I think I've had a lovely little overdose of organ-radiochatter-jazz melodies. The kind of overdose that's not really too much, but a little above how much you thought you wanted, and just the right amount for your mis-calculative brain.
I'm 23. I want to do things, and this little overdose has me ashamed about having no headway.
I want to open a performing arts production, run a film magazine, be a part of a fusion band, travel to Spain, South of Paris, Vienna with a half-stranger, half acquaintance, get a few short stories published, teach, live in pondicherry and open a bakery.
Right now it all seems impossible. Like I'll be stuck as a face behind a laptop, writing down my fictional experiences of life, with the power I have over words. Right now, I only have these letters. They can spell out hope, rape, shahrukh khan and beauty for me exactly at points when I need it.