There are times when you consciously decide to not write and then there are times when the writing decides that. In my case, I've been hit by the latter where there is just too much to read within a small time frame and of course no room for writing. When I say writing, I mean writing a daily journal, rant of my times. So on.

This week has shown the potential to be deadly and I'm trying to contain myself in a rather low profile before I can go ahead and do more damage. After two weeks of being constantly unwell, I decided to take things in my head. I will beat around the bush a bit because I am not entirely proud of things that happened and there is no damage control. I just have to give time for things to heal, just as how one gives time in a hospital.

Speaking of which, I was down with some painful amount of rash followed by a rather bad case of stomach infection, chest infection and viral fever. That ought to explain how painful January was. Turbulent times hit me and I was taken down. Sounds fucking melodramatic if you ask me but like I said, mojo is gone. Can't write to save my life. My prose seems to have lost life, erectile dysfunction. Just as "Short Panis" can be treated, my prose lacks life and new host of things is a sullen face full of trouble lines that have become a part of me, much as gloom has.

To celebrate the end of illness and some such, I treated myself to bunch of books. A trip to book fair- unplanned- on 4 February. For those of you who know why I chose to emphasise the date would know why I needed to run away from familiar faces. Foolish as I am, at some point it all got too much for me to bear and I ended up forcing a friend to join, without disclosing the reason. It's peculiar to me why I behave in this manner, dress up like I'm going to a fucking party, bunk college to stay alone and ending up inviting someone because it all got too much to bear. I guess everyone deals with parting and grief in their own way. As we grow up, we realise the pain of losing people. Just as how Haruki Murakami puts it, memories take you through pleasure and pain at the same time. I deconstruct the statement to fit into my scenario where I usually choose to stay quiet about the given date. I don't know how I brought myself to get over with it like nothing happened. A part of life just cut out very cleverly like it never existed and that it's a regular day.

I woke up on Monday to a heavy overcast and made a small prayer for it to not rain for otherwise it would ruin my brand new red pants and book fair trip alone. Little did I know, I actually welcomed the rain that evening. However, it all got a bit too much during the afternoon which is when I was a step away from howling like a baby in public. I'm glad I could force myself into putting a straight face in front of the people I met that day. By the time I returned home, I was so tired that I didn't trouble myself to go over the details of the ghosts that lingered around. I chose to celebrate the life- the kindred spirit that left us that day several years ago.

I tipped the auto driver more than usual. More than I could afford. Skipping lunch never felt better.