Shard.

This week has been a brain-jolter, a back-breaker. And it's only half over. 
It's seriously opened up my mind to the fact that I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO COOK. It's a survival tool, like learning to swim or starting a fire in the woods. And considering the fact that I'm a major foodie, I should know how to make my favorite things. This Spring break, I'll learn for sure. Chicken karahi,pulao,some Italian dishes, some nice desserts. I also want to go to Islamabad this break and hang out with W. I also want to go shopping with S. I also want to go over people's houses, people I haven't seen in years, and literally get excited by the thought of having so much to catch up on. Yes, this is good. This is great. So many plans to deal with, and I have the power to squeeze them into one week. 
I love being so busy that I don't even need to look at the clock. Busy with work, or fun, or being around people. And that has been seriously lacking lately. I'm so free and bored, that I feel a bit pathetic. And it's not my fault. Mom's out of town. I have to help take care of home. I have two seasons of House on my laptop that are DYING to watch (so, I watch them). The right side of abdomen hurts spasmodically and periodically (the doctor in me says it's appendicitis. But let's not stretch things).
I can't wait till Mom is back, she's like the central core to this household. I can't even go to college properly when she's not here. Kuch hota hai. I have the strangest feeling in the world, triggered by her absence.
I love reading those blogs that secretly-but-openly talk about their love life and their vices, weave it around some purpose, describing the minutest of things. The blowing of air or the number of times a cigarette has been puffed. When their partner held their hand and for how long. It makes me want to write like that, but not want to THAT much. I don't have that ability, and nor am I that comfortable with sharing things like that. Not anymore. Pata nahin kyun. These minute details are kept inside me, and they wash over me, hit me, or just flit through every now and then.  I wonder if it can be seen on my face. That I've been visited by wisps of memories. What do people think? I'm too curious about things like these.
This relights the sparks in my brain about what life is about. Nothing is overrated. Not traveling or beaches or kisses or hugs. Everything's what you make it. And everything is relative.


'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need
Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why
If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?