To the Voice of Falling Leaves

Today brought in a very definitive image. The BSF moved into SP College in Srinagar
Kashmir has been under curfew since after Eid-ul-Fitr (Eid was on 6 July, curfew started on 9 July). So, the last time children went to school was during Ramazan. That was when the universities and colleges held their last classes, and that was also when offices were open. Since then we have been under curfew. Holidays have ended. Tourists have packed their bags and left. The tourist reception center looks out of place, 90s like. College students returning home for Eid from India, have returned back to college. But Kashmir has not had a day of business since. 
People in the free world usually have no idea what a curfew feels like. But that is beside the point here. I return to the image of army moving into a college campus and BSF being brought back into Srinagar. We live in extraordinary times. People love and hate simultaneously. There is hope and hopelessness in the same event. In this autumn, the mingling of summer and winter, the contrast has become staunch and steadfast. Our facts evoke fiction. Probably they make sense. I am starkly reminded of Mirza Waheed’s book – The Book of Gold Leaves at this time when life seems to mimic fiction. It is a return back to the 90s.
There may be some spoilers in the following paras.
The first direct connection with the book is of course the girl’s school being occupied by the army. The move is temporary and the army will vacate we are told. During the 90s when Srinagar was doomed to become a garrison, not just schools but also hotels and homes were occupied by the army. The Boulevard road, which is a major tourist hub, was lined with dirty hotels with broken window panes where armymen lived. Giant trucks were parked in the yards and underwear hung on the lines. The army had tucked itself into the very centre of the city’s spectacle. In the book, Waheed describes the school where the army moves in one day and the consequential parleys of the army commander with the school principal. The principal – authoritative, strong and yet worried; the armyman – vengeful, angry yet restrained (with her). 
The army never leaves. The girls stop coming to school.
Military occupation is incompatible with children’s education. For some time the school and the army try to  feign coexistence but when two armymen are caught peeping into the girl’s bathroom, the tempers flare up and the upright principal confronts the army major even though she is ultimately powerless.
This powerlessness has now seeped into the Kashmiri structure and, I dare say, the psyche. There are new structures and new ways to disarm the Kashmir struggle. Even the words which we chose to describe Kashmir seem to hold consequence in that what we see its result might be – an uprising, a revolt, crisis, unrest, or disturbance. What is it?
While the army has been on a killing spree, there emerges another parallel with the novel. Waheed talks about Zaal, a metaphorical vehicle which captures Kashmiris and kills them. The Zaal was the mechanisation of a lot parallel structures in Kashmir: the audacity with which the militarisation functions, its impunity, its secrecy and its sheer brutality. The Zaal has morphed into the pellet guns in the current scenario. Its open and indiscriminate use has already blinded more than a hundred kids since July 2016 and killed almost seventy as of this writing. Rayees, a 20 something ATM guard,was killed with 300 pellets when returning from his night duty – none of the internal organs in his body was found intact. In the 90s there were torture chambers functioning in Kashmir – where people would be brought in and interrogated – often killed, their bodies would sometimes be found later. Sometimes they were never found. Now, there are no prisoners taken. The victim of the pellet guns are mostly teenagers – school children and college goers.
And it is the youth again that evokes the most pitiable sentiments so deftly captured in the novel. Faiz is a young artist, barely literate, but decidedly talented. Roohi is the bold heroine of the novel. Both instinctively wait for the war to end. They speak of it as a phase, in which they must play their part and emerge victorious, because defeat is not an option youth entertains. In highly troubled ways, we are back to the same time. The past 45 days have been filled with rage and anger against an enemy which is hard to define. India is recognised by its might in Kashmir, of which it has plenty and keeps refurbishing. Any primate with a weapon can kill – it is not that difficult to follow the official lines in Kashmir. But is not easy to be on the other side – a collective victimisation of the population. Everyone is a part of it. The ones on the street, the ones at home. The siege makes everyone a captive. May be Faiz wont cross over the mountains this time, but he will die close to home.
And death has been swift to come in today’s Kashmir.
Saying that these are troubled times hardly holds much water or weight. There are no indicators as to where this trouble started brewing. We are retracing the lines of violence and systematic failure that brought us here and pursue us further. We are moving in circles of uncertain radii and the powers cascade differently each time. For the violence that erupted in Kupwara in April, the power largely vested with the Indian forces. Now, the Indian state has sent in its border security forces – war trained personnel – to fight amidst the civilian population. Is there a shuffle in the power cards? We will only know either too soon or too late – we know by experience, there are no moderates in Kashmir.
I will move back to the book. There is a moment when the commander of the forces in the school, Major Sumit Kumar, launches into a sort of a monologue about the enemy he faces – the Kashmiri people. His dilemma is to fight people he does not care about – is meeting for the first time and has no personal vendetta against. Given a chance he would perhaps let them be, or crush them permanently. Again there are no moderates. The same high handedness coupled with disdain is how the forces go about doing their daily work, fully assured that their actions will have no consequences for them. They may kill, maim or spare – there will be no questions asked. Hospitals have been raided, people beaten on the roads, a five year old had needles poked in his eyes – and there is a history that goes back to the 90s again.
Safe in this concoction of legal warps the Indian state seems to be clueless what to do with the morass it has created. Its ministers, civilians, journalists have come and gone and come again. The hospitals have become museums of repression.  There is perhaps no decency left. It is a dirty war in every sense of the word. Day in, day out we are bombarded with pictures of children with bloodied faces, eyes swollen shut. Half naked men with torture marks crisscrossing on their backs. In one picture, doctors were sewing up the penis of a man. There has to be some humanisation to this war. There has to be some humanity left somewhere, though it is hard to say where to find it. Kids as young as ten stop cars in Srinagar today demanding identification cards and checking of vehicles – much like Indian army men do. Is this a fight to be become the other? Certainly, it is difficult to find it in the other side which has been asking for more blood from the very beginning. India answers stones with pellet guns and there have been voices to use “real” guns.
Even after all this, there is the police to deal with. Inventories are maintained of the injured and their attendants at city hospitals. The police then questions them. If there is a parable in absurdity, it has to be this. Angry protesters are first shot at, and then arrested. In one case, the police went out on a limb and booked a man they had killed.
In his war novel, Utz, Bruce Chatwin comments “Tyranny sets up its own echo chamber; a void where confused signals buzz about at random; where a murmur or innuendo causes panic: so, in the end, the machinery of repression is more likely to vanish, not with the war or revolution, but with a puff, or the voice of falling leaves.”  There have been silent signs in Kashmir for long now. Every cycle of violence has made the people think – the insiders and the outsiders, us and them, have been clearer. More opaque. In this what the books like Waheed’s do is open up a door of expression to enable articulation of complex ideas – they show us how it is done. With every new song, every novel this idea of Kashmir gets a new voice and a new expression. Everyone cannot have the same way or words to communicate – the language we use defines us because it comes from within. In that the purpose of language is not just to express but to create. And in the smoke filled air of Kashmir, there is a silent army steadily creating the puff required to blow this oppression away. A lot is written about Kashmir now, a lot is heard. But it is the slower, subtler expression of grief that has emerged over the past few years. Its a sub plot in a long story. The graffiti on the walls of Kashmir is now so anarchic that the Indian forces have to paint them over. There are no memorials or museums to the civilian casualties of Kashmir, but artists have given voice to something more intrinsic in Kashmir – the fear or the experience of life under duress. 

Page Three Hundred Ninety Four

Alan Rickman, the actor who played Severus Snape (Professor Snape, Harry!) died today. A large part of fascination with the fantastic actor for me is due to his this role, and his perfectly voiced dialogues. There couldn’t have been a better Snape. As I read the books after watching the movies, over and over again, I had Rickman’s voice playing Snape all along in my mind. 
I present Page. Three. Hundred. Ninety. Four. 
Book 1 & 2 : (don’t have Page 394 errr!)
Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
“Three turns? What’s he talking about? What are we supposed to do?”
 But Hermione was fumbling with the neck of her robes, pulling from beneath them a very long, very fine gold chain.
“Harry, come here,” she said urgently. “Quick!”
Harry moved toward her, completely bewildered. She was holding the chain out. He saw a tiny, sparkling hourglass hanging from it.
“Here —”
She had thrown the chain around his neck too.
“Ready?” she said breathlessly.
“What are we doing?” Harry said, completely lost.
Hermione turned the hourglass over three times.
The dark ward dissolved. Harry had the sensation that he was flying very fast, backward. A blur of colors and shapes rushed past him, his ears were pounding, he tried to yell but couldn’t hear his own voice —
And then he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and everything came into focus again —
He was standing next to Hermione in the deserted entrance hall and a stream of golden sunlight was falling across the paved floor from the open front doors. He looked wildly around at Hermione, the chain of the hourglass cutting into his neck.
“Hermione, what — ?”
“In here!” Hermione seized Harry’s arm and dragged him across the hall to the door of a broom closet; she opened it, pushed him inside among the buckets and mops, then slammed the door behind them.
“What — how — Hermione, what happened?”
Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone,” said Fred.
“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron.
“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of embarrassment.
“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?”
“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common room, “Oi! Angelina!”
Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looked over at him.
“What?” she called back.
“Want to come to the ball with me?”
Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look.
“All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on her face.
“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of cake.”
He got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on. . . .”
They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle at Harry.
“We should get a move on, you know . . . ask someone. He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of trolls.”
Hermione let out a sputter of indignation.
“A pair of . . . what, excuse me?”
“Well — you know,” said Ron, shrugging. “I’d rather go alone than with — with Eloise Midgen, say.”
“Her acne’s loads better lately — and she’s really nice!”
“Her nose is off-center,” said Ron.
“Oh I see,” Hermione said, bristling. “So basically, you’re going…
Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix
“Sorry, Harry,” said George hastily, when Harry caught his eye.
“Couldn’t resist . . .”
Harry walked around the other pairs, trying to correct those who were doing the spell wrong. Ginny was teamed with Michael Corner; she was doing very well, whereas Michael was either very bad or unwilling to jinx her. Ernie Macmillan was flourishing his wand unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under his guard; the Creevey brothers were enthusiastic but erratic and mainly responsible for all the books leaping off the shelves around them. Luna Lovegood was similarly patchy, occasionally sending Justin Finch-Fletchley’s wand spinning out of his hand, at other times merely causing his hair to stand on end.
“Okay, stop!” Harry shouted. “Stop! STOP!”
I need a whistle, he thought, and immediately spotted one lying on top of the nearest row of books. He caught it up and blew hard. Everyone lowered their wands.
“That wasn’t bad,” said Harry, “but there’s definite room for improvement.”
Zacharias Smith glared at him. “Let’s try again. . . .”
He moved off around the room again, stopping here and there to make suggestions. Slowly the general performance improved. He avoided going near Cho and her friend for a while, but after walking twice around every other pair in the room felt he could not ignore them any longer.
“Oh no,” said Cho rather wildly as he approached. “Expelliarmious! I mean, Expellimellius! I — oh, sorry, Marietta!”
Her curly-haired friend’s sleeve had caught fire; Marietta extinguished it with her own wand and glared at Harry as though it was his fault.
“You made me nervous, I was doing all right before then!” Cho told Harry ruefully.
“That was quite good,” Harry lied, but when she raised her eye…
Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
“Romilda?” he repeated. “Did you say Romilda? Harry — do you know her? Can you introduce me?”
Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong desire to laugh. A part of him — the part closest to his throbbing right ear — was quite keen on the idea of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until the effects of the potion wore off. . . . But on the other hand, they were supposed to be friends, Ron had not been himself when he had attacked, and Harry thought that he would deserve another punching if he permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda Vane.
“Yeah, I’ll introduce you,” said Harry, thinking fast. “I’m going to let you down now, okay?”
He sent Ron crashing back to the floor (his ear did hurt quite a lot), but Ron simply bounded to his feet again, grinning. “She’ll be in Slughorn’s office,” said Harry confidently, leading the way to the door.
“Why will she be in there?” asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up.
“Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,” said Harry, inventing wildly.
“Maybe I could ask if I can have them with her?” said Ron eagerly.
“Great idea,” said Harry.
Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a complication Harry had not foreseen.
“You’re late, Won-Won!” she pouted. “I’ve got you a birthday —”
“Leave me alone,” said Ron impatiently. “Harry’s going to introduce me to Romilda Vane.”
Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
“Xenophilius Lovegood. Luna’s father. I want to go and talk to him!”
“Er — why?”
She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, and said, “It’s that mark, the mark in Beedle the Bard. Look at this!”
She thrust The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore under Harry’s unwilling eyes and he saw a photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had written Grindelwald, with Dumbledore’s familiar thin, slanting handwriting. He hated seeing absolute proof that Dumbledore really had written those words, that they had not been Rita’s invention.
“The signature,” said Hermione. “Look at the signature, Harry!”
He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about, but, looking more closely with the aid of his lit wand, he saw that Dumbledore had replaced the A of Albus with a tiny version of the same triangular mark inscribed upon The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
“Er — what are you — ?” said Ron tentatively, but Hermione quelled him with a look and turned back to Harry.
“It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?” she said. “I know Viktor said it was Grindelwald’s mark, but it was definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow, and the dates on the headstone were long before Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well, we can’t ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means — I don’t even know whether Grindelwald’s still alive — but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the symbol at the wedding. I’m sure this is important, Harry!”
Harry did not answer immediately. He looked into her intense, eager face and then out into the surrounding darkness, thinking. 
Alan Rickman’s tribute to Snape and Harry Potter series:


Lovers Shall Love : Reading "The Book of Gold Leaves" by Mirza Waheed

*Spoilers Alert*

I finally finished Mirza Waheed’s second novel, The Book of Gold Leaves, last night at 2:40 a.m. and immediately thought of writing this.

I am truly heartbroken, not so much at the fate of Roohi and Faiz, as much at the destiny of all the characters in the book, and indeed Kashmir. First things first, this is a remarkable book – in perhaps more ways than I can express. Its a large story played out in tiny lives. It is an invitation to the life in 1990s as the Kashmir conflict burned like firework, sending sparks into everyone, everywhere. Its easy to generalise, easier than The Collaborator (Waheed’s first book) and may be thats why it is more stirring, though not as shocking.

The Book of Gold Leaves is a love story, but somehow that is not the sum-all of it. It is a premise. It is a story about people who chose to live in hope. The whole 90s construct was based on sheer optimism. People wanted independence so much, that the armed rebellion gave them the hope of immediate release. So, when Roohi and Faiz discuss their future together, there is always a hope that Faiz would settle down, after all. That he will figure out something. That the fight is a task at hand – and will soon end, in victory. That Faiz will return to his masterpiece, the Falaknuma. Somewhere towards the end, Roohi tells Faiz that he is fighting for a dream. It was a collective dream of a hundred thousand people that Faiz had to fight for. It was not going to be easy.

Srinagar seems to be going into a slow freeze to be thawed only when the soldiers return the keys to the city. Then, the lovers shall love, the painter shall paint and the lost will be found. But the freeze slowly turns into a fatal decay, as we descend deeper into the decade. The invasion of Srinagar by the Indian Army was not simply a few hundred trucks to make the militants run away, as Major Sumit Kumar had been led to believe. It was the invasion of an educated (somewhat), largely conservative city by mostly semi literate men who had no understanding and respect for the culture and the people they found themselves among. The results were catastrophic – like the fate of Faate, Faiz’s godmother, who was killed when the army opened fire on a school bus. The book brings out this contrast – men from a distant land, fighting an enemy they clearly don’t understand – among people, they have no regard for – people who don’t want them in the first place – men fighting other men, in their homes. Shanta Koul embodies the difference. The stoic school principal with the graceful walk, who disarms Sumit Kumar every single time he speaks to her. She reminds him, constantly, that he is in herschool – that he is an outsider. Waheed’s brilliance lies in the strict construct of the dialogue between the two – Koul somewhat embarrassed at being dethroned from her position of power, her superiority compromised by unlettered men; Kumar guilt-ridden at over powering an educationist, a woman who reminds him of his mother, who makes him feel powerless and tongue-tied.

A thousand such men were bound to slowly poison the place. As the venom slowly spread, it blackened the heart of the society. Slowly people forgot ties to become ‘agents’ and ‘collaborators’. Rumi turned in his father, unknowingly. His innocent traipses marred by the murder he was led to. Another theme which ran and ruined Kashmir. Paranoia. How could you trust random strangers anymore, if as the book tells us, you could not trust your own? There were and still are spies among people, and you could not guess the games played. Roohi’s father’s special assignment makes a fair game. He wasn’t a spy – until he was. And even then, how could you blame him? In this loosening thread of culture and society, the Pandits are leaving. Temporarily, of course.

Of course, in the backdrop of this time, there is a complete love story – a true and tragic one. Love which is hurled over mountains. Love which survives distance and longing – in uncertain times. Love which causes despair and hope. Love which overcomes society. Love which divides and unites. Roohi is the bold, philosophical heroine who has chosen her own hero. Faiz is the artist she loves, who becomes a militant because he could no longer see sense in his delicate artistry when the world of his inspiration is on fire. In a memorable scene he paints the flowers on his papier mache creation in indigo. In the conservative society of Srinagar, a Shia – Sunni marriage is still a rare occurrence. Waheed makes it plausible, and in the 90s imaginable. The scene of this love story is the seat of Sufism in Kashmir – the ancient shrine of Khanqah Mou’ala.

The Jehlum flows through the book as it does through the city and through our times. Free at first, and increasingly choked as the story progresses. The lunatic, Maharaze, describes souls flowing up and down the river. No one prays for them anymore. Poignant, as no one knows them to be there. The people picked up by the Zaal, in the book a large, metallic, metaphorical vehicle which traps people and takes them to Army’s chambers, are often not heard from again.

Books like Waheed’s are important. They break the barrier of nonfiction journalistic writing to tell smaller, more intimate stories left behind by the conflict. When it all began. Yes, but why should we care about two lovers when the whole city is on fire? Hard to answer, but may be, because the lovers are us too. Their story is also our story. The people embody what becomes of their cities, the cities they live in and the ones they create.

Hans Christian Ostro

             Even today there are no trains
             into the Vale of Kashmir.
And those defunct trains – Kashmir Mail,
Srinagar Express – took
pilgrims only till the last of plains.
There, in blue-struck buses, they forsook
the monsoon. What iron could be forged to rail
like faith through mountains
star-sapphired, by dawn amethyst?
It’s not a happy sound…
There is such pathos in the cry of trains:
Words breathed aloud but inward-bound.
Bruised by trust      O Heart bare amidst
fire          arms turquoise with veins
from love’s smoke-mines            blessed infidel
who wants your surrender?
I cannot protect you: these are my hands.
I’ll wait by the deep jade river;
you’ll emerge from the mist of Jewel Tunnel:
O the peaks one commands –
A miracle! – from there … Will morning
suffice to dazzle blind
beggars to sight? Whoso gives life to a soul
shall be as if he had to all of mankind
given life. Or will your veins’ hurt lightning –
the day streaked with charcoal –
betray you, beautiful stranger
sent to a lovelorn people
longing of God? Their river torn apart,
they’ve tied waves around their ankles,
mourning the train that save its passenger
will at night depart
for drowning towns. And draped in rain
of the last monsoon-storm,
a beggar, ears pressed to that metal cry,
will keep waiting on a ghost-platform,
holding back his tears, waving every train
Good-bye and Good-bye.
– Agha Shahid Ali
From “The Country Without a Post office”

From Left to Right: Hans Christian Ostro, Dirk Hasert, Paul Welles, Keith Mangan and Don Hutchings
PS: In July 1995, Al-Faran kidnapped 4 Western trekkers from Pahalgam. They demanded that in return of the hostages, 21 of their jailed comrades be released by India. Four days later one hostage escaped. But on that very day, 2 more trekkers were abducted. Hans Christian Ostro from Norway was one of the two. The other was Dirk Hasert from Germany.

Hans Christian Ostro was beheaded and his body found in the upper reaches of Pahalgam on 13 August. He was 27. What became of the other hostages is not known with certainty. 

Like the Haley’s Comet

February 29 is a good day. Anything may be good if it is to happen only once in 4 years.

As a kid, I used to think how do people born on this day celebrate their birthdays. I know of  people born yesterday, and tomorrow. But none today. It surely sets you apart that your birth anniversary comes only once in four years. Like a smaller version of Haley’s comet, which is seen only once in 75 years. Had I been a mini-Haley’s comet, I would have made a big deal out of it, I am sure. February 29 is in a way a New Year’s eve. It comes to start off a period of four years where we won’t have any 29 Februarys. It’s a beginning of four ‘normal’ years, as distinguished from the one leap year in which it occurs. So shouldn’t people celebrate this? Isn’t this a bigger celebration than January 1st? That will happen every year – this won’t.
Srinagar had a very pleasant day. More so for school kids whose school vacations have been extended. Great going! And also for the boba (old woman),who seemed to have understood the celebratory streak in February 29 and had hence repaired to the roof her houseboat, to enjoy the winter sun. The parting days of wintry sunshine.
Even though there is a prediction for snow on 4thand 5th of March, the winter is now officially over. The two chillas Chillae Kalaan, the major, and Chillae Bachh, the minor – are over. The cold siblings, rest in peace. You were thoroughly enjoyable this year.

For this day, there is only one regret in my heart. I did not have may camera with me (else, I would have surely clicked one of boba) – so there are no pictures to show you of the beautiful sunshine today. You may have to check back on the last post for similar pictures. But when the sky changed hues, in the evening, I was ready to click these. Ah, the bad (and unapologetic) photographer I am!

The sunshine never lasts beyond dusk, but the clouds are more faithful. They stay, in dark and light. Darkening the light, and lightening the dark. Like a patchwork quilt – each patch brings out the hue adjacent to it. Each emphasising the other. Telling us of its importance – that the good and the bad together complete a cycle. February 29, completed itself with all three shades – white, black and the grey. Nature, too, has its own philosophy. It sings its own song.

There are two things especially today of which I am really happy. One is that, and I say it with no less pride, that my driving has improved. A few days ago, I almost, almost killed a puppy. But, of course, it was not my fault. It was his (and frankly, with the canine endemic in Srinagar, most Srinagarites wouldn’t even have minded a dog less in the city – there are just too many of them – but that’s a separate story. I am glad the dog lived). Today I killed none. Far from it. Yay!
The second and more important thing is that being on Twitter finally paid. I found this. It’s an organisation working for spreading literacy. You can read their story here. The Read Aloud Day on March 7 is a brilliant idea. I’d encourage all of you, readers of this blog, to participate. (Perhaps you can start by reading out my blog aloud to all the family, relatives, friends, families of relatives and friends. That would be a good thing to do.) I am participating, and have chosen a wonderful ‘book to read aloud’. A perfect choice, if I may say so myself. So, keep watching this space to stay updated on the book (and dead dogs, if any!).

Also, take some time, to tell me what you are planning to read – if at all anything.

If you know what I mean

What do you blog about? I’d say nothing. You just create a blog, a space on the internet and move on. You fill it with whatever comes to your mind. Whatever you like, because thats the whole purpose of owning a space. Its Yours.

Blogging pandits would tell you that you should be focused and write for an audience. Write for people who would come to read your blog again and again. But thats a very difficult ask. How do you keep yourself so focused? I always wanted to write a food blog, but something inside me (the little lazy devil, who lives inside everyone except the better ones of us) tells me that a book blog may be a better idea. Doesn’t that come more naturally to you? But, many, many things come ‘naturally’ to me, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t mean that i should blog about all that. Does it?

Anyways, here me, i dedicate this blog to humanity and the moods of my mind. Hang on it. Next topic may be food anyways….

PS: if the above doesn’t make sense, you are free to ignore it. It was written on an Exercycle anyways.