Shawshank Redemption

I dressed up for work this morning, tired, but high on adrenaline and raw emotion. Working for 8 hours straight was simple enough, closing brought freedom at 6 pm as well as a finders keepers bottle of strawberry bubbles. They make me strangely happy. And everyone is suspicious of the relationships working themselves out at work. Tip me over and pour me out like a cup of tea. Juicy, but not gossip for today.

I thought I was going to sleep at 8, and deliberated between the Shawshank redemption and Matt Damon in the Bourne Supremacy. Shawshank proved to be the better and right choice. Stephen King, twisted as he is brilliant held my attention for a good 3 hours and I really did have a think about hope. and about men.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick. Ironically, there is nothing more important than hope. Or else you end up lost, or worse, dead. It doesn't matter where you keep it, in a jar, like some supermodels, in a small purse, in a picture, or worst of all, in a memory. Because then there is no evidence of it, and it is subject to your internal perusal, time and again, and like some corrosive liquid, it wears away, shaped into whatever you wish it to be. What do we make of our futures except what is from our past?

Men are simple creatures. I realised this right about the time when Andy DuFrancs stood in the middle of the river and relished his jailbreak freedom. When he carved his chess pieces and when he wanted the boat. There is simple, and then there is simple. I should stop giving you spoilers. Watch it, it's Stephen King's best work ever and I don't even like him. It has an AMAZING plot.

Nevertheless, I feel a little less empty for being left alone for one night, crying as and when I wished and doing whatever I wanted. Watching a movie and being self conscious is not fun at all. I think a little bit of me is coming back. The me that you all used to know, the me I liked, the me that I think is somewhere inside me still. The me that makes me feel at home.

Maybe I should do the birthday party in high fashion.

It is not a man's face, nor his name that endears him to a woman. It is a part of him that he doesn't even know he has that makes her love him. Sometimes, she thinks it is merely a perception of him, and that maybe it doesn't really exist. At other times, she thinks it to be real. She hopes it is real. She hopes. And like I said, hope deferred makes the heart sick.

The person I really want to talk to now is Ger*.