I suppose I live in a secretive fashion. Its something I've developed over the years. I leave people close to me to wonder; some walk straight out of my life in impatience, some understand this very well. It is impossible to say if I am an introvert, I just fancy being aloof. It gets a little lonely, perhaps this is why I'm a misanthrope-of-sorts who still continues to experiment and make friends and expects wounds. Most times people disappoint me. I feel a dark moon encircling me, an inexplicable hate meandering, and as I reason, I see a little relevance in their struggle for existence. I try not being careless, I'm understanding -- but there's little commitment. Its strange, lost in my random thoughts whispering -- I think I'm a thinker, but then I'm not devoted enough to say, that it works on a very mathematical or scientific accord. Its all strange you know -- muddled up -- and then of course you don't know what I mean, would you? My fascination and horror lying in perversity. Who knows maybe you do.
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Soap -- the Delhi's first child of a blues band -- is pretty close to neat. Saturday evening, and I found myself there in the Blues House. The vocalist is a cute girl with a pretty voice, sackful of attitude though somehow. I've been fascinated by their music since some time. They have their good moments and if you let them play a bit longer you might agree with me. I've been through some really shitty shows of there's though -- have been very sharp on criticism in my reviews as well -- and I think they hate me for that. I like to provoke it, I guess, I figure: they have a shitty playlist actually. They'll do good I profess.
The band has great potential -- they've got the coolest guitarist; in the years to come he will prove to be a really neat player. They do Pride and Joy and Stormy Mondays well. The harp is good to hear -- and I won't say its exceptional -- but it does make the blues sound more real.
And I stepped out after that, roamed about to find my cousin who was at Lodhi. Some party, I figures as shitty music from the background poured from the phone conversation and I pushed myself there. It was a party at Alliance Francaise, the new director they got -- naive I know -- decided to throw open a party with free booze to Delhi (some invitation though). Any respectable would know how not-good an idea like this is, anyway why do I bicker.
Got inside, the guard played the fool in the beginning, and I met the crew on the dance floor where most of their exhibitions are usually held. Lot of crowd inside I saw. A motley mix though, heck of a lot of whites and a strange lot comprising scums of Elevate let loose.
Being in this beautifully fucked up city, there were of course more men than women around -- fucking uncool. Self tried to find some eyes, but everywhere he looked a chick was taken. Was too tired, and the music was loud to even attempt, besides the drink was settling in. And even if there was a chick that was feeling cool enough to dance solitary, there were four random fuckers getting an orgasm dancing around her -- not even with her -- butt-rubbing each other in delight. And you know they weren't, evidently like that. Truly what a pity it is.
The beer was being -- for some very strange reason -- served in wine glasses. There seemed some desperation that roamed in and about the corridors. Time to leave.