The Sky is Falling

Friday, July 31, 2015's falling love.

If writing as a whole is a self-reflexive exercise, then this month has been all about being unhealthy. It's almost like the days were on steroids, given the pace time's taken. The last thing I remember was it being the end of June and as I enter what might officially be the 'dissertation writing' period, I am amazed at how far we've come this year- with writing, with work. Which is to say, you can observe movement in two ways. One, by experiencing the air in your hair, the jerky path and the rocky terrain. Second, by being still and experiencing the rush of the things passing by, which only implies the movement in temporal facet, not the spatial. I'm a part of the second sub-group, by default, for over a year and now as we get down to counting a reverse time-code, it's beginning to get claustrophobic.

I won't say I'm averse to change, but it definitely isn't one of my favourite things about life. What I'd really like is to cut a wee bit on distraction. Either, that or I had better self-control upon myself, some ten years ago than what I have today. Something I equal parts proud and boastful about. Currently, I'm at an all-time low- physically and perhaps mentally too. It's almost like dragging yourself daily to do work- which is more often than not translated into some comfortable recreational outing with what I'd term as people who'd put a cheerful face. It's not only banal to hear people talk but also grossly annoying to smile and accept what they're saying without batting an eyelid- just to avoid the incessant chatter to follow. However, there's always a limit to patience and energy. This morning, I woke up to an episode of lying, plagiarism and condescension, where the person who'd lifted content directly (a photograph) was least bit apologetic about the act. Should have figured if your day began on that note, it wasn't going to take you very far with people.

Anyhow, all of July was spent being sick- with the occasion of one solitary gig. I went to see Sajid Akbar play some covers and Kid Without Candy, live at this stunning venue named Depot 29. Stunning because the beer was as cold as my heart and, the burger as delicious as my strappy heels (sorry). For those of you who haven't heard my covering-my-head-with-polythene at his previous gig story, you'd not be aware that he is the real deal before any Kuhad or Parekh came along. It's only ironic that Depot guys are hosting Kuhad coming week. In a larger sense of irony prevailing, he will follow and make a larger fan-base, acquire accolades from those who'd believe this is the best. Probably, he is. Maybe Kuhad is the Akbar of a certain damned generation. However, Akbar's vibe is infectious, without being idealistic. It's essentially for those who are in a space between loving themselves and loving others (but invariably choosing themselves over others). There's a certain sense of coming out with a rational understanding of sensitivity, which Akbar creates with layers of folktronic music and carefully chosen words. Such albums/EPs happen once in a while and they last you a lifetime. His work hits that spot. This, of course is on a scale from Kuhad to Parekh. On an evening, when I'd rather be dead than typing any of this, I feel his music is the point of connection with any and every organism I'd like to have right now. By tomorrow, I should be back, faking love and moving around. Tonight, it's going to be an intense desire to smoke a pack of cigarettes. While seizing the moment, it's only apt to quote something from his old EP.

And some days I wish- I was a boy in a tree-house/
With nowhere to go and not a thing to prove.
Just sitting around here.
Watching the sun fade into you,
Cause I cannot see a point to this
What is the point?

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