Sellophane

Dear Diary

I haven't written anything in a really long time. The words seem to have rusted in my veins. Any attempt to write anything seems so futile that I stop before even commencing. I wish I had something grave and interesting to write about. However I seem to be wasting my life by somehow just rotating in concentric circles and hence never quite touching the center.

What am I really doing with my life?

After achieving the mythical 80-something in the monstrous boards I have now been admitted into one of the reputed colleges of the city. The need to question and understand the dynamics of one's own self had never occurred to me. Everyday I meet so many people. Everyday I talk to so many people. And everyday I blur them into the edges of my memories.

When was the last time I met myself?

How do you frame the question whose answer in turn would and in all probability has already defined you? How do you chose the right phrases for such a question? How do you take the thoughts that spring from the crevices of your mind and twist them enough to fit them into the framework of dots, sentences and question marks?

I know the question lies embedded somewhere in my mind like a fossilized dream that refuses to reveal its identity. I try to string random phrases together but the daunting task of scratching letters onto the caustic white paper seems too much of an effort.

Dear diary...today was just another day. Nothing of importance really happened.


Image: Hot Chick with tattoo, found it on the net.