No movies to talk about...no books inside of me

And yet, here I am. It is so weird that without movies to write home about, without stories to deliberate on, it kinda all seems neeras…bland. It’s almost like I suffer from the Alice in Wonderland syndrome… this Alice doesn’t want to go home empty-handed from the party even after the lights have been turned off. She wants to carry the story, the characters, the touch, feel and smell of the land visited home with her. Not for a show and tell, but for keeps, inside of her. Writers borrow from the real world to spin their webs and the readers, consumers (if you may) borrow from these fictional worlds to stuff up their real world shopping carts. So it will all keep getting recycled till the boundaries become really blurred.

Don’t want to make the disturbance caused by an ugly dream immortal…want to keep it as transient as the dream itself…but somehow just not able to shake off the stirring visuals nor able to rinse off the after taste and the nauseating, gnawing feeling. Sometimes it’s the negative force, the sense of imminent loss that shakes you up to acknowledge the strength of the emotion that may have been lying tucked away in a corner, seemingly dormant…but really just ignored in the chore of living everyday …and hence, forgotten. Sometimes, its the ‘awake hours’ that sweep away your orgasm inducing triggers into the dark, un-looked, un-swept corners in the course of running the business of living and this is when, sometimes, that your dreams really shake you awake and acknowledge you – they bring back the real throbbing, pulsating, orgasmic YOU to life.