Monthly Archives: December 2012

Bye, 2012 – a small report of my blog!

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 1,900 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 3 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.


The Fate of the Puppeteer

He was a puppeteer and a master one at that. A tweak, a whirl, a dance – and his puppets would come to life.

Some people called him a magician, for he did create a surreal reality: a world inhabited by his obedient puppets, a farce dressed up as the truth. Some called him a mean trickster, for he deceived people with his delightful delusions: a world founded upon control and manipulation, a farce dressed up as truth. Some considered him nothing but a fraud: build as he did a world without any figment of reality.

He was a virtuoso – so he used all ten fingers.

Uno, deception.

Dos, feigned innocence.

Tres, felinity.

Cuatro, shrewdness.

Cinco, slyness.

Seis, control.

Seite, manipulation.

Ocho, intelligence.

Nueve, cold.

Deiz, malice.

His theatrics were an art, his fingers at work fascinating to watch.

He started off with the first two fingers and constructed a scenario. Third, fourth and fifth fingers soon came into action and developed the plot. Then, sixth, seventh and eighth fingers handled and maneuvered the characters. Ninth and tenth fingers completed the show with a diabolic touch.

What plots he spun! How characters he swayed! What conclusions he weaved! What menaces he brewed!

So, for many, many years, did the puppeteer spellbound audiences – until the day he lay on his death bed.

And, despite his webs, his mesmerizing illusions, none was there to hold his hand.

For his fingers worked no more.


Inspired by Skins – Season 1, Episode 5: Sid.



It was a tightly shut box; the dusty tape binding its upper flaps stubborn, taut. It was not huge;  as it was to be placed in the hollow of his chest. Its contents, mysterious, unknown,  rattled slightly while being placed; the sound almost blasphemous in the surrounding emptiness.

Not surprisingly, the box was a snug fit; it seemed as if it had been especially crafted to ford the void in his chest.

What did it hold? What was its story?

Once upon a time, it was an iota of ill-will in the depths of his heart; a meager existence, ignored, not worthy of any attention.

Soon it adopted the role of a seemingly unimportant domino that sets off an entire cascade of dominoes tumbling down – slowly, and slowly, it gnawed upon the flesh, feasting on it, living off it.

Something that had been anything but significant did not take long to became monstrous: an upwelling of resentment and hatred, determined to destroy everything that did not appease its twisted wishes.

Oh, but it was sly. The iota. That is why it boxed itself.

And, so as ill-will grew, the tension increased and increased, until the time came, when its threshold was approached.

Something snapped.

The wave of resentment blasted out of the box, terrifying, vindictive.

Rage. Madness. Carnage.

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Of dramatic endings and insomnia

I have been told I like rounding up my write-ups with a nice dose of tragedy.

It is 3 in morning and I am all geared up for an investigation into the darkest recesses of my blog archives (read: lot of exaggeration).

2009 – One suicide bomber (read: death),  children sold by a wretched father, a child murdering his parents for attention, a murderous clown, riots and bloodshed inspired by them, one died a gruesome death from cancer.

2010 – A child who overdosed on knowledge and ended up in an asylum, more memories about riots, life in a war zone, a father dropping his newborn baby from the top of a roof.

2011 – This year’s write-ups surprisingly have no horrible endings.

2012 – There are deaths, yes – but not so dramatic.

So, have I become mellower with time?

Or is it just that the drama of a shuddersome end doesn’t appeal to me any more?

I just hope it is the latter.

I like to believe I’m a cheerful person.

… or you know, maybe, I took this learning lesson to heart and hence, filtered out all the drama (found this while I was googling for an image for this post):


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Fits of Sullens

Happiness is not a destination, it is a mood.

Heard this on One Tree Hill and it has not left my mind since.

The better part of this year, I have wished (to be exact: desperately wished) to become happy. Hoping for something unexpected to happen that would make me feel that rush of adrenaline associated with unfettered happiness.

In the grips of this hope, I became moody, irritable, sullen, withdrawn, susceptible to instant mood swings. It’s ironic that wishing for happiness actually made me more unhappy than ever.  Ungrateful, some would scoff at me (they must have). I had a great family, great friends, everything I needed, a career I knew I would succeed in – yet I felt lost, astray. All I knew was that I wanted to be happy – and it became my goal.

Moreover, this desire for happiness brought with it the gnawing sense of guilt. How could I be unhappy when God has granted so much to me already? Why do I have to be so ungrateful?

But now I realize the absurdity of my wish. Happiness is just a mood, like hunger. It comes and goes. It is never meant to be a destination. And that, it is okay for me to be miserable once in a while – all that matters is whether I bounce back or not.

A wonderful, conspiratorial conversation with a good friend; a particularly juicy pomegranate  staining your mouth; the satisfying sound of your fingers hitting the keys whilst typing your epiphany; a cathartic walk with your favorite music blaring in your ears – these are my happiness and I intend to cherish them as much as I can.

Whether I stay true to this intent, is another story for another day.

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