Write Like You Talk

On May 2 2020, I woke up at 6 am. Did what I had to do; danced for exercise, attended an Algorithms online class, finished reading the last four chapters of Frankenstein, had a poetry discussion with a friend, this was then followed by a tonne of boring daily stuff. Then at around 3 pm I decided to take a nap. Woke up at 6 pm and haven’t slept since. It’s May 3, 5:10 am right now.
My body is aching slightly because I danced like a mad woman on the morning on May 2. But my mind is wide awake and active as fuck.
What do I attribute my loss of sleep to? Is it quarantine effect or Ramzan effect? Or just-off-periods effect?

I’d like to confess, it’s been some time since I felt an urge to write and actually enjoyed the process. Now is one such lovely time. A few days ago; I read in some article or heard in a Ted Talk or maybe it was Rahul Bhai or Kate who told me that it becomes easier to write when you write like you talk. I am doing that now and it seems to work. I am writing just like I would write to a friend on a WhatsApp chat. And I believe, it’s not just writing like you talk but also thinking before writing just like you think before talking; which is often not too much! I find there is more continuity to my writing, when I adopt this style. I ain’t worried that my content is bland or irrelevant or unnecessary. It might still be all those things; bland, irrelevant, unnecessary; but at least I got some writing done!
The fear, anxiety of not being able to write something interesting, I would hence conclude, acts a road block. And if you happen to be someone who is facing same issues as me or have newly began writing, this is the take away; write like you talk. Imagining talking to someone specific might help further. You can imagine talking (writing) to your friend, partner, parent, senior; whoever you talk freely and frankly with.

Hey, again! It’s 6:05 am.
I stopped writing for a while and unwittingly engaged myself in a not so pleasant conversation with an old friend. It started out okay, then turned to complaining and then to insulting and left us both with a lot of negativity to deal with.
I wonder how energies function. You can like, respect and admire someone and yet when you happen to talk to them; you are left sad, angry or just ‘not happy’. Timing too has a role play. I can’t properly explain what I mean by that though.

I have come to believe very strongly in the concept of ‘matching of energies’. Oh, my tooth is aching badly again! It’s been such for two days now. Other than a rotten mind and a very rotten heart, I also happen to have 5 severely rotten teeth, each of which requires RC treatment.
My phobia of dentists and the very humanly instinct to avoid pain, as long and as much as possible, has kept me from visiting the dental college ever since the fateful day of the initial diagnosis. We have no pain killers at home, so I’d just try to distract my mind from the pain. It works. Watch a video, listen to music, talk to someone.

So, what was I babbling about, homie? Yes! Energies.
I believe, not through reading important texts, but through keen observation within limited experience; that when you meet and interact with people; old or new, there is something at play which is not in your control. And no amount of effort, communication techniques or behavioural tactics have any sway over it. Sometimes you meet someone and just connect. Other times; you don’t. Forcing anything that doesn’t develop naturally is a recipe for pain and trouble.

I’ll have tea now. (No, I ain’t fasting)

6:30 am
I started reading Moby Dick yesterday. Ray Bradbury said, “Shakespeare wrote Moby-Dick, using Melville as a Ouija board”. Melville is the writer of Moby Dick. Bradbury, I think, was trying to allude to the humour, satire and depth that Moby Dick is praised for.
What I’ve assimilated till now, after reading a few pages, is that the narrator loves the sea. When his mind becomes too suffocated with worldly matters and cares, the sea becomes his refuge. He likes to call himself a sailor, and not a passenger, when he goes on voyages. Because as a passenger you have to pay, but as a sailor you get paid. I don’t know if that is an attempt at humour. Didn’t make me laugh.
Somewhere in there was a description of a street scene; the hustle, the crowd, the noise. And given what this quarantine has done to my small mind, reading that lively scene made me feel good . I reckon, we can all try to read literature that has such vivid descriptions of busy, happening city life. I guess that’s the closest we can get to experience what we so badly miss.

Oh, it started pouring! I’ll go watch the rain through the window now.

Bisou bisou.


Frankly My Dear, Fuck You.

Good-bloody-morning, y’all!

7:44 am.

It should be evident by now to your very small, stupid minds that I have woken up in a very bad, very angry, very shouty mood. I have woken up feminist today morning.

With not even a single coat of sugar and no added frills, let me tell you, my lovelies, that I simply despise you. *gives a bewitching smile*

Your hypocrisy triggers some hormone release in my mind. This hormone causes really long, sharp metal nails to grow from my fingers tips. Oh, no, I ain’t a witch, please don’t burn me alive. This is just a defense mechanism that God endowed me with. A famous (hence, male) biologist, in his study, conducted over a span of <insert here the number of years for which men and women have existed together> years, found that women, when subjected to the hypocrisy and unfair condescension by men, grow thick, long metal nails. The sharpness and tensile strength of these nails can vary from one woman to another, being directly proportional to the amount of unfairness and male-pseudo-superiority that falls on her, per millimeter square. These nails can grow up to 50 inches in length, depending upon the intellect of the woman herself. More intelligent woman tend to grow longer metal nails. As this amazing (therefore male) scientist found, the women of better intellect are not more lethal to the well concealed scornfulness they are subjected to by the males around them, on the contrary, they are the ones to suffer the greatest damage.

Turns out, these nails are not used to rip the wrongdoer’s head off (which should rightfully be done), but to claw at the dignity, self belief and pride of the woman herself. Stupid creatures these women!

Women being their dumb selves, would begin to doubt their own abilities and talents, their confidence will fall down to the bottom (the same level as most males’ intelligence. But shhh, you’re not supposed to say that aloud).

And oh, let me please clean the air; I don’t support women. WTH, Of course not. *laughs nervously*

I look down upon this sex. Which is obviously the right thing to do! Why would you support the half of the world which has been subjected to discrimination for as long as humankind has existed? Why would you stand for and with the gender that has been made to believe, through years of panning and recrimination, in its own inferiority?

I strongly believe, this self-blaming, this stupidity, any stupidity on a woman’s part, validates these sufferings. And, in fact, merits some more. Let us all join together, grab all these metal-nailed witches by their long hair, hang them on trees and burn them. Let us do this before these nails are provoked to change pointers and claw at us instead. At our hypocrisy, at our injustice.

Oh, burn ’em witches!

I won your heart, O Women-Hater, didn’t I ?

*cracks knuckles, flaunt metal nails, attacks*

‘The Illegal’ and My Views on First Breaks

Logged in to Prime video and saw Suraj Sharma with his very Indian skin tone and semi Irrfan Khan vibes on the homepage banner. I suppose, the Amazon Prime new entry –‘The Illegal’, is Suraj Sharma’s only work after ‘Lie of Pie’. Long gap for an actor who shot to fame after playing the lead in the Oscar winning film. But I recall same was with Dev Patel. He disappeared after ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. And I vaguely recall watching/reading an interview (during his ‘Lion’ promotion days) where he talked about how people think that an actor, after making a debut in a big shot film, must have pooling in tens of offers from filmmakers. That’s untrue, he had confessed.
I can think of an example in Bollywood too. Parineeti Chopra had become an instant hit after her first film and then had a series of flops and is still to make a ‘comeback’.

So, why did these three talented actors find it difficult to get roles after their grand entry? What’s common in these cases? They all became ‘too popular’ too soon.
And why could that be a reason for filmmakers to not want them?
If I imagine myself as a director, I can think of only one reason why I wouldn’t want to cast an actor who’s become famous for a particular role — the audience has come to believe them to be the character they played in their big shot film. And that would be a hinderance if I have to cast them in a different role.
Also, because they have become so popular it is difficult to put them in supporting roles or insignificant, side roles without it seeming like a ‘cameo’.
In fact this is a more convincing reason than the first one.
Maybe even these actors after tasting such limelight don’t want to do films where they are not the leads. Dunno.

So I take my lesson.
If ever I decide to become an actress, I’d prefer to start small and insignificant.
And gradually try to make it big(-ish).
Danial Day Lewis did that. And so did Rami Malek.
I’d prefer ‘sustained small success’ over ‘one time huge success and then nothing’ any day.
Danial Day Lewis, I believe, is the epitome of talent, success and class.
[More on this some other day]

‘The Illegal’ is the story of an ambitious, Indian dreamer boy’s struggle in America. How he sets foot in the U.S. high on hope, and how gradually America crushes his dreams.
The film towards the end turns into the story of all Asians and Arabs who enter the U.S. with the ‘Big American Dream’ but become the captives of this country, their big plans lost forever.


I liked the story. There is depth in it and such truth.
Suraj Sharma was good, as we expect him to be. I didn’t quiet like his Hindi accent though. The film is mostly in English, with a few Hindi dialogues here and there. He was supposed play a Delhi boy from Daryaganj. But his Hindi was too Americanized.

Dialogues were below average.
Acting, except for that of Suraj Sharma and perhaps also ‘Jessica’, was poor. Too forced. Unreal. Too ‘acting-y’.
Suraj Sharma’s character is called ‘Hassan’. He’s a Muslim.
The depiction of Indian Muslim parents is so typical in Bollywood (even Hollywood) films! The father always wears kurta-pajama. The mother always has her head covered with the duppatta. They address their sons/daughters with ‘tum’ instead of ‘tu‘ (which according to Bollywood only Hindu parents do). And they speak impeccable Urdu.
*sighs deeply*
Talk about how Bollywood creates prejudices!

Were it not for the depth in the story, I wouldn’t have liked this film.
Even with the decent story, I’d say this is a below average film, where the directors seem to have worked only on the main character and have neglected the rest of the characters so much that their poor performance took the whole film down.

Waiting for May 2, 2021

May 2, 2021 will mark Satyaji Ray’s hundredth birth anniversary.
I’m excited.
Satyajit Ray is considered one of the greatest filmmakers of all time.
The first Satyajit Ray film I ever watched was ‘Pather Panchali’. It had taken me several days to get over that film and start enjoying other works again. I had wanted to write about ‘Panther Panchali’ then, but something kept me from it. Perhaps I didn’t feel adequately equipped to write about ‘Panther Panchali’ with just one watch. Now would be a good time to watch that masterpiece again and write about it.
I had next watched ‘Two’. A short film also available on Youtube. ‘Two’ depicts, on the surface, the sharp contrast between the upper and the lower class and the sadistic tendency of the upper class to exploit the downtrodden.
A film Karl Max would fall in love with!
A comment below this Youtube video gave me a new perspective on the short film. Someone had written how the film wasn’t about class divide, but about America-Vietnam War. The rich side represents the U.S and the poor side Vietnam.
This leads me to think that any art is only as good as the consumer of the art finds it good. It’s the consumer of the art that’s responsible for finding ‘meaning’ in it.
Also, what’s art for if it’s not consumed by another?
Like Sherlock Holmes said, “that’s the frailty of genius, it needs an audience”.
Well I think I went off topic. Never mind.
So, after watching ‘Two’ I watched the other two films in the ‘Apu trilogy’ ( the first is ‘Pather Panchali’ ). The last film in the trilogy ‘Apur Sansar’ features Soumitra Chatterjee who died recently in 2020. I should also watch more of Soumitra Chatterjee films.

I am planning to celebrate Satyajit Ray’s birthday in my own way.
I am thinking — watch all his best films and write about them.
Maybe I can also read and audio record some of his writings.
That’s about it for now.
Perhaps I’ll come up with more ideas once I start working on these.

Happy Birthday in advance, Satyajit Ray! 43 days to go. ❤ 🙂

Unapologetically Myself

When I was being forced to prepare for an exam, I had taken it upon myself to excel at it just to prove my worth to my father. Morning 6 am, I’d get up and open my books to cram information I did not find interesting.
“It’s not about interest. It’s about will power. A person can become great at ANYTHING if only he works hard enough”, my father would tell me.
Back then my father was the smartest person in my life. I did not know anyone smarter than him, so naturally I followed his advices religiously.
My two years in a 100 years old hostel in Aligarh, weren’t my happiest years.
I wouldn’t invest more than 10 minutes in meals. Not even a single minute was to be wasted. I had to please my father by cracking the exam in the first attempt.
Two minutes loo break and I would run back to my books.
It’s raining. The smell of earth is inviting. The sky is more beautiful than a Picasso. But I must resist myself. I mustn’t let myself be drawn by these pleasure. That would be a criminal wastage of time. Hard work, hard work, hard work! Hard work, I must do.
My roommates are planning an outing coming Sunday, the only day we’re allowed to go out of the hostel premises. They’ll be shopping and eating Biriyani at a restaurant. I want to go with them.
But I don’t. I must be disciplined and work hard. Discipline, discipline, discipline!
I would study for an hour or two and when I’d get stuck, I would start imagining the terrible things that’d happen if I won’t make it to a medical college in the first attempt. Father would say that I failed him miserably. Mother will be sad. My relatives will laugh at my supreme fall of disgrace.
The visualization of my future failure became the predominant part of my mental efforts. I was so afraid of failing, that it was all I could think of. I studied less and imagined failing at the test more.
In my mind, I had failed even before starting.
And that, I now have come to believe, is the reason I failed.

These reflections of my past mental agonies come after the realization that I am, in fact, repeating the mental pattern of those difficult days even now.
I don’t enjoy programming. I don’t think it’s fun. I don’t think it’s ‘sacred’, as one of my well meaning friends would insist me to think.
I think it’s just a skill. Like carpentry or smithery. You keep doing it, you keep getting better at. Then you make products you can sell and make a living.
Some carpenters or smiths might love what they do. They might see the elegant, durable chair they crafted or the sharp, beautiful knife they forged and see a part of themselves in it. Their work might become a form of self expression to them.
Some would be only ‘good enough’ at their craft and do it just to make a decent living. They might even become pros at carpentry or smithery without ever falling in love with their work.
I don’t (or don’t want to) fall in either of these categories.
I don’t enjoy what I am expected to do now and neither do I want to grow to enjoy it eventually. Why is that so difficult to understand?
But my father had said that will power one can become a master at anything.
I am not a master at programming and also lack the desire to be one. I don’t even want to be just ‘good enough’ at it so that I’ll have a job.
I don’t want to have anything to do with it.
Does that make me stupid? Does that mean I am not smart, intelligent enough?
Can you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree?
As I grew, I read more books, I had experiences and I met people smarter than my father.
I realized that even with the best of intentions our parents can be very wrong about what is right for us.
I realized my life will not be a failure if I don’t become a billionaire genius by 25.
I am learning to harbor a place of tranquility within myself where I can find recluse when the ugly competitiveness of the world gnaws at me and threatens to choke my freedom of choice.
I am learning to be unapologetically myself.

Pro Procrastinator

I was taking in my daily dose of ‘The School of Life’ sunshine when I came across this video titled ‘Procrastination’.
The crux of the 3 minutes long video: you are procrastinating the work because you are terrified you won’t be good at it. You think what you will create will be horrible. Not getting started at all seems safer than facing the truth that you suck at it.

I am inclined to agree.
(Supposed)Perfectionism and fear of failure keeps us from taking steps.

The video also gives us a subtle solution: Tell yourself that it is perfectly alright if your work turns out bad. It won’t matter if you mess up. Like in childhood, when the pressure wasn’t too great and there was much less at stake.
It’s okay to make ugly art. Take off the pressure.

How Did I End Up Here, After all?

On a new-found friend’s suggestion, this shall be the topic of today’s renderings.

As per Papa’s plans, I was to be a doctor. He had high hopes. My father was going to be the first man from his ancestral village whose daughter went on to become a doctor. Once a doctor, his daughter was going to have many suitors to choose from and marry. But he would marry her off to a Muslim Pathan IAS officer, who would never accept bribery and serve the nation, especially it’s Muslim part, with pride. He would be highly regarded by his folks back in his village, for raising a doctor daughter and marrying her off respectably well.
But as is the case with most middle class fathers, his daughter let him down.
After torturous years of preparation, rigorous coaching that I hated, and two failed attempts at NEET, only ZHCET was kind enough to offer me an admission.

Father didn’t talk to me for three days when I refused to drop another year and prepare for NEET once again. He refused to accompany me when I told him I will be taking admission in the engineering college of AMU. So, I went alone.

Cut to the day of counselling. I was given a form to fill in my preferred branch of engineering. Through out class 11 and 12 and also in the gap years, I studied biology alone, thinking I was destined to be a doctor. Maths was just a cool optional subject my father had forced me to take up.
I never opened the Maths NCERTs during those two years.
I cheated deftly in the board exams and got 80/100. Copied everything the girl sitting one seat ahead of me wrote in her sheets. But the poor girl was only a little better than me. One hour into the exam and we were both done and sat looking out of the window and contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
The mysteries of the universe bored me, so I decided to repeat the contents of my answer sheet to make it look fuller. This time with different question headings.

I got 80 on 100.

At the counselling, I didn’t know which branch to choose. I didn’t know how Mechanical was different from Computer. So I went with Chemical Engineering as my first choice. Why, you ask?
Many many years ago when I was very active on Facebook, befriended strangers and talked with them for hours, I had befriended this really cute guy. He played the guitar. He had brown eyes. He was funny, had an attitude, used cool internet language and listened to dope English songs. Lo and behold, My 13 years old self had found her prince charming.
And oh, The Prince studied Chemical Engineering at ZHCET then.
Time passed, life happened. I found more crushes and forgot all about my cute soulmate from Facebook.
Well, not quiet.
Being clueless about the branches of engineering, it suddenly struck me that The Prince had studied Chemical Engineering at this college many years ago.
And naturally, if he had taken it up, it must be the best choice. Obviously.
Hence, I wrote Chemical Engineering as my first choice. And in I went to the counselling hall.
Ekram sir was skeptical.
“Why, of all branches, Chemical Engineering?”
“Oh, I like to study about chemicals, sir.”
“There is a lot Maths involved. Will you be able to see to that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What exactly do you like about ‘chemicals’?”
* nervous pause *
* all eyes at the interviewee *
* more nervous silence *
After about 40 seconds had passed, I sighed and let it all out.
“I studied Biology and was preparing for NEET, didn’t make it and came here instead. I don’t know anything about the branches.”
* collective eye rolls *
“Go in that corner, call your father and ask him what branch to take up”, commanded Ekram sir.
Half expecting him not to receive, I called my father up.
Assalamualaikum, Papa. I am supposed to choose a branch here. What do I choose? “
* some silence *
“Computers”, replied my father dully.
“Cool, whatever”, I thought.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I came to be a Computer Engineering undergrad.

A Little Dead on the Inside

I am going through a creative block. And possibly an academic block. Also, an exercise block. I think I am going through an everything block.
It’s pretty frustrating. And my back hurts.
For almost two weeks now, I’ve been planning to get up early in the morning and get some shit done. But nada.

I finished watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I loved the dialogues and Midge’s costumes. Abe is the funniest character. Susie, the sassiest. The protagonist, Midge Maisel, a housewife who accidently discovered her talent for standup comedy one drunken night when her husband left her for his secretary, goes on to become a star comedian. Mrs. Maisel inspired me to push myself, to follow my heart and to be funny.(sadly enough, the motivation lasted only as long as I watching the series)
Susie, her sidekick, her manager, sniffs the hidden talent in Midge, encourages her, critiques her and pushes her to hone her newly discovered talent.
I too want a Susie in my life. Christmas is not far. Hey, Santa, would you drop a Susie in my sock, please? Thankyou.

When I think of it, I realize I can write decently enough when I try to. But I don’t just want to write but also speak eloquently. Speak confidently and humorously. And for that I need to meet lots of people, and for that I need to go to places with lots of people, and for that COVID has to go. And that’s not happening. Ever. So nothing is happening. Ever.

I think I am experiencing this block because I have not been in touch with my feelings.
I am basically running away from feelings. I am unable to find an internship. Despite efforts, I suck at competitive coding. My brother, recently diagnosed with chronic depression, has taken to being an asshole to everyone in the family. My cousin sister died a week ago and I miss my ex.
There is so much to feel. But I don’t feel anything. I just wake up, eat, watch videos, eat and sleep. I don’t feel. Wait! I think I am becoming a man.

My days are dull. Lifeless, almost. If during the day I feel any kind of happiness, it is when I am watching some Amazon Prime series. Possibly because, then, I feel that I am living the life of the protagonist. A life which is exciting and fun. A life where stuff happens. Nothing seems to happen in my life.

I read a tweet today, “When we let the reality win over our dreams, we die inside”. Perhaps that is what has happened. Perhaps I have died on the inside. Dead people don’t feel. I don’t feel. Nothing is expected of dead people. I don’t expect anything good of myself. Dead people don’t have a purpose (at least I think they don’t). I don’t have a purpose. And dead people don’t write. So, bye bye.

God Spoke To Me. He Says I Fart Rainbows.

It has, in this late hour of night, dawned upon me that I have been mercilessly ignoring, misusing, and wasting away the creative; artistic, if you may; energies that the Lord, high above, has been kind enough to bless me with.
In quite moments of solitude; instead of reading some poetry of the Romantic era, listening to some 17th century musicians, getting myself acquainted with the bright-dark nihilistic ideas of Nietzsche; I’d lie on the bed, tossing.
My hands sometimes resting on my chest or under my head, then lost in my hair, inside my T-shirt, circling my navel. My legs crossed such that they formed a ‘4’, then two parallel lines that are supposed to meet at infinity, but meet at my groin; then a mirrored ‘4’; two parallel lines that are supposed to meet at groin. While I lay there in my bed with mattresses as old as myself and as uncomfortable as the discussions my oft-worried mother tries to indulge me in, with regard to my marriage; I’d dive deeply into the sombre dungeons of self loathing.
I am too short tempered to be likable. Overly sensitive and touchy, I’ll never be able to ‘deal with people’. I’m too short and thick to become a ballerina. (In those very inviting, dingy caves of self loathing, it was unimportant that I did not actually like ballet.) I’d enumerate all qualities, the void of which in me, kept me from becoming perfect.
I was sure this was going to be my fate; a life of vicious self hatred, unwavering feelings of insufficiency, endless doubts about my capabilities. A life; forlorn, disdainful, wasted.

But as the divine plan would have it, this exaggerated foolery had to end.
As I lay on the old mattress, mindlessly playing tabla on my fat stomach or scratching my ear, I was suddenly blinded by a bright, warm glow. The room seemed to dissolve. I shut my eyes close tightly out of shock and fear. And then I heard him.

God spoke to me.

And he told me I could fart rainbows, if only I dared.
(Inspired by Nietzsche’s, “God is dead. And we killed him.”)

I was numb for a long time.
I asked, “Why, God? What’s with all the attention to my aerosol discharge?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes at me. For a moment I feared, he looked exasperated.
“If only you believed in yourself, you would achieve anything”, he translated for me.

For all the times I had heard it, I let the godly cliché sink in.
And sink in it did!

I cracked my neck like a fuckin’ gangster and repeated the divine slogan.
“I could fart rainbows, if only I dared.” “I could fart rainbows, if only I dared.”
“If only I dared.”

With new found hope, I fell asleep.
Dreaming of rainbows and asses.

Writing this as I watch ‘Phantom Thread’ a second time

I am watching Phantom Thread again.

I realize it’s one of those films that would give you a different flavor each time you watch it. I recall thinking, the first time I watched the film, that I essentially found their relationship toxic and dark.
I am of a different opinion now.
Their relationship is not toxic. It is the kind that is the best for the personalities that our protagonists have.
Tactfully, maturely, even dangerously, they have figured out a strange way to make the most out of their love story. It’s wonderful.

And oh, they have shown beautiful dresses in this film! (The protagonist is a dressmaker)
I remember reading that the film got Oscar for best costumes.
I think, I like dresses with thread embroidery the same color as the fabric.
They look simply elegant.

I think the dynamics between Alma and Cyril at the breakfast table after Alma makes too much noise buttering her toast and Reynolds leaves are priceless. There is slight edge to Alma’s tone. Cyril is politely cunning. I love this scene!

Is Barbara Rose a self hating, depressed drunkard? Was she once in love with Reynolds? Does she still love him? Why does she insist Reynolds attend her wedding. Why is Reynolds trying to avoid it?

Yes, yes! She is in love with Reynolds. She believes she “brought sincerity into his life.”
The house Reynolds lives in and works at is paid for by Barbara. She loves him. My immediate theory is; Reynolds courted Barbara for a while, Barbara fell in love, gave him the house, Reynolds told her that he is a “confirmed bachelor”, broke her heart, and she slowly turned into a forlorn alcoholic.

Was Reynolds deprived of his mother’s love and care as a child?

He is sick from the poisonous mushroom Alma laced his tea with. He is lying on his bed and hallucinating his mother. There is then the monologue where he expresses his love for his mother how he thinks about her “all the time” and how there are tears streaming down his face when he wakes up after dreaming of her. Alma enters the room. Touches his face gently, observes that his fever has gone down and we no more see Reynolds’s mother. This is perhaps the moment where Reynolds starts associating Alma’s love and care with what he had longed for from his mother.

Is Alma just overwhelmed when he proposes her to marry him or is she also unsure? Do I see some uncertainty on her face? He had to ask thrice, for her to say yes!

I have reached almost the end of the film now. I think I’d like to enjoy it fully.
I’ll write about the end some other day.

I Don’t Want To Write

I have 10 unpublished blogs. I started writing each one of them with much enthusiasm which would somehow evaporate midway in the blog. Why does this happen? It’s happening even now. I don’t want to write any more. It seems futile.

I think a lot about writing. I often think as if I was writing. Instead of thinking my thoughts randomly, I begin to knit them into a narrative within my mind. As if somebody, a reader, were to read my thoughts and I had to provide a clear, engaging piece of work.

I have also observed that my vocabulary (the one within my thoughts) acquires an exquisiteness which it does not posses when I am actually writing.

Another observation; I think in English language.

I am frustrated now. I don’t want to write anymore. Go read a book!

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