to read Ibsen since Ayn Rand mentioned him in The Fountainhead.

The sun was fading, shrinking slowly through the dark, tinted windows. The people walking around me were sombre, almost funereal. They were going about their own work, deliberately, slowly, almost trying to avoid eye contact. I think I was the only one who was shocked, the only one who showed the mildest surprise. Everyone else seemed to have accepted that the end of the world was eight years away. They seemed to have altered their behaviour altogether; their way of looking at me, their way of smiling patiently, like I was a small child who had to be looked after. I don't remember screaming, just looking around, dazed and very worried.Sadaf* came and smiled, as if she'd won a moral victory. I think she had. I listened to her with more patience and less disdain than I ever had. It seemed that she wasn't lying, for once. Babar* came and told me that it was true, and showed surprise that I didn't know already. He was patient too. All this patience had me at the end of my o