The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.

18.8.11

The Endless Run

I don't run, it's true, but my mind does; it's constantly churning out ideas. Like yours, or like anyone else's.
Sometimes, all my brain decides to do first thing in the morning is to take a nap- a nap which continues for most of the day, during which I conveniently go into zombie mode, and the day slips past and I finally realize that I've lost one whole day of my life that I'll never get back.
Bugger you, and your day, my brains whispers back, snuggling into its nightgown. The human brain, if nothing else, is a bitch.
*
So, my fingers keep hovering over the keyboard for minutes at a time while I try to come up with something that'll entertain both you and me. Eventually I might even delete this blog, and then I'll rue the day I did that.

What's to tell? I'd advise you to go read A. G. Gardiner, who once wrote a piece on how to do nothing. Jerome K. Jerome went further, writing about how he did absolutely nothing for a month.
Both of them agree on one point- it's bloody boring doing nothing.
*
About two months back, around this time, 2.52 pm, I was hauling my scooter back to my home.
I have this absolutely moronic habit of not filling petrol in it after I go drinking. A friend of mine back in Pune would attest to the number of times that habit has brought things to a literal standstill.
He lived near Viman Nagar, and I lived ten kilometres out of the city.
The worst part of the trip wasn't dragging that junker of a scooter on a vertical incline; it was watching people go past at speeds of seventy and above. You then realize just how much you depended on the vehicle to begin with; just how much you owe to whoever invented an internal combustion engine and vulcanized rubber.
And every time I think about how I stupid I'd been that night, I can't stop laughing my arse off. It's just typical of me to push the damn thing around instead of storing it somewhere and sleeping it off. Hell, I was asleep on the pavement halfway home for about an hour.
Nuts.
*
I was thinking of writing this story, you know?
About a journalist in the future. How do we predict what media will be used? Obviously, some advanced form of the internet that's so easily accessible no one will even want to use a monitor of any kind.
At that point, a situation which I put forth to two of my teachers may come forth- that the news industry could become one single amalgamated organization. Global, planetary, galactic, whatever you like.
On top of which, they have their own bio-engineering plants which effectively allows them to churn out fully-grown, multi-skilled reporters with all the physical capability to fight off miltary commandos, steal into high-tech security encryptions, exchange bullets and still be able to submit their copies after all that.
For a detective and crime fiction fan, it seemed like quite an idea to me at the time. The only problem was getting the stories right.
I suppose that can be solved in time.
After all, you only write what you know. If you don't know what you're writing about, you'll end up writing like Woody Allen talks.
And that's a lot harder than it looks. Only someone genuinely all over the place- and that's no compliment- can write like that.
Well, signing off. Yawn.

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