Random scraps...

Today I felt this strange and strong urge to revisit past. Strangely I did not want to visit my past as i saw it, i wanted to visit it as others had seen it and experienced it.
I browsed through my 2364 scraps which contained small little snippets about small little things which have happened during the last two years of my life.
Now i have this weird thing of scrapping myself, here i am compiling scraps which i scrapped myself...each one of these scraps somehow occupies a weird little place inside my head.


A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.

-The hanging man.




The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

- insomaniac.



here's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly. The... the other important joke, for me, is one that's usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I think it appears originally in Freud's "Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious," and it goes like this - I'm paraphrasing - um, "I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member." That's the key joke of my adult life, in terms of my relationships with women.

- woody allen




procastination: a similar experience to masturbation, feels good while you are doing it, but kinda sucks afterwards when you realize that you just fucked yourself.



A child-like man is not a man whose development has been arrested; on the contrary, he is a man who has given himself a chance of continuing to develop long after most adults have muffled themselves in the cocoon of middle-aged habit and convention.



Sara Goldfarb: I'm somebody now, Harry. Everybody likes me. Soon, millions of people will see me and they'll all like me. I'll tell them about you, and your father, how good he was to us. Remember? It's a reason to get up in the morning. It's a reason to lose weight, to fit in the red dress. It's a reason to smile. It makes tomorrow all right. What have I got Harry, hm? Why should I even make the bed, or wash the dishes? I do them, but why should I? I'm alone. Your father's gone, you're gone. I got no one to care for. What have I got, Harry? I'm lonely. I'm old.
Harry Goldfarb: You got friends, Ma.
Sara Goldfarb: Ah, it's not the same. They don't need me. I like the way I feel. I like thinking about the red dress and the television and you and your father. Now when I get the sun, I smile.
A requiem for a dream.




"..har ghadi khud se ulajhna hai muqaddar mera
main hi kashti hoon mujhi mein hai samandar mera

muddatein beet gayi khwab suhaana dekhe
jaagta rehta hai har neend mein bistar mera.."

-nida fazli.




When the fight begins within himself,
a man's worth something.”
-Robert Browning,
Bishop Blougram's Apology.





a smile from a veil?
do u think you can tell?




“Those who are held wise among men, and who search for the reason of things, are those who bring the most sorrow upon themselves” - euripedes.



"..maiN ye soch kar us ke dar se uThaa thaa
ke vo rok legii manaa legii mujhko
qadam aise andaaz se uTh rahe the
ke vo aavaaz de kar bulaa legii mujh ko
havaaoN meN lahraataa aataa thaa daaman
ke daaman pakaR kar biThaa legii mujhko

magar us ne rokaa, na mujhko manayaa
na aavaaz hii dii, na vaapis bulaayaa
na daaman hii pakRaa, na mujh ko biThaayaa
maiN aahistaa aahistaa baRhtaa hii aayaa
yahaaN tak ke us se judaa ho gayaa maiN.."

-Kaifi Aazmi, "Pashemanii"





Why do I have to work for everything?
Its like saying I don't deserve it.'





I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

- Jack Kerouac, Beat Generation





the slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.






Does a gloomy outlook on life enhance creativity? Are the depressed more artistic? Or, conversely, does an artistic, sensitive temperament make people more prone to angst and depression?

Does the act of thinking too much increase angst or alleviate it through confrontation?

Are you more creative and/or prolific when depressed, or does depression prevent you from having the energy to create anything worthwhile?

Does life REALLY suck? Or do we have "a skin too few"? Is heightened emotional sensitivity a gift or a burden?

Is it better to wallow when angst-ridden, by playing sad music or watching tear-jerker movies? Or is that self-indulgent and counter-productive?






'..And when i say goodnight the pictures in my head will dance around my room and frolic in my bed. And when i say good day they will hide behind my eyes waiting for the dreaming to bring them back alive..'







Mark Renton: People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shit which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid.

trainspotting.






Mia: Don't you hate that?
Vincent: What?
Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?
Vincent: I don't know. That's a good question.
Mia: That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.






"What can we do? We must live our live. Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days before us, and through the long evenings; we shall patiently bear the trials and fate imposes upon us.. and when out last hour comes we shall meet it humbly, and there, beyond the grave., we shall say that we have suffered and wept, that our life was bitter, and god will take pity on us and we will livea life of radiant joy and beauty. And we will look back on this life of unhappiness with tenderness. And we'll smile.And we shall rest to the songs of the angels, in a firment arrayed in jewels, and we'll look down on and we'll see evil, all the evil in the world and all otu sufferings bathed in perfect mercy.And our lives grown sweet as a caress. And we shall rest . I have faith , Uncle Vanya., you have never known what happiness was, but wait,Uncle Vanya,only wait. We shall rest.We shall rest."





waqt ki qaid main zindagi hai magar,
chand ghariyan wahi thi jo azaad thi.






A dark place, where nothing is visible except my pale skin. Even that is fading. I am shrinking away out of thought and memory, becoming one with time. I do not exist at all...I am only darkness.





Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which a man is even afraid to tell himself, and every decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away. That is, one can even say that the more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind.






“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?”






I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.






I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!




I'm at peace with the world. I'm completely serene. I've discovered my purpose in life. I know why I was put here and why everything exists... I am here so everybody can do what I want. Once everybody accepts it, they'll be serene too.






"..Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me..."






Alice: Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?
The Cat: That depends a good deal on where you want to get to
Alice: I don't much care where.
The Cat: Then it doesn't much matter which way you go.
Alice: …so long as I get somewhere.
The Cat: Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.






The Couriers- Sylvia Plath

The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.

Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.

A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one -

Love, love, my season.









..and he walked on down the hall..