Bombay Rains

The thing with writing is that no matter how much I do of it; it never seems nearly enough. This is further compounded by the fact that I do very little of it and only in times of great duress when I am trying to procrastinate. Such as now. And it isn’t helped by the fact that with each passing day; I get more British in my way of writing. It sounds like that in my head at least. I can see someone, sitting with a cup of tea, reading this and going- Oh! How perfectly dull. Furthermore, I don’t enjoy my fiction anymore. I call it fiction as it is mostly not real. I’d be far more depressed if I allowed myself to think that the world actually had as much violence and self-loathing as many of my characters display. Please don’t think that I actually manage to write a decent amount and try to get it published. No. No such luck. I also can’t seem to decide on a genre I like enough, to stick to it. The only one I really, really enjoy is comedy and I am absolutely horrid at it. Which ...

I'm in that mood where I can't decide what to type due to the sheer frustration I feel. I don't get it. How can one person be so absolutely contrary to what you are and still stick around to annoy you. I typed-backspaced-typed like a zillion times until deciding not to say anything because status updates are a sham. You type in some heartfelt message good or otherwise and later on when unsuspecting viewers ask you to explain yourself, you realize you can't. No one would understand and more often than not, it's a really stupid reason and it's embarrassing to reveal it. Which is why I like my blog. No one really reads it. Not even my family or my best friends. Not even me. But I write this crap; I can't be expected to read it too. Let me just turn schizophrenic and start conducting conversations with myself. Out loud.  I do speak to myself in my head; they're very intelligent conversations too. It's very hard to find someone who likes Marqu...