Mosquitoes are annoying little things. They're tiny and they buzz all over the place. But the worst thing about them is their bite. They're tiny but their bites pack a lot of punch. And the bites don't just sting for a bit and then disappear, oh no. They itch. And then you scratch them. And then they itch some more. And the more you scratch them, the bigger those bites grow till finally there's a scar where you don't one.

Now jealousy is a lot like a mosquito bite. It's small and it stings the first time it comes. But then it doesn't just go away. It comes back. And this time it itches a little more. If you scratch it just grows bigger and bigger. And then there's a scar. It's a potent thing, this jealousy. Sneaky and quiet, it attacks when you least expect it. And then it tests you, to see if you'll scratch it. It waits to see if you'll act on it. The strong ones, well they can keep the itch at bay, stand against the will to scratch and act. But what about those weak ones, the powerless ones? They scratch at that virus and boom, it wins.

And you know the worst thing about this jealousy? It doesn't differentiate between the people you love and everyone else. It attacks just as stealthily and bites just as hard. And that's what makes it worse. When you look at someone you love, someone you respect, and all that time the jealousy is itching and clawing at you. When you look at that person who means so much to you and your vision is clouded by that potent green monster, oh boy, it shows you how strong you really are, how much you are really made of.

Shakespeare called it a green-eyed monster. I just call it an annoying mosquito bite.

A story

Stories have a character of their own. I don't mean the characters that make the story but the story itself. A story lives and breathes and grows and changes. With the person who tells it, writes it, listens to it. Every story changes every time it is told, read, heard.

Acquiring different shades, different meanings, different interpretations, a story has a life of its own. The moment it leaves the mind, it becomes a living being. A story feels, flows, melts, transforms, mutates and lives.

Every story is a piece of imagination. A character that starts from an idea. A small wisp of smoke like the one an extinguised candle leaves behind. That's what a story looks like. And then when that small wisp of smoke that blows away with the slightest movement of the air, dissipates into the atmosphere, escapes the confines of the mind, breathes and grows stronger, the character is born.

And that is a story.

You hold on. To things that you think are important. And to things that you know aren't important. You hold on till your fingers start hurting, till you hand grows numb. You hold on so tightly thinking that if you loosen your hold even for a minute, it'll all slip away. Because things are so volatile and flimsy.

You hold on with all the strength you can muster. You hold on.

But after a point. Realisation hits. That maybe you are stronger if you can let go. That maybe the fact that you let go means something. That maybe it's not wrong to be weak sometimes. That sometimes letting go is the only way to move forward. That you don't have to carry that burden forever. That letting go might not be such a bad thing after all.

So what do you do then?

Accept the weakness or prove that you are strong?

Humanity

We humans are a weak, deplorable, defenceless species. Replete with faults, shortcomings. Full of doubts, fears, insecurities.

The anger, the greed, the jealousy, the envy, the fear - these are what set us apart from those so-called lesser species. These base emotions that we so often frown upon, these make us what we are.

Hidden under those layers of lies and pretence; buried under those masks; fortified behind those walls; we are all the same. Fragile and powerless. Haunted by nightmares. Fighting off those demons that stalk us in the dark. Every single one of us. Desperate for help and support. For love. But what comfort can one weak soul provide another? What comfort exists in empty promises, false flattery?

And so we live meaningless lives. Fight meaningless wars. Exist.

Because in the end nothing really matters. Nothing at all.

The Wannabes

I wrote this for a creative writing assignment. We were asked to write a satirical piece on 'the wannabes'. This is what I came up with . *shrugs*

Disclaimer - Any offence taken by any person living or dead is not the author's fault or responsibility. :P :D

The meaning of life. The meaning of being. The purpose of life.

These are questions that all of us ask. Why us? Why this planet? To what purpose?

And then the answer comes. Like an epiphany, out of the blue. We are here to be somebody; to do great things. We have people to meet, worlds to save after all.

And to this end we strive to BE somebody. We wear our cool loose khadi kurtas, the torn baggy jeans and how could I forget to mention the ever-present jhola? We sit around the chai tapris, sipping cups of tea expounding on the problems of the world. We put on the accents, and sagely nod our heads. We shake our heads at the right intervals and lament the disintegration of the society. We stand on our imaginary soap boxes and dish out gyaan which seemingly came to us as we were walking along the footpath thinking about life. We stand in front of paintings and talk about the anguish of the artist as he made those brush strokes. We listen to the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and Bob Marley, humming tunelessly, bobbing our heads with the music.

But we forget that we don’t really know about the problems of the world. We know no great truths. We do not understand the point of that painting. It was made when the artist was drunk for all we know, a mere accident. We do not actually like the music, and we don’t know the words.

This my friends, is the truth. And this my friends, is how we live. Pretence and lies. For that is how we must save the world.

Practice what you preach.

When, oh when will I learn?

One double O

It's my 100th post.

That's a big achievement. It's the big century.

My first post was on the 12th of August 2008. This month 'Things and Thoughts' turned two.

This blog has seen so many different moods, so many different sides. I've changed so very much in the last two years. My writing has grown. My style has changed. My thinking has changed.

I was wondering what would go into this post. Considering it's two years and number 100. But honestly, I don't know. I could write about people. I could write more about how things should be or how things are. I could ask more questions, look for more answers. I could rant. I could ponder. I could complain.

But I'm not doing any of those things.

This post is a reminder. Of a journey that started two years back. And it is a marker. Of an achievement. It is a celebration of me. And it also a thank you to those who have bothered to keep up with all that I have written.

This post is a toast. To the future. And to more writing and thinking and not to forget, coffee :D

Here's to me.

Here's to many more.