I know I need to let go of a bundle of things. There are bugs under my pillow, which I hold on to every night and then complain of sleepless hours. I conjure my life as an assorted masala frizzy drink, ready to jig and kick, forgetting what a sugarless cocktail it actually is. Mundane wishes and a crooked today, that’s what the things appear now. And here, dear dear blog, I start my rant again. This is one of those infrequent occasions when I don’t feel like writing anymore, but then again, I have nothing else to do now. I have become so prickly of late. Even the slightest of things irritates me now. Its not PMS or any other hormonal cycle going haywire that’s pulling my strings, its just how I have become at present. Bland. Blank. Sick. Also, I am so weary of these social networking sites. I hate to see silly girls with silly poker straight hair and edited display pics posting silly updates. I hate to see them pose in silly snaps and get run-of-the-mill “ you look gorgeous” comments and then give one typed diminutive “thanks” and 3 untyped boisterous blushes in return. I hate those “wanna be frnds??” kind of friend requests, 191 of them unwearyingly waiting to be accepted in my profile. I feel like breaking away, from customs and known futures. Conventional. I hate this word. I wish I could split into a thousand different colours, and float away on my own into thousand diverse directions. I want to lose my way and find new ones in the search to be back. I hate to be tied down. I need to travel. I need to see. I’ve barely lived till now. I want to set my own rules and break them to lay down a different set again, completely unlike the preceding ones. I want to disappear. I want to be the smoke from the cigarettes you light. I want birth and death, both in oblivion. I don’t want to be figured out anymore. I want to be formless, elusive. I want to stay sane. I want to belong. I want a meaning, to the disheveled lives events miracles places rumours around.