So I was going through these old word documents, which if RAM could gather dust, would be gathering dust. And they are stupid and funny and sad all at once, but at that time it seemed very profound and significant. It was my Mr. Big phase I suppose. So here's what I wrote when I was 22, and it made me smile somewhat today, because it seemed kind of prophetic. Here -

Suddenly, when you’re twenty-one, full of urban angst and an overdose of Beat lit and empty idealism, you run into a wise-eyed, weathered, cynical face – out of a Steinbeck novel or something. Peeping out of those weary, almost extinguished eyes are the smouldering remains of a Jimmy Dean and you think… this is it – your fairy tale romance. A year of random conversations, tea, cigarette butts and a couple of dusty rides together you realise your time is up, you’re no longer twenty one, and he has never really been yours. You curse time, fate, an empty tin on the street – anything you can find. Then you reason, you pacify, you console yourself. It was a wild thing you wanted. What would you do with it anyway? Plant it in a tiny ceramic pot – nourish it, weed it, clip it, prune it – what? So you understand and try to fill up the blank, empty spaces of your life with meaningless things. With work insincere and devoid of profundity. There’s no truth in anything you say or do. You are just a paper doll.
You think, while bathing, while pretending to listen to a mundane lecture – I’ll join the Peace Corps. I’ll travel, I’ll take pictures, I’ll meet people. I’ll put myself in difficult situations. I’m too comfortable, I’m too lethargic. I need a goal, a motivation, a raison d’etre. I need to make a difference. Then, after all that talk with yourself, you wind up making the same mistakes you made before and say the same damn things over and over again.
You’re going nowhere with your life. And on warm, sultry afternoons – a cigarette dangling from your lips – nauseating you slightly, you wish for your fairy tale romance once again. You reproach yourself. Sentimental fool. Naïve. So naïve. But it’s a comfort nonetheless. It’s a bittersweet thought you like to play with. Your Jimmy Dean is no longer the same, but a glorious celebrity in your head. The motor-biker, the idealist, the underdog, the champion of truth and justice. You forget all his silliness, all his manipulations, all his wayward ways. You only remember the best parts – and you just don’t care.
Maybe, you wonder, half romantic, half practical – maybe, there’ll be someone else. Maybe there’ll be a better distraction, a replacement for this overcooked fantasy. You never once consider yourself – your beauty – your strengths – your powers. You don’t believe in yourself – just phantom fairy tale romances.
Suddenly you’re almost twenty three. And you’re still not done, going in circles and being foolish and juvenile.
Ah well. You’ll live.

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Oh wait. I think I posted this one before somewhere else. Nevermind.
Anyway, so I just got over with this horrid shoot and I'm so happy it's over. Now I just want to sit at post and download movies. Hehe.
Oh and FYI, there's this somewhat cute guy I have come to know, who's done all these cool things, which I would drool over had I been younger, but now it's just not happening. I mean, on paper, he's yum enough - but then, where are all those effing fireworks? Sigh. I HAVE grown old.