Monotony is not a thing.

Listening to one song repeatedly, multiplies the enjoyment of each word, each melody. When I wear it out like a ragged, over-bleached piece of linen, I become a victim of a little thing we like to call monotony. But when I listen to the same after three long and quick years, the song does not remain the same. Every word, every riff, every fragment of that worn-torn linen comes back fine and recycled. I iron the cloth with a different meaning and continue to enjoy the task all over again.

 I can assure you the man I saw yesterday was a different man today and I can tell you that these eyes do not see as they did the day before. Even these walls and windows do not stand the same as yesterday. It cannot be, but there are times when we choose to neglect and overlook these differences.  

 My dear readers, monotony does not exist. Words may be engraved but to read, hear and feel is a matter of our very own choice. In the gap of three years, these eyes saw much of the incomprehensible, heard a little of the unutterable and touched a bit of what used to be intangible. I cannot tell how because neither you nor I are willing to devote so many minutes to this crippling machine. I can assure you that you change every day and when these days turn to years these changes slip into the garb of maturity. We may not be able to calculate these transformations unless they devise some calculator of the many incalculable stream of words that ripple through us every moment. But to receive these changes with pangs of pain or joy is within our grip. We may choose to master our response to every bit of our life and no one but ourselves exercise the power to become the sort of men we want to be.

Stars in Her Eyes.

Violins are playing in the background and a strong patch of light encircles the whole of her; only her in a large dark room. She feels singled out, in a special way. The modest slit in her long, sequinned mermaid-cut gown parts slightly for her demure foot as it peeps forward, strapped in a pair of sleek, red Blahniks. You can almost trace the veins that run beneath the white skin of her long foot. Her walnut brown curls wave down and settle softly a little above her right breast. She looks up, blinking into the light. A grimace cuts across her lips. She breathes in the mist of romance tonight. She feels like a movie star.

The violins grow louder and more dramatic as she circles her thumb over her iPod. It's 10pm. The station lights have shut but she managed to get a bench near a small snack shop while waiting for the last train home. Old Charlamagne, the store manager, and her boss must have been in an exceptionally jolly mood today to have let her borrow the pair of Blahniks from last season's collection. The lie about a date with Johnny helped too, nonetheless. Unfortunately the checkered long-skirt, bought in a sale last month, had ripped when she ran to get Charla's coffee in the afternoon. But nothing could make her unhappy tonight. Sunday had finally arrived. She smiled as she pictured herself lying down in her one-bedroom apartment, with a copy of Pride and Prejudice and dye in her hair. Thanks to the extra ten dollar bonus this month, she might be able to treat herself to a bottle of Svedka this weekend too.
She feels like a star. Only there is no red carpet to lead her on but the screeching, whistles of the 10.15 from Manhattan to Brooklyn.

View from the 9th floor

I will never forget my first blog post. I will never forget my first blog. Both came to life when I was miles away away from home.
There are marked shades of duality. It is nearly 6am and it is nearly 5am.
It is nearly 5am now. I look down on this city from the ninth floor of this building and I see a sea of lights as if the stars had decided to adorn the earth instead of the sky tonight where skyscrapers... I forget it is morning. These skyscrapers sparkle and stand so tall, almost like a legion of knights. I wonder whether these knights are armed. They certainly carry an air of nobility but I'd like to see the King who has chosen these knights. So many years have gone by. Years have flied past. Yet I have never seen the King here...or 'a' king for that matter. These highways have been laid out for a ceremony. But it looks like that here every where any way, as if they're all preparing for a ceremony to greet their King. I still have not seen the King. The people appear content nonetheless, perhaps why the King never appears. Or maybe there is no king and there never was one.
At this height I can hear the wind roar against these wide glass windows and I can see the ninth floor doesn't stand very tall among these skyscrapers.
A snore rings to my left. An eye screws right. I lie ahead. I must go back. These elevators do not cover miles. The suitcase must be zipped and I must go back. I am your average Robert Frost.
Not an hour has passed by. It's nearly 6am.