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Humor to pathos – a wink to eternity

British accent sounds horrible – any time of the day or night. But when you’re marauding through sleep cycles and get an earful from the late night telecast of Harry Potter, you know what the websites that advertise knife sets are talking about. Slick, ominous and cold. I don’t care if that is ruined parallelism, the tirade would give me nightmares even if I were dead to the world. It could actually wake me from sweet slumber by the sheer disdain in their prunes-and-prisms mouths strongly enough to write a blog post on it.

Somehow, my sense of language is not what it used to be, at this late hour. Free flowing American expressions cannot be a smokescreen for lopsided grammar, tawdry flow of thought and half-baked enthusiasm to write. There I have to agree that the English have got their language down cold. Remember Nigella Lawson crooning over her cauldrons. Makes me feel life is worth living.

And that way, I’ve made my morass lead my readers to the central thread of my labyrinth – life. Living in alternate reality has its compensations. I can imagine things – sing with joy or drown in the misery of my perceived hopes and pleasures or slights, and go pouting for days on end.

Does it help me? Not for long. What made me feel on top of the world 2 weeks ago, has come back with haunting second-guessing now, and it is not comfortable. I need a constant to last me through my morbidity, something I can always feel good about – something like A R Rahman’s music, perhaps a little more personal and fiduciary.

Clutching at straws now. One after another, each tapers off leaving me in the light of an intermittent spark or with a burnt finger.

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