Life is like this blog. Sudden moments of activity and realization and the rest of the time, most of the time, a dull boring idleness without any meaning or purpose. Here I am on a rainy spring evening, half reclining on the cold hard floor, barely clad in a towel , keying in some words to make me feel better, while the only electric bulb in my room casts a dull yellow light on me, and my mess of a room with its clutter of books and clothes that right now don't matter to me. I am afraid, dead afraid of these spells of blankness, when I feel neither happiness in work nor pleasure in human company, nor does the comfortable cocoon of melancholia wrap me. I am just back from an hour of soccer, of healthy physical exercise in the outdoors, of wild running around and freedom that I so cherish, but that doesn't make me feel any better. I am somehow upset with losing, with the disorderliness of the rain-sogged field and the flabby ball without sufficient air that won't let me get enough power in my shots and control in my passes, thoughts of my own errors and limitations in the game and those of my team mates still obsess me. I took a shower after that. I decided to keep the water cold hoping that the electric prod of coldness will recharge me, but I soon switched over to the familiar lazy comfort of hot water, which lets me stand inert under the shower, wrapped up, reflecting, for minutes on the end. I could not even carry out such a simple resolve. Soon I know a violent hunger will seize me but I won't feel like cooking. I never do. I will wait and ignore it till the feeling is sharp enough to prod me from my stupor, and then I will stuff myself with whatever I find in the refrigerator. Why is the refrigerator so ugly, aloof and distant? Why do I have Vista in my computer that eats up all my memory and heats up my processor and hangs so often? Why don't I have a desk in my room where I can work on physics? Why do I read graphic novels and postcolonial fiction when I have hamiltonians to renormalize? Why do I post inane stuff on orkut communities when the time could be better spent on myself? Why don't I have very good vision in my left eye? Why do I have to be alone and loveless? Why don't I sleep at night and don't wake up in the morning? Why do I have to be thousands of miles away from home to do what I have to do? Like the Brave New World, sex and soma are the only escape routes, and the former only vicarious. Out then with the smut and the vodka. Tonight I shall make merry. It is after all a Saturday evening and Valentine's day after all.