The madness of self-expression...

I feel mad at times. Mad, because I get wild. I have suddenly become a make-up enthusiast. I know that a 38 year old shouldn't really indulge in getting the blue color pops eyeliner from Elle 18 for herself, but the fact remains that I am still 36, at least till this December. Over that, I suddenly, on an irrational whim (when are whims rational? Sigh!) decide to buy a silver nose ring that boasts of Swarovski crystals and sport it regularly. And then if I suddenly have the urge to wear two nail polish shades at the same time and call it as my first ever nail art attempt on my feet (I did it once on my fingers when I lived in Bangalore) - would you treat that as an additional sign of madness?

The fact is that by hook or by crook I wanna stay happy. See, for a person like me whom nobody loves, it is difficult to find reasons to live. I manage to live because of Nikhu, the puppy and my books, mostly thrillers. And keep looking for more reasons, because these are not very dependable. Nikhu being a street dog, finds more happiness in street food and drain water, than the food and drink we provide him. Nikhu is the only worth mentioning addition to our family after my brother was born (i.e in the last 32 years) but still it remains a fact that Kutu decided to give birth in front of our house to a new litter (which I call a lucky coincidence) and then died within a couple of weeks and all other siblings of Nikhu followed suit (which I don't really want to remember or write down again - particularly because of the pangs I feel when I remember Badam - trying to open the door with her tiny front paws on the rare days when my parents were out and she wouldn't register the usual humdrum of our regular life - as if trying to say "hello, everything alright?") - there's no guarantee that Nikhu might stay on. If truth be told, I live in mortal fear of losing him. But when he does come running behind the car when I return from office, I find myself glowing in motherly joy. Someone's happy to see me.

What to tell about books? They are but inanimate objects - and often hurt my eyes, or maybe I am crying for a different reason? For a best friend (the lady, this time - for a change) who doesn't care. Maybe I just feel jealous that she has a husband, a child and a boyfriend too, and hence very little time for the insignificant me...but as usual I didn't hesitate from expressing myself. I feel particularly delighted in having been able to express my disgust on losing my copy of Unaccustomed Earth and keeping it with the most undeserving person, publicly. That is the thing I regret most, more than the emotional trauma the brute caused me. So maybe I am indeed very fond of my books?

I have reasons to be incoherent today. I am on the verge, and I have said it publicly - that I blog to release my angst. I am a failed person and my blog is the only place where I can lick my wounds...