My imaginary friends

Technically, I have 83 friends – at least that’s what my Facebook profile tells me. It’s not much; there are those with 400 friends. I wonder what it’s like to have 400 people you can count on. But coming back to my 83 friends – I haven’t spoken to most of them. And frankly, I don’t give a damn. (The ‘my dear’ has no space in this sentence). Friendships are transient affairs – you hope it lasts, but it rarely does. At least that’s my experience – I do not like spending time with a one-time good friend – where you have nothing to talk about, so you simply take a stroll down memory time. And we say, “Remember the time…” I don’t remember the time, and I don’t want to. For then you have to sift through the other junk – the regrets, the lost loves, the missed opportunities, the what ifs and the what nots. I couldn’t be bothered. I do that only when I’m PMSing – and it’s quite traumatic.
But I have 83 friends. With the exception of two, they don’t know anything about me, or care to. And I know nothing about them or care to. These 83 friends could well be my imaginary friends. You know, the ones you conjure up when you’re still a child. At least I did. I’d climb the mango tree in my garden and watch the street with my imaginary friends. They’ve proved to be more helpful than the real ones. They still are…

The Diary

Social networking sites allow you the perverse pleasure of watching others live their lives, while yours passes into futility and inanity. I am browsing through the snapshots of other people’s lives. Brithdays, holidays, family gatherings… And mine? I never take photographs, one day I may regret it, but I cannot bear to look at the stillness of the past.

The last three days have been perfect, that is if I erase my interactions with fellow human beings. After reading Virginia Woolf’s diaries, I have decided that I am quite jealous of her. DH Lawrence never surprises, but it is Moliere who makes me laugh the most. I would have loved to have met him. It seems he had a theatre company, where he was the only man.

People are talking to me; my phone keeps ringing. But I choose to ignore their voices. I cannot deal with emotions -- mine or theirs. Tomorrow I will listen. For now, life is a hazy dream, and I’m floating in a pool of serendipity.