January 21, 2004


Given a choice what would you pick, an out-and-out lie or a sugarcoated lie? What do you do when you have run like hell to escape that feeling and still, at the end of the day, you can see it rising before the setting sun, like a silhouette. Your legs are weary, you have no idea where you are and the whole world speaks a language in which you can do anything but express yourself. Sweet irony. Bittersweet irony. No, just bitter irony.

Capitulation finally? What to? What more can you be branded with? What difference does a dozen more make when your body is already riddled with a million barbs? But, wait, do not touch even one of them. It is much easier to live (sweet, bittersweet, just bitter irony again) when the wounds drain the life out at its own desired pace. It is much easier to not know whose barb it was. Close your eyes and the pain is almost not there.

Open eyes, the wounds follow. Don't you cut a despicable sight? Laugh, laugh more and laugh harder. Make yourself a joke, make yourself the subject of ridicule, let that collection box of accusations fill, fling yourself on the ground, stamp on it, jump in with the crowd, make merry and laugh. Laugh so much that you can lie later that those were tears of joy. It was funny, was it not funny? I thought it was. It was, I am telling you. But I can't tell you how much it hurts. Is that not funny?

An interlude is a period between compositions or within a composition. An interlude is time-off from degrees of perfection, routine and predictability. Interlude is you, me and you. An interlude lacks finesse, dedication, attention to detail and any sort of investment. It is only an interlude after all. An interlude is remembrance's illegitimate child who belongs only to the gutter. And I am your favourite interlude.

It's like the difference between a picture postcard and the real place. It never matches up and with every disappointment hope takes a beating. Eventually, you will be just about prosperous again to afford another of those expensive smiles and trudge on till another of those postcards arrive. But what is all the fuss about, it was only a silly postcard after all and no one takes them seriously. Do you? At least I do.