Tragedy is Gregor Samsa being given the boot my the charwoman who worked at their house. Oh, Gregor, oh.

Yeah, i just read Metamorphosis. it's quite extraordinary.

Days are spent with the wheezy cough and a wait for that funny jolt I get before i start panting for a lack of breath.It isn't much worth living. Only the engaging company of a very engaging paperback named Kafka on the shore keeps me alive. For the time being. Or else. Who knows?

Fuck, man.

Desperately in need of a blank page. One i can write on. Write anything other than crooked line integrals and draw figures as far removed from the roundness of say, an equipotential surface. I think i might be driven soon to insanity, I keep dreaming of being swallowed by a wormhole. Or falling through a vacuum. This is all so surreal, I might just be a very depressed, a very hungry electron for all I know.

A grey realization

And well, tonight, its raining sultry in Kolkata, i feel like logging into youtube and checking out the weather in Buenos Aires, find out if the sky over the country, so far removed from our own, the one for which I seem to be burning in dismay, is anywhere as sad as the sky over this city this night.

I will admit unabashedly that the dream was shameless. It is only after its over that you realize that. For even now, there is no shame, only a strange realization, as grey as the sky.

As Lionel Messi glides past a row of Nigerian defenders, with the entire stadium around him holding their breath in weighted anticipation, you get the feeling that even the wind dies down and awaits the moment when he's gonna finally do the thing. The thing you know, that which he threatened many a time yesterday, but couldn't quite grab. What thing is it? You'll know when you see it. For now, we await.

Tonight.

The sun won't be up for several hours now, but i'm dying to look at it. That's not the best note to start a birthday, to want to die for something. But such is the strange paradox of dreaming at night with your eyes open.

Tonight will never be the same again, for once in this streak of living, the past and the future are blown away by the sheer intensity of the present.

The sun, for all its handsomeness of feature, for the brazen glory with which it shines will still not make my day.

The night will. The night will make my day.