It's four minutes to nine on a Saturday night. I should be leaving any minute now for home. But I'm not. Maybe I'll linger a few minutes more. A few minutes more to have the canteen dinner, listen to one Kishore Kumar song stuck in my head since this morning and, of course, pour my bickering over here.
Although I don't really have much to say. It's just that you know once in a while it's nice to write. Just write. I used to do a whole lot of it when I was in school. Every night after dinner, I would write pages after pages, in the form of letters to childhood sweethearts, writing whatever struck my mind. I guess I miss those days, when writing was simple as pen and paper, and there was a certain innocence to the whole setup. I guess I don't find it anymore.
However, I find it increasingly difficult to understand myself. (I'm not lost, I mean it strictly in one of those metaphysical things that you and I know nothing good about.) Maybe it's because I hear voices in my head. It's like there are some five people, with respective politics and crimes, trying to get their point across. Sometimes I just want to jump out of my mind, you know like one of those things. Maybe you have no idea.
Enough about me.