All the diaries

I have been reading many articles on happiness and love lately (central themes of anyone's life), and as a result I have collected many modestly inspiring quotes that I hanker to read at various times of the month. One of my new year's gift was a gorgeous calendar diary that chart's out the Telugu film industry (in kitschy art). I have started noting quotes in this diary. It has also become a mood/state-of-mind diary. Considering how many interesting dreams I have had this month, I am considering maintaining a dream diary as well (the recurring theme is missing a flight to some place, which a friend interpreted as missing my 'chances' in life *shrugs*, how very aptly doomsday-2012 of my subconscious self)

This very poetic line sums up the gnawing feeling I have had since the beginning of the year, "As a hopeless bibliophile, an obsessive lover of bookcases, and a chronic pursuer of voyeuristic peeks inside the minds of creators"...I am left with no choice but to assuage myself by compiling long lists of books to read. Obsessive is probably an understatement, I have started monitoring my reading and processing speed, calculating number of books I can read in a week (projected a year) vs. interesting books I encounter in an average month. It is a sad state of affairs really. The realization that I will never be able to read as much as I humanly want to, makes 'librarian' or 'bookshop owner' viable career choices.

If only the looming burden to change the world wasn't as great, and yes, I do take obsessions to a whole new level.

Obligatory April countdowns:
3 days to first ever half-marathon (woot!),
9 days to 24 (woot woot!) and,
3 weeks to temporary freedom from corporate shackles (any number of woots will underplay the joy here)

Of good things in life and worries

Books and music are really the only reason why I will ever believe one very intelligent and truly altruistic creator exists. One moment you are bogged down by all the world's pain of hurting someone very dear to you, and another you are immersed into the plot of of a world you can barely even conjure up, even if you were 5 years old (also read most creative and imaginative). Sometimes a plot (or a tune) has an almost ethereal meditative affect of creating abstract (or palpable) vibrations, that you really begin to wonder if another human's neural network is really capable of creating such beautiful and enchanting distractions. Then the Joy of Life abounds you, and you wonder how you could get so self-involved in trivial insecurities and guilt.

It's amazing how my rapport with books has changed over the years. I had maintained through my college years that I was incapable of finishing a book if I am not in good spirits. Perhaps it was sheer confirmation bias. Either way, I am not one to complain.

Currently reading - Ishmael by Daniel Quinn and The Complete Prose of Woody Allen (He had me at 'The Whore of Mensa'[link])

Did I mention I love Spring and April? :)