Vanilla Days

I have been reading what people like to write, for a little over a year now. It was exciting in the beginning. I have always loved snooping, always loved to bury myself in someone’s old diary, reading their deepest, darkest secrets, reading about what made them tick, their quirks and their motivations. But juicy diaries were hard to come by. And then I discovered blogging. I felt like I died and went to heaven when I discovered the “Next Blog” button. So many juicy tidbits and delicious morsels of humanity all around me. Every perspective seemed new.

That was then and this is now. I have now discovered that not only are most blogs most uninteresting, filled with bad poetry and worse prose but that the “Next Blog” button can easily bring some exotic computer viruses your way.

There really are no unique perspectives anywhere, somehow each human aspect merges and fuses into one common consciousness. It is almost as if we were cyborgs. We are one.

The only things people write about is being in love, being out of love, how love hurts, how lack of love hurts, how one-sided it is, how full of longing we are, how obsessed we are, how surprised we are that someone else is so obsessed with another, who did what to whom, how one is never understood. It all runs into the same theme. It is like the color black – the color that absorbs all the other colors of the spectrum or perhaps it is like the color white, the color that reflects all the other colors in the spectrum, a matter of perspective…yes, which is never unique. Uniqueness lasts only as long as one hasn’t previously been exposed to something. It is like the sandy/beige color of my Dad’s Fiat in India. When we bought it we all thought, “Wow! What a unique color! We’ve never seen that color before!” Then as we drove on the streets of Delhi, we realized that every other car on the road was of the same color.

I read several blogs today. P’s blog was the same as always full of what he considered a witty, pithy turn of phrase. Another P’s blog was full of heartache again – a personal relationship causing such angst, such tears and such predictability in her significant other’s reaction to her words and her tears. Then I read D’s blog, again more of the same “I-am-up-here-and-the-rest-of-you-are-jerks”. A’s blog was full of bad poetry and J’s blog was full of affirmations and lines that could have come from a Chicken Soup for the Soul book. Most of these blogs were very popular. Each post generating 50 or so comments and each comment was as inane as the post itself. They would start with “Ah..” and say something like *sigh* or *shudder* based on how the post moved them. *Sigh*

So where do I find the next mystery? What is the next thing that will make me say, “Wow!” I keep waiting for the next such thing with bated breath. Hope springs eternal in the promise of each new day, each sunrise. But it is quelled again with the setting sun. There is very little variation in the routine of each day. It’s a flatline with not the tiniest blip in sight.

Well, there really isn’t anything better to keep me entertained, the palate tickled. So I’ll keep savoring the vanilla, if only to reassure myself that I can still taste.

1 Comment

  1. This is lovely writing Prags! And wonderfully keen observation and insight. If only people knew…or at least suspected dimly that their outpourings wouldn't merit a self-respecting wastepaper basket! And I liked the sustained tone of melancholy reflection – how very appropriate when you're considering such melancholy stuff.A book of essays, perhaps?:)


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