By Death Cab For Cutie. The Song, not the album’s been buzzing in me atrophying brain for the last one week or so. It’s always so. There’s this song or that travels through the corridors of mind for days. Then, phoom. Gone. But this one doesn’t want to leave.
This song is poetry. Deep.
(the unofficial video is a tad too mushy, but, well made for an unofficial video. Fits the song well.)
These days I call your lies practical jokes. It gets to you, doesn’t it? So the other day I celebrated your mastery in the art of practical jokes by bringing home a cake from the Kathleen’s nearby. Not a decorated custom-made birthday cake, just a cake with your name on top of it etched in cream. There was the ubiquitous candle in presence as well.
I didn’t celebrate your birthday. I celebrated you. The magnificent disappointment that is you. See, I’ve stroked off the previous line. Know why? There’s hope for you I believe. I want to believe there’s hope for you. Because there’s always hope.
I feel like a fat horse in the middle of the Indian Ocean off Mauritius in a 18th Century galleon without the sea winds. Someone just throw me off the deck, please?
I watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall again today. Hilarity. Makes me feel good. I tried re-watching Love, Actually before in the afternoon but fell asleep halfway through it. After waking up didn’t feel like continuing. This is not to say I don’t like the movie. As a matter of fact, Love, Actually has been one of the better romantic comedies in recent years, a warm concoction of sea food with red wine in a classy restaurant which leaves your stomach full and satisfied. It’s a most decent date movie, one you can curl up in the sofa with your girlfriend, along with chips and fruit cocktail. Love, Actually is more romantic mush than comedy, unlike Forgetting Sarah Marshall, which is more comedy than romantic drama.
In the end, it appears I needed more laughs than than a post-modern philosophical preaching of love, actually. Yeah, I need to smile a bit more. As if I’m not enjoying the divine comedy of the month of May enough.
Shit happens.
My life currently resembles a early 90s conflictedromance-evil thakur -hired goons beaing up the hero-mellow jaane jigar jaane man Hindi flick, complete with high drama, magnificent lies and pure disappointment. Meh. How did it come to this? Everything was so perfect. Not perfect in the utopian sense of the word but hello, great, yeah.
Some nights I lie awake at night and ask in Charlie Brown-esque way, why me? Then a voice from inside says it’s not worth ruining a good night’s sleep.
I can’t wait to get away come August.
Driftwood Life 