Something about nothing at all, really.

There comes a time when I feel like writing something but can't seem to put my finger on it; my fingers grow itchy and my mind wanders to every conceivable this and that and here and there. It's been almost a month too, since my last post, and I do owe it to the few people--some I know, some obscure, some just plain annoying--who come here once in a while to check out my random bursts of insanity and maybe drop a line or two, to put up something (that aspires to be) clever.

Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of things I want to put here, but I've always imagined this blog to be more of a repository for thoughts about life--hence the title (if you don't get it, don't worry--the word that starts with a 'C' automatically excuses you from any fault)--rather than a chronicle of my day to day or week to week activities. The whole "Dear Diary" crap is old and retarded, and is best reserved for overly-giddy teenage girls who like Hale and sissy emo music and make a big deal about proms and stuff.

That being said, there have been birthdays and monthsaries and vacations and airsoft and the usual woes at work, and that's that. I just might post pictures on my Multiply site, but if you don't know it, I won't tell you and you won't find it (unless you're reading this on Multiply, since I cross post).

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No Rest for the Damned

I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me and wonder what’s next. I let myself get swallowed up by the monotony of office life: wake up, eat, travel, work, sleep; I try to revel in its off-white walls and the cacophony of voices that course through my head like nails scratching a blackboard. Funny, that word – blackboard – like my mood, black and bored, or better yet, like me – a black board. But the human tendency for self-preservation drives me to find things to fill the void; sometimes with fleeting trifles I try in vain to attach meanings to, or sometimes with things intangible and profound, like hope, or faith. But it seems that there is no rest for the dammed. Damned by the reminders of past mistakes, damned by the hollow tedium of today, and damned by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Or it could be that I’m really just bitter, as someone pointed out not so long ago. Not a bad conclusion, really, with me allowing myself to be consumed by memories of failure, or by the bana...

Scattered thoughts on relationships

We all know relationships are hard. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that we all have at least a vague idea that real relationships are more than just kisses and walks in the park, or candlelit dinners and holding hands while watching a movie. Nevertheless, it is not unheard off, that two people who previously thought that their promises would hold suddenly drift apart and discover that all that remains between them are broken pledges, old hurts, and that good old “sorry”. They ask themselves whether they could have done something to prevent it, they ask themselves where along the road did they lose it, they ask themselves what went wrong and who’s to blame. But at this point whether or not these questions are answered is of little consequence—the damage has been done, and the whole house of cards has long since fallen down. I guess it’s just as simple as saying that people who are always there are also the ones who are the easiest to take for granted. They’re low maintenanc...

Vignette: Still Life

She had always looked good in pictures. He had come across a collection of them stowed away in a square tin box he had put on top of the closet, years ago. She was smiling in this one, a black and white he had taken and developed himself. He remembered putting in the film on the projector and counting from one thousand one to one thousand fifteen for the image to burn into the paper. He would then wash it in chemicals and watch the picture slowly materialize. The picture would go to a tray and taken outside, where he would wait for it to dry. She had kissed him when he presented it to her, thanking him for making her look cute. Another black and white. This time she was putting food down on a mat they had set for a picnic. She had looked so perfect then – lover, friend, and future wife. He remembered fingering the ring in his pocket, nervous and ill-at-ease. When she asked him what was wrong, he went to one knee then and there, and asked if she could be his wife. She had laughed and hu...

Symptoms of Cretinism

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